Page 147 of Bridesmaid Undercover
Not wanting to test the waters, I reach into the freezer and grab a pint of cookies and cream, always an easy go-to flavor that satisfies any mood.
He takes the pint from me and puts it in the cart as well, then he moves down to the end of the aisle where the syrups and toppings are. He picks up a chocolate syrup, a vat of sprinkles, and some cherries. Then he walks us over to the dairy section and snags a can of whipped cream. The paper goods section is next, where he grabs a small pack of wooden spoons.
“Need anything else?” he asks, looking at me.
“Uh…a drink?” I ask, very confused as to what he’s doing.
“Right,” he says.
He moves the cart toward the front where the coolers are next to the registers. “Take your pick,” he says as he moves in to grab a Coke Zero. I lean in next to him and grab the same thing. We both place them in the cart and then he walks over to self-checkout.
Quietly, he checks us out. I don’t even bother to try paying because I know he’ll probably growl at me to put my wallet away.
Instead, I grab a paper bag and pack up our groceries while he finishes paying. Once we’re back in the car and I’m behind the wheel, I look over at him and ask, “Where to?”
“Nowhere,” he says as he opens the bag and hands me my ice cream.
“Oh, are we eating here?”
“Yup,” he says.
Then in silence, he opens everything, lays it out along the center console, and then hands me a spoon.
“Eat some ice cream. You need to make room for the toppings.”
Unsure what the hell is going on, I do as he says and take a few mouthfuls of ice cream off the top of the pint. And once there’s a big enough divot, I drizzle some chocolate into the pint, along with some sprinkles, whipped cream, and cherries.
Then in silence…we eat.
Both staring out the front window, looking out toward the nearly empty parking lot. What I wouldn’t give to understand what’s going on in his head. What his reasoning is behind the ice cream. Why he’s acting so strange.
After a few minutes of silence, I can’t take it anymore, so I ask, “How’s your throat?”
“Fine,” he answers curtly.
“The ice cream helping it?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, I’m glad,” I say as I tip my head against my head rest.
That’s that. A simple yeah. Nothing more.
We continue to eat our ice cream, occasionally adding on sprinkles, cherries, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup.
It’s a comfortable silence despite the questions rolling around in my head. The largest beingwhat happened with Maple?But I am too chicken to ask that.
After another few minutes, I realize I can go about this one of two ways: I can either ask him what’s going on and why he’s acting weird, or I can try to get him out of the apparent mood he’s in like I did when we were making pom-poms.
Knowing the latter will be better for his sanity I say, “I could eat a whole jar of maraschino cherries if no one was looking.”
He exhales. “Same.”
“I think I would be incredibly sick from all the sugary syrup goodness, but I wouldn’t regret it. I would think about doing it the next day.”
“I wouldn’t wait until the next day,” he says. “I’d just grab another one.”
“Makes sense,” I say, both of us staring out the windshield, not bothering to look at each other. “You did claim to eat two bags of candied nuts in one sitting, why not two jars of cherries?”
