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finn

. . .

Back at my office, I drop into my chair and stare at my computer screen. Instead of opening the website mockups that I should be reviewing, I pull up a new document and start listing everything we’ll need for Hazel’s ice cream festival. Permits, vendors, equipment rentals, marketing materials...

“There he is,” Lloyd says, appearing in my doorway with two cups of coffee. He sets one on my desk and leans against the doorframe. “Thought you’d run off to the circus or eloped with Hazel Brown.”

I minimize the festival document and try to look busy with actual work. “Just grabbing lunch. You know how it is.”

“Uh-huh.” Lloyd takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. “And how’s Hazel’s ice cream empire coming along?”

“It’s not my project, Lloyd. I’m just helping out.”

“Right.” He pushes off from the doorframe and walks over to my monitor, maximizing the festival document I just minimized. “Ice cream vendor coordination, sound system requirements, parking logistics... Yeah, this looks like ‘just helping out’ to me.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “It’s one weekend. The festival will bring business to the whole town, including us.”

“Finn.” Lloyd’s voice loses its teasing edge. “We’ve got the Morrison contract deadline next week. The prototype demo is on Thursday. And you’re over here planning an ice cream social like it’s your full-time job.”

I lean back in my chair, running a hand through my hair. “I can handle both.”

“Can you? Because yesterday you spent three hours researching biodegradable spoons instead of fixing the user interface bugs we found.”

“Those spoons are important?—”

“To Hazel. They’re important to Hazel.” Lloyd sits down across from me, his expression serious now. “Look, man, I’ve known you since we were kids riding bikes down Maple Street. I’ve never seen you this distracted, not even when we were pulling all-nighters to get this company off the ground.”

I stare at my coffee, watching the steam curl upward. “It’s complicated.”

“No, it’s not.” Lloyd leans forward. “You’re in love with her and have been since high school, probably. Just tell her how you feel and get on with your life.”

“And ruin our friendship? Risk everything we’ve built here?” I shake my head. “She’s focused on her business. She doesn’t need me complicating things.”

“Or maybe she’s waiting for you to make a move, and you’re both just circling each other like scared teenagers.” Lloyd stands up, grabbing his coffee. “Either way, you need to figure it out. Because this company we built? It needs you present, not daydreaming about ice cream flavors.”

“I’m not daydreaming about ice cream flavors,” I mutter, but even to my own ears, the defense sounds weak.

Lloyd gives me that look—the one where his right eyebrow arches just enough to call bullshit without saying a word.

It’s the same look he gave me in tenth grade when I claimed I was joining the debate team because I found “logical argumentation fascinating” and not because Hazel was the team captain.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll focus. The Morrison interface will be perfect by Thursday.”

“And the festival planning?”

I glance at my document, feeling a tug in my chest at the thought of stepping back. “I promised Haze, Lloyd.”

He sighs, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. “That’s your problem, man. You’ve been promising her things for years without ever promising her the one thing that matters.”

The words hit like a sucker punch. I turn back to my screen, clicking through to the Morrison files just to have something to do with my hands.

“Look,” Lloyd’s voice softens. “I’m not saying abandon the festival. I’m saying be honest—with Hazel and yourself. Because this half-in, half-out thing you’re doing? It’s not sustainable.”

After he leaves, I sit there staring at code that might as well be hieroglyphics for all I’m comprehending it. My phone buzzes with a text from Hazel.

*Just tried a new strawberry balsamic flavor. Need your expert taste-testing services. Emergency ice cream situation. SOS.*

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. Three dots appear as Hazel types another message.

*Unless you’re busy with real work. In which case, ignore my ice cream emergency.*

And there it is—the perfect out. Hazel is giving me permission to focus on my actual job, to step back from festival planning and her shop. All I have to do is tell her I’m swamped.

Instead, my fingers type: *On my way. Ice cream emergencies trump all other responsibilities.*

As I grab my jacket, Lloyd’s words echo in my head. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps it’s time to stop orbiting around Hazel like a cautious satellite and finally risk burning up in her atmosphere.

But first, I have strawberry balsamic ice cream to judge and a Morrison interface to fix by morning.

I lock my computer and sling my jacket over my shoulder, already calculating how I can make up the time tonight. Three hours of coding after dinner should get me caught up on the Morrison project. Maybe four, just to be safe.

“Where are you going?” Lloyd calls as I pass his office.

“Ice cream emergency,” I say without stopping. “Back in an hour.”

I hear him mutter something that sounds suspiciously like “hopeless,” but I pretend not to notice.

Outside, the spring air hits my face, carrying that distinctive Starlight Bay scent—salt water, pine trees, and possibility.

It’s the same smell that convinced me to move back here after college instead of taking that job in Seattle.

The walk to Sweet Scoops takes exactly seven minutes if I cut through Harborview Park. I know because I’ve timed it repeatedly, always with the excuse that I’m just being efficient.

The bell above the door jingles as I enter, and there she is—hair pulled back in a messy bun, a smudge of something pink on her cheek, and that smile that makes my stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics.

“That was fast,” Hazel says, already reaching for a sample spoon. “I thought you’d be deep in code by now.”

“Never too busy for a crisis,” I reply, leaning against the counter. “Especially one involving ice cream.”

She passes me a tiny spoon filled with pale pink ice cream. “Prepare yourself. This might change your life.”

Our fingers brush during the handoff, and I force myself to focus on the ice cream instead of the electric current that just shot up my arm. The flavor hits my tongue—sweet strawberry deepened by tangy balsamic, with something else I can’t quite identify.

“There’s a hint of black pepper,” Hazel says, watching my face intently. “Too weird?”

I take another taste, letting it melt slowly. “Not weird. Surprising. Like it starts one way and then takes you somewhere completely unexpected.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s exactly what I was going for! Lloyd said it would be too sophisticated for Starlight Bay, but I think people are ready for something different.”

I pause with the spoon halfway to my mouth. “You talked to Lloyd about this?”

“He stopped by yesterday while you were at that client meeting.” She shrugs, turning to wipe down the counter. “We got to talking about the festival, and he mentioned your big deadline next week.”

Great. So Lloyd’s been planting seeds of doubt with Hazel, too.

“The deadline’s under control,” I say, perhaps too quickly. “And this flavor definitely needs to be at the festival. It’s... it’s like Starlight Bay in ice cream form. Familiar but surprising.”

She looks up at me, her expression softening. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely.” I set the spoon down. “Put me down for three scoops at the festival.”

“Speaking of which,” she says, pulling out a notebook from under the counter, “I’ve been thinking about the layout. What if we set up the vendor booths in a spiral pattern instead of rows? People could follow the path and try everything without missing anything.”

And just like that, I’m pulled back into her orbit, discussing tent placements and electrical needs, completely forgetting about Morrison interfaces and Lloyd’s warnings. An hour stretches into two as we sketch layouts on napkins and debate the merits of different local bands for the main stage.

It’s only when my phone buzzes with a text from Lloyd—*Morrison client called. Where are you?*—that reality crashes back in.

“I have to go,” I say reluctantly, already backing toward the door. “Client stuff.”

Hazel nods, understanding but disappointed. “Go be a tech genius. I’ll handle the band bookings.”

“I’ll call you tonight,” I promise. “We can finalize the vendor list.”

As I jog back to the office, I realize I’ve done it again—prioritized Hazel’s dreams over my own responsibilities. But watching her eyes light up when I approved that ice cream flavor felt more rewarding than any successful code deployment ever has.

Lloyd’s waiting when I return, arms crossed. “One hour, huh?”

“I lost track of time,” I admit, rushing to my desk.

“You’re losing more than time, buddy.” He follows me into my office. “The Morrison people moved up the demo. They want to see it tomorrow morning.”

My stomach drops. “Tomorrow? That’s impossible. We need at least?—”

“Two more days, I know. I bought us until Friday, but I had to promise them something special.” He leans against my desk. “Which means you need to be here, focused, for the next 48 hours straight.”

I nod, already pulling up the code. “I’m on it.”

“And the ice cream festival?”

I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “I’ll figure it out.”

Lloyd sighs. “Just tell her, Finn. Tell her you’re in love with her or tell her you can’t help with the festival. But stop trying to be everything to everyone.”

After he leaves, I stare at my screen, the festival planning document and the Morrison code side by side. Two dreams, two commitments, two parts of myself pulling in opposite directions.

My phone lights up with a text from Hazel: *Forgot to ask—what do you think about “Berry Good Time” as the festival slogan? Too cheesy?*

I smile despite everything. *Definitely too cheesy. Perfect for an ice cream festival.*

Then, before I can overthink it, I type another message: *Need to focus on work for a couple days. Rain check on that call tonight?*

Three dots appear, disappear, and then reappear. Finally: *Of course. Your real job comes first. Let me know when you come up for air.*

I set my phone face-down and turn to the Morrison code, ignoring the hollow feeling in my chest. Lloyd’s right about one thing—something has to give. I just haven’t figured out what yet.