As we crossed into Lake Phoenix, my dad’s cell phone rang, startling both of us, the sound of his ringtone suddenly very loud in the quiet car. My dad jerked awake, his head snapping forward. “What?” he asked, and I hated to hear the confusion in his voice, the vulnerability in it. “What’s that?”
I reached down for the phone in the cupholder, but he got there first, answering the call and smoothing his hand over his always-neat hair, as though trying to make sure he hadn’t gotten too unkempt while he’d been sleeping. I could tell in a second that it was my mother, and after their brief conversation, my dad seemed more composed, and much more himself, his voice no longer thick with sleep when he hung up and turned to me.
“Your mother requested we pick up a few things for dinner tonight,” he said, “and I just realized that we haven’t been to Jane’s this year. I for one feel like we’ve been skimping on the dessert this summer.” There were still eleven oatmeal cookies in the fridge, but I didn’t mention those. The one chocolate chip had been divided into five equal pieces among us, and the rest had sat untouched.
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost four, definitely verging into what my mother would consider the dinner-spoiling hour. But my dad and I had a tradition of getting ice cream and keeping it a secret—like when I was younger and he would pick me up from wherever I’d tried to run away to. “Really?” I asked, and my dad nodded.
“Just don’t tell your mom,” he said. “Otherwise, I’ll be facing a rocky road.”
I couldn’t help laughing at that. “I don’t know,” I replied, as I pulled into a spot along Main Street. “She might be in a good humor about it.”
My dad smiled in appreciation. “Nice,” he said.
We parted ways as he headed to PocoMart and Henson’s Produce, and I walked toward Sweet Baby Jane’s. It was a tiny shop with a sky-blue awning, the name printed across it in curly white type. There were two benches on either side of the entrance, a necessity because the space had only room for the counter and a single table. Maybe because of the in-betweenness of the hour, Jane’s didn’t look very busy. There were just two boys who appeared to be around Gelsey’s age, eating cones on one of the benches, their bikes tossed in a heap to the left of them. It was rare to see Jane’s this deserted—at night, after dinner, the benches would be packed, the crowd spilling out along Main Street.
As I pulled open the door and stepped inside, a blast of air-conditioning and nostalgia hit me. The store hadn’t changed much from what I remembered; same single table, same painted signs listing the flavors and toppings. But apparently time hadn’t totally passed Jane’s by, as there was now a list of frozen yogurts, and many more sugar-free options than I had remembered before.
I didn’t need to ask what my father wanted. His ice cream order had never changed—a cup with one scoop of pralines & cream and one scoop of rum raisin. I got one scoop coconut and one scoop raspberry in a waffle cone, which had been my ice cream of choice the last time I’d been there. I paid and, finding my hands full with the cup and cone, was pushing open the door with my back. I was about to take my first bite when I heard someone say, “Hold on, I’ve got it.” The door was held open for me, and I turned and suddenly found myself looking right into the green eyes of Henry Crosby.
By this point, I should have just been expecting it. It probably would have been more surprising if I hadn’t bumped into him. I smiled and, before I could stop myself, I was quoting something I’d heard my father say, a line from his favorite movie. “Of all the gin joints, in the all the world,” I said. “You walk into mine.” Henry frowned, and I realized in that moment that of course he didn’t know what I was talking about. I barely knew what I was talking about. “Sorry,” I explained hurriedly. “It’s a quote. From a movie. And I guess I should have said ice-cream parlors….” I heard my voice trail off. I wasn’t entirely sure what a gin joint even was. Why had I felt the need to say anything at all?
“It’s okay,” Henry said. “I got what you were going for.” His dark hair was sticking up in the back, and he was wearing a faded blue T-shirt that looked so soft I had a sudden impulse to reach out and rub the cotton between my fingers. I didn’t do this, of course, and took a small step back, just to remove the temptation.
“So,” I said, grasping for something to say, but not coming up with much. “Ice cream, huh?” I felt my cheeks get hot as soon as I said it, and I glanced toward the car, wondering if my dad was finished at Henson’s and I’d be able to use this as an excuse to leave.
“Don’t tell me,” Henry said, nodding at my rapidly melting cone. “Raspberry and coconut? Still?”
I stared at him. “I can’t believe you remember that.”