“For a valid reason,” she says, lightness in her voice.
“You told the cop we were on our way to the hospital because your sister was giving birth, and you had to be there to hold her hand for good luck. You went as far as telling him you were blessed by a witch doctor and had the power of making sure the baby wasn’t born with an extra toe.”
“That’s a concern a lot of parents have,” she says in mock defense, now fully turning in her seat.
“It was a blatant lie.”
“But you didn’t get a ticket, did you?”
I eye her at a stoplight. “That was until he saw us strolling into the Applebee’s five minutes before they closed.”
“Yeah, that was unfortunate.”
“So was the ticket I got and the points on my license.”
“Not to mention the kitchen was closed so we didn’t get Buffalo wings.” She chuckles. “Kind of a bad night. Why did you bring it up?”
“Because”—I glance at the clock—“Coldstone closes soon, and I’m about to pull an Applebee’s repeat if the lights don’t cooperate with us.”
“Well, we don’t want that, do we?”
“No,” I answer, turning onto Front Street, “because going to those defensive driver classes to get the points taken off my license was a complete nightmare. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“Given your incessantly rude road rage, I can imagine you needed those classes.”
“What are you talking about? I don’t have road rage,” I say as someone neglects to use their blinker and the urge to give them a “thumbs up” floods me.
“Uh huh, this coming from the guy known to shout I hope you get raging hemorrhoids when someone cuts you off.”
I chuckle to myself. It’s the perfect wish. I don’t want anyone to crash, or to get hurt, but if you fail to use your blinker or cut me off, a hemorrhoid isn’t that bad of a request, right?
“Could be worse. I could be wishing for other things.”
“How about you don’t wish for anything and accept the fact that there are poor drivers on the road?”
I shake my head and wait at the red light that leads into the Coldstone plaza. “I can’t. I expect all drivers to be alert and ready while driving.”
“So the road head—”
“I think we’re done reminiscing on my driving, okay?” I smile back at her, trying to push away the thoughts of that one time . . .
I park the truck in front of the building and take another look at the clock, eight minutes to spare. Yup, they’re going to hate us. Luckily, they make the ice cream right in front of you.
“Come on, get your birthday ass out of this truck because we have some ice cream to eat.”
She hops out, and I join her on the sidewalk. I take in the workers who eye us and slump their shoulders. Sorry, guys, my girl needs some ice cream.
I open the door for Amelia and when she walks in, I clear my throat and announce very loudly, “Here comes the birthday girl.” I startle not only her, but the workers who are looking more annoyed than anything.
“Aaron,” she says quietly and turns around to whack me in the stomach, “don’t do that.”
Oh, but it’s what I do. Live freely, have fun, and take in the moment. She should know this by now.
“What? It’s your birthday, the world needs to know it.” I look at the workers and say, “She’s thirty-five by the way; doesn’t she look good for her age?”
“I’m not,” she stutters. “I’m not thirty-five.”
They don’t seem to care. I don’t even bother to look at the menu, because I know exactly what we’re getting. The smell of waffle cones and ice cream envelop us, reminding me of the first time we came together. Just like the first time, I drape my arm over Amelia’s shoulders and bring her against my side.
“Sorry about the late visit, boys, but it’s my girl’s birthday, and we need to celebrate. Can we get two Birthday Remixes in the Love It size?” I lean forward a bit and say, “I’ll tip well.”
Seeming to be okay with that, they get to work. When I pull out my wallet, I snag two twenties and plop them in the tip jar. The workers look at each other in surprise and smile, their hands working fast with kneading the ice cream and mixings together.
“Ahem,” I clear my throat. “I said I would tip well, but that also means I get a song.”
Yes, a song. It’s one of the reasons why I would never work at a Coldstone not that I really would, but if I was younger and had a choice, no thank you. You are required to sing a damn song every time someone tips you and fuck if I would want to stand there, mixing ice cream and singing a damn “Hi Ho” song. Chalk that up with the defensive driving nightmare.
“They don’t need to sing.”
“Yes, they do, it’s tradition. We would like to hear the birthday one, boys. And by the looks of it, I’m going to say you two have some great harmonization. Am I right?”
“I do sing a good alto,” one of them says while the other rolls his eyes.
“Let’s hear it then.”
The non-alto sighs heavily and rings a bell that cues their song. Together, they sing a rendition of happy birthday that some evil person in corporate came up with. Alto goes for the deep voice while the other guy barely hums the song out. When they’re done, I pull my arm away from Amelia and give them a genuine clap. Amelia’s cheeks are red from embarrassment, which I find endearing.
“Well done, boys. That alto was on point.”
“Really? I practice in front of the mirror sometimes with my tooth brush.” Why does this not surprise me?
“It shows, dude. Keep it up.” He plops one of the ice creams in a dish and before he can hand it to me, I lean over and say, “There can be another five in the tip jar if you cover that ice cream in cherries.”
“Done.”
I pull away and wink at Amelia who’s eyeing me and shaking her head.
She likes cherries. I didn’t forget. I haven’t forgotten anything when it comes to Amelia.
I slip another five in the tip jar and when the guy rings the bell to sing another song, I stop them. “No need, boys, you’ve done enough.”
I’ve got to give them a little break.
After we checkout, giving the boys a wave and a thank you, I escort Amelia to my truck where she stops in front of it and looks at the hood and then back up at me. “Uh, there is no way I’m getting up on that thing. It’s so tall.”
That’s fair. “How about if I put the tailgate down, does that work?”
“That’s better.”
I put down the tailgate and set my ice cream on the side. I turn toward Amelia and without saying anything, grab her by the waist and lift her up on the truck. A mini squeal pops out of her mouth but when she settles on the truck, she smiles softly at me. “Thank you.”
With my hands still on her hips, I study her, loving how she feels. So fragile, so tiny in my hands. “Any time, babe.”
Reluctantly, I pull away and hop up on the truck effortlessly. With our feet dangling, we eat our ice cream and stare out at the community college directly across from Coldstone.
“Hey, I owe you a happy birthday song.”