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I miss my best friend. Now, more than ever.

But I also know there’s nothing else I can do. He’ll talk to me when he’s ready. I just wish he would hurry up andbeready.

Placing a hand over my aching heart, I allow myself a moment to grieve, before finally rising to my feet. My phone begins to ring, causing my pulse to leap with hope, but it’s not Maddox’s name on the screen.

It’s Gabe’s.

Dread and anticipation fill me as I accept the connection, both growing exponentially when his deep voice comes clearly through the speaker:

“We’ve drawn the winner. Are you ready for your adventure?”

“Miss Hart! Mickey dropped my snowflake crown in the hot fudge!”

I dash forward to hand the birthday girl a spare, saying, “Luckily I saved the best one for last.” Her bright smile takes the sting out of her making my seventeen years seem ancient by calling me “Miss Hart.” But then again, on days like today, Ifeelancient, supervising a group of hyperactive seven-year-olds and ensuring they have the time of their lives.

When I started working at Sandy’s Scoops and Sprinkles two years ago, it was a fun way to earn some extra cash after school and on weekends. It was the best casual job I could imagine, but then the owner, Sandy, expanded their business from a normal ice-creamery to one that offers parties for children. They renovated the tasteful pink-and-cream-colored space to add a separate event room—a rainbow-walled monstrosity—so regular customers can sit and eat peacefully in the parlor, while sugar-high kids enjoy hours of uninterrupted glee.

When Sandy first asked me to oversee the weekend parties, I nearly quit, but they convinced me to give it a go, and it turned out they were right—I really do love helping kids make chaotic ice-cream cakes covered in every topping imaginable. The only downside is that I’m required to wear a costume inspired by the party’s theme, often sacrificing my dignity in the process. Today I’m dressed as Elsa fromFrozen, which isn’t terrible, but at least once a month I have to don my Bluey onesie, tail and all.

“Miss Hart! Ellie won’t share the edible glitter!”

I hurry over to the end of the bench, arriving just as a small girl tosses the sparkling pot in the air, scattering it all over the table and the floor. Andme.

Repressing a sigh, I separate the troublemakers and distract them with gummy bears and whipped cream, before shaking the glitter from my hair and checking on the birthday girl. She’s absorbed in decorating her Olaf-shaped ice-cream cake—at least, I think that’s what it is—and the rest of her friends are equally content. Even so, relief hits me when I see there are only a few minutes left of the party.

“Time for your finishing touches,” I announce. The kids respond with sad noises, but they help me pack their creations into insulated bags, then skip off to show their loved ones what they made. My role is over once they leave the rainbow room, and I hear Sandy’s bright voice in the parloroohing andahhing while deftly encouraging the partygoers and guardians out of the store.

“All clear,” Sandy finally calls, followed by the sound of the front door locking and theclosedsign being flipped over.

When I enter the calming pastel parlor, Sandy does a double take, their purple-lipsticked mouth stretching into a grin. “Aren’t you sparkly.”

I dust glitter off my shoulders. “Anything is better than last week’s honey and raspberry-sauce disaster. I’ll never be able to wear my Tigger costume again without looking like a crime scene.”

Sandy laughs, their short, bleached mohawk jostling with the movement, before they look toward the party room. “On a scale of one to ten, what’s the damage?”

“A solid six,” I answer. “It’s not too bad. I should be done within the hour.”

Usually Sandy helps me close on Saturdays, with them seeing to the parlor while I tidy the party room, but it’s their date night and I know they’re keen to get home.

“Are you sure you’re?—”

“I’m sure.” I shoo them toward the door. “Go celebrate being flirty and free, thirty-three.”

“You’ll have to come up with a new rhyme after my next birthday,” Sandy says, scrunching their nose. “Let’s hope it’s not ‘single and poor, thirty-four.’”

I snort. “Don’t even try that on me—I’ve seen your annual turnover. And we both know Xin’s obsessed with you. You’d be walking down the aisle tomorrow if only you’d say yes.”

“I’m too young to get married.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Sandy frowns and amends, “Too young at heart.”

It’s an argument we’ve had many times, so I just say, “Go, orI’llleave and you can clean.”

Their face softens into a smile. “You’re too good to me, Charlie. Best employee I’ve ever had.”

“Feel free to give me a raise,” I suggest, only half joking.