Mint chocolate chip.
That’s Kenzi’s favorite flavor.
I commit it to memory and pay for our waffle cones.
The local ice cream shop is peach-pink with a walk-up window. There’s an ornate sign out front with the word Ahoy! in bright letters, a ship painted behind the words; the exclamation point, an upside-down ice cream cone.
It’s a warm August night—not oppressive, but nice, the kind of heat that lingers like a good kiss.
Kenzi sits at one of the picnic benches outside of the shop. She’s wearing overalls on top of a tight white shirt, which hugs her curves.
Her heart shaped face is turned towards the sunset, ringlets of dark raven curls cascading down her shoulders.
She’s a vision. I swing my leg over the bench, straddling it, and hand over her ice cream. “Your cone, m’lady.”
“Merci.”
“De rien.”
She gives me a look like she’s annoyed. Then she starts digging into her ice cream, giving me the cold shoulder.
“So are you going to pout all evening?” I ask her.
She shrugs. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about. We have nothing in common.”
“I bet we do. What’s your favorite color?”
“Magenta.”
“Mine too.”
She scoffs. “No, it isn’t.”
“Is this the face of a man who would lie to you?”
She rolls her eyes. But she seems a little softer around the edges. She cranes her neck to examine my cone. “What’d you get?”
“Half butterscotch, half rocky road.”
“You’re a professional.”
“Don’t you forget it.” I hold it out for her. “Want a taste?”
“I don’t have a spoon.”
“I don’t have cooties.”
She gives in and runs her tongue over it, catching both flavors. A dollop of butterscotch gets on the tip of her nose, and I crook my finger and catch it.
She tilts away from me and rubs her nose over the back of her hand. “So is this your thing?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…you take a girl here, impress her with your obnoxious ice cream choices, dazzle her with the sunset, and then when she’s feeling sugar-high and romantic, you get her to blow you in the dunes.”
I scoff at that. “No way.”
“No?”
“No. The dunes are too sandy.”
She rolls her eyes. Enjoys her ice cream. I find myself studying the flick of her tongue.
“I’m just trying to get to know you,” I tell her.
“Okay.” She shifts, elbow on the table, fully facing me now. “Ask me something.”
“What do you want to do?”
She cocks her head. “Professionally?”
“Like…with your life. What’s important to you?”
“That is a question, isn’t it?” She thinks, working over her ice cream. “I want to do something with music. Produce, maybe. Or write.”
“You don’t want to sing?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s the behind the scenes stuff that interests me.”
“Can’t take the limelight?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Not really.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
She squints at me skeptically. “What do you mean?”
“You hide,” I tell her. “In books. Or you put those giant headphones on and hide in those. You’re always…hiding.”
She rolls her eyes. “Or maybe you’re always soaking up the spotlight.”
“Seems like we could learn something from each other, huh?”
That at least gets a small laugh from her. “Maybe.”
She screws up her mouth and her eyes flicker over me as though examining.
“What?” I finally ask—feeling like I’m under a microscope.
“It’s just…strange. One-on-one? You’re not so bad.”
“Thanks. I think.”
But she keeps staring, that inquisitive look in her eyes. Finally, she comes out with: “Why do you bully Donovan so much?”
Of all the questions, I wasn’t expecting that one. “We’re just having fun,” I tell her.
“Fun? Do you think Donovan thinks it’s fun?”
I snort on a laugh. “C’mon. You two are hardly innocent, Trouble.”
“It’s different.”
“Is it?” I challenge.
She frowns, but doesn’t say anything more on the subject.
