Page 19

“You’re right. It should be pink.”

We had come to this exact shop at least once a week last summer, we would know what color the flavors should be. The girl working behind the freezer is staring off into space, facing the large window that overlooks the parking lot. She didn’t work here last summer. The girls who did are always so excited to see us, and they know us by name.

Okay, I’m a talker. They know the names of my entire family, all of my friends, and all of their hobbies.

I know when to read a room so I don’t ask this one about the mysterious, colorless ice cream.

I follow her gaze to find that it’s started raining out there. I’m feeling a small percentage of regret for leaving my coat in the car, and a small percentage of pity for this girl that’s going to have a slow day for customers.

“I don’t want that one,” Dahlia tells us. “I want a pink one.”

“Okay baby girl, there’s strawberry.” I walk down, inspecting all of the colors. “Cherry pie. Watermelon sorbet. Circus cookie.” I wasn’t really in the mood for ice cream when we got here, but that last one just put me in exactly the right mood. I know what flavorI’mgoing with.

Dahlia tastes every single one of those, and I can tellCarly–as her name tag reads–is over it, but how else is a kid supposed to make a decision? She should know that by now.

I order for myself, and my dad, while we wait on her to decide. One scoop in a cup of the bright pink circus cookie, and two scoops in a waffle cone of the neon green pistachio. I look at his longingly when it’s handed over, second guessing my own decision. I’m a sucker for pistachio, but I try to mix it up.

“I want the blue one,” Dahlia finally announces. What a plot twist.

When she’s given her own cone covered in rainbow sprinkles, we sit down. I delay their eating by insisting on some pictures of the two of them, and then flip my phone camera around to capture a big smiling selfie of all of us. Only when I dive into my own dessert do I look down at my screen and notice Dahlia’s nose has a stripe of blue on it. I laugh and hand her a napkin so she can clean herself up.

My dad chats about tearing down the fence in their backyard to build a new one. Their dogs, two huge golden retrieversnamed Sunny and Rainy, were very sad to find out that most of their outside time will take place on a leash until further notice. I offer to take them over to Autumn’s house, which is equipped with enough space for the girls to run around. I’m sure her dog, Freddy, would love the company if I brought them over there.

My own ice cream is almost gone when the bell above the door sounds, and another customer walks in. I glance up, knowing what an avid people watcher I am, and having no shame about it.

It’s a beautiful woman, probably around my age. Her long, deep red hair looks like it was meant to be tucked behind her back, under the safety of her hood, but stubborn strands fall down the front of her chest anyway. It’s an impressive amount of hair.

She doesn’t look our way, or remove her hood when she walks up to the counter. Carly appears from the back, having heard the bell that probably drives her mad and haunts her dreams.

“What can I get you?”

“Four gift cards. Twenty dollars each.”

“Perfect, we have a couple options–”

“That one,” she interrupts.

I watch Carly’s face drop, her mood determined by the attitude of her customer. I can’t blame her, being interrupted makes me want to rage. I stare as the cards are scanned, and the customer taps her card on the reader.

“Have a good day,” Carly says quietly as she hands out a receipt.

Understandable, considering the woman snatches it and heads toward the door without a word. Someone’s either having a really bad day, or never learned to respect customer service workers.

Poor Carly.

I don’t stop watching when the woman leaves, thankful for a glass door, and the giant glass window.

My heart stops when I spot the car she unlocks.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Reya Renee,” dad scolds me.

I turn back to my company with a frown.

“Sorry sweetness, I shouldn’t have said that word.”

“It’s okay. I won’t say it.”