“Christ, Nash, where do you put it all?” Angela exclaimed. “I’d kill for your metabolism.”
She patted her abdomen, which belied the implication of her comment. Sure it wasn’t totally flat, but for a forty-something mother of three, she was in great shape. She rocked her Ghana cornrows, and her dark eyes shimmered with the cheekiness that was sure to be mirrored by her words.
Nash looked at the tray he’d placed on the cafeteria table and shrugged. Chicken noodle soup, spinach walnut salad with chicken, and a French dip sandwich. It wasn’t that much. “Dinner at Harley’s alternates between hamburgers and canned-sauce pasta, so I try to get my nutrition here.”
“Any luck on the roommate search?”
Nash waited while the speaker on the adjacent wall blared, paging a physician. The cafeteria was
