Page 76 of Game Misconduct

twenty-nine

. . .

Bex

Ice cream. For a date.

Fuck, what do I do?

Nick rounds the car and opens my door, then offers his hand. I slide mine into his, the comforting press of his calloused palm calming my racing heart.

The inside of the shop is adorable, with frosted-glass panes separating each faded, red vinyl booth. Upbeat pop music plays through the speakers, a modern-day anachronism to the place’s classic style.

A high-top counter spans half the shop, with an old-fashioned soda fountain and a display case of ice cream tubs on the other half. This is where Nick beelines, practically dragging me with him in his excitement.

“Welcome to Miss Edna’s,” a pimply teen in a red-and-white striped smock and silly white hat says. He’s clearly bored out of his mind. “What can I get you?”

Ice cream has never been my poison of choice; it’s always been cookie dough—raw, straight from the package. But when I indulge, I like to go all in. Really treat myself.

A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.

My mother’s voice echoes in my head, repeating over and over and over again. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, but I can hardly hear myself think.

Finally, I break. “Do you have frozen yogurt?”

Nick fixes me with a plaintive look. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

“What? I like frozen yogurt.”

He shakes his head. “This isn’t that type of place. Real ice cream. Full sugar, full fat, full delicious.”

“I don’t need ice cream.” If he wants to date me, I’ll have to watch what I eat much more than usual.

“Bex.” His voice softens. “You can eat whatever you want. If you really want frozen yogurt, we can go somewhere else. I just want to share this with you.”

The sincerity in his voice eases the doubts from my mind. I unwind, and look over the options. There are so many unique flavors, plus the classic ones. I’m torn between my favorite chocolate chip cookie dough or trying a different flavor.

This is the start of something new, me and Nick. It won’t kill me to step outside my comfort zone.

“A scoop of caramel fudge ribbon, please,” I order.

Okay, maybe not too far out. I still like what I like.

“Cup or cone?”

I’d like to be the kind of woman who seductively licks an ice cream cone in front of a man… but the idea of the ice cream melting and getting all over my hands, or the cone leaking and making my hands all sticky, makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and cry. I’d never feel clean again, no matter how many times I scrub or apply hand sanitizer.

“Cup, please.” I glance at Nick out of the corner of my eye. In for a penny, in for a pound. “With whipped cream and hot fudge, please.”

“Sprinkles? Cherry?” He nudges me.

I shake my head. “Wrong texture.”

“That’s valid,” he says, squeezing my arm. “I’ll have the brownie sundae with rocky road, please. And I will take sprinkles and a cherry on mine. No nuts, though.”

“Rocky road ice cream has nuts.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like the chopped nuts on top. It’s not mixed together, it’s just by itself, and it’s lonely.”