“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Austin says.
“I think the amount of people here confirms ice cream trumps exercise,” Charlotte adds. “There’s a delicate balance between healthy and fanatical.”
The guilt weighing on my shoulders lightens. It’s like a twisted form of aromatherapy, letting my troubles out, surrounded by the sweet scent of freshly baked waffle cones.
The line shuffles forward and so do we until it’s reward time.
“What can I get for you?” the lanky cashier asks me.
Finn’s lecture about making good choices blares in my mind.
“I’ll just need a moment to decide.”
While Austin and Charlotte order, the containers of frozen flavors behind the glass case tempt me to get a scoop of each. It’s been weeks since I’ve indulged in decadent treats.
On the plus side, when I arrived, I could have sworn I saw Austin’s eyes linger on my newly toned body. And Charlotte straight up smacked my ass and declared it hard enough to bounce a quarter, which caused Austin to involuntarily look a second time and make noncommittal noises.
On the negative side, if I still care that Austin’s looking, and tallying the number of glances, then he definitely isn’t out of my system.
Even though I desperately want the real thing, I say, “I’ll have a scoop of fat-free vanilla.”
“No, she won’t,” Austin says. He turns to me and lowers his voice, “You like chocolate peanut butter. Full fat. Full flavor. Fat-free is not you.”
He’s right. I faked an orgasm. Must I fake ice cream too?
“Give me two scoops of chocolate peanut butter, please.”
“That’s my girl,” Austin says. “Today we’re rebelling.”
Yes. I’m not his girl, but I am a rebel. With our cups in hand, we head to the sprawling topping bar.
“Pain is weakness leaving the body!” Finn likes to yell at me in the gym. Clearly I haven’t suffered enough, because I am weak enough to load a pound’s worth of chocolate chips, peanut butter cups, and Oreos onto my double-scoop. No one judges me for my abundance of toppings, and it’s nice.
With my weighted cup, I follow Austin and Charlotte to a vacant table.
“It feels so good to just relax today,” Charlotte groans as she stretches across a whole side of the booth, forcing me to slide my supple rear just inches from Austin’s. “My future in-laws are a lot. I thought wedding planning was exhausting on its own. And then slightly more so with my mother involved. But they are so picky you’d think it was their wedding. Or at least their money.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “What are they giving you problems about?”
“Ugh, the venue for one.” She points her spoon at me. “But this idea is the worst… They want a ring warming ceremony.”
I laugh. “What’s that?”
“His parents want our bands passed among the guests to lay their hands on. Margaret said it sends love and good energy to them.” She shakes her head. “No. Just no. What if someone secretly sends bad vibes?”
“I think you’re safe, even if they do,” Austin says with a half-smile.
“Oh”—she turns to face us—“and this… Instead of bouquets, his mom said she could make wreaths. Wreaths.”
“That’s interesting,” I say.
“No, it’s not interesting. All I can picture is tossing my wreath instead of a bunch of flowers like I’m lasso-ing single bridesmaids. It’s weird. I want the dream wedding with bushels of flowers. I want the whole fantasy. Ya know?”
Yeah, I do. Since Charlotte started planning her wedding, fantasies of my own have materialized. Her pending nuptials have unleashed a potential bridezilla within me. It’s like women’s menstrual cycles syncing. I’ve become matrimony synced.
“Isn’t the dream ending up with the person you love?” Austin says, giving Charlotte a pointed look.
“No.” She laughs. “Well, hypothetically, what would you guys want?”
Austin shifts on the red pleather and his forearm brushes mine. The innocent act causes the fine hairs on my arm to salute. Why must my body betray me in such cliché ways? I’m trying here.
“I don’t know that I’ll ever get married,” he says.
“Really?” I can’t help but ask.
His dark eyes stay on his strawberry ice cream. “It’s not something I’m planning.”
“What about you, Chloe?” Charlotte asks.
It’s my turn to shift in my seat. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it,” I fib.
“Spill,” Austin directs with a raised brow.
I dig tunnels in my ice cream with my spoon. “I guess for myself, I envision an intimate ceremony. The napkins will be printed with fun history facts of us. There’ll be an artist live painting the ceremony so we can hang it in our home.
“Aw,” Charlotte coos.
“Granny Mae will do the dessert bar, and the menu will be a replica of food from our first date.” I look up. “Oh God, Finn and I had wings. I can’t have messy wings in a white satin gown. I’ll be starving at my own wedding.”
Charlotte’s spoon halts mid-air on the way to her mouth. “You’d marry Finn?”
“Well, no. I mean…” Warmth floods my face. “We’re just dating.” Awkward silence. “So, uh, how’s the move going?”
“I’m almost all the way out,” Charlotte says.
“What about you, Austin?” What I really need to know is, have you found a roommate yet and please say Finn or a total hot babe hasn’t signed up, but that’s not really something one blurts out.
“I’m still looking for someone else to rent the place,” Austin adds.
Charlotte makes it so much worse with, “Isn’t Lucy thinking of moving in?”
Somehow, I manage not to spin my head to Austin and continue with my mountain of ice cream as if his answer is meaningless to me. However, he doesn’t respond. I move my gaze from whipped cream to him.
“Did you complete your menu yet?” he asks Charlotte. “You know I judge every wedding by the food.”
She doesn’t seem to notice he didn’t answer her question and launches into a discussion about food options with Austin. But I notice. I notice everything. If he isn’t answering, he must be thinking about it. If Lucy is moving in, that means things are serious. But I guess that’s the goal of relationships? It shouldn’t be shocking they’ve moved to that stage, but it is.
A shadow darkens the table, and I look up to see a stern-faced Finn.
“Oh, hi,” I say, much too bubbly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Thought you were trying out a new clay today.”
“I did.” Not really. “And rewarded myself.”
His horrified eyes flit from the most likely fat-free sugar-free frozen yogurt in his hand to the mounds precariously balanced atop my full-fat, all-the-sugar ice cream.
“This”—he shows his sparse little cup with a frown—“is my reward for hitting a new personal record today. My reward for a solid workout. Which you were supposed to be joining me on.”