“Root beer with ice cream is classic,” I say.
His left brow rises. “So, you do like root beer?”
I slowly shake my head. “No, I do not.”
He laughs. “Well then, what do you want, Sadie?”
I smile as I assess all the choices and then point. “That one.”
His dimples dent his cheeks. “Fanta Orange?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever had that with ice cream.”
I shrug. “Then you’ve been missing out.”
He looks at me intently. “That’s the truth.”
Something lodges in my throat and I softly clear it. “So, you have root beer floats while you sit out here every Sunday night?”
He pulls out vanilla ice cream from the cooler, along with two red SOLO cups and spoons. “I wish. We could start that new routine, though.”
We.
I smile, light and careful. “As friends.” I repeat the word.
I don’t want to lead Grant on, and he’s made his intentions clear. He wants to bearound.
Butaroundfeels a little like a puppy that’s already decided you’re its person—hovering close, hopeful, wet nose pressed to your palm believing it’s only a matter of time before you give in.
“Of course,” he murmurs.
“Let’s just take it one Sunday at a time. I do love an ice cream float,” I say.
Grant chuckles. “Okay.”
He hands me a red cup with a Fanta Orange float and a spoon.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he replies as he pours Fanta Orange over his ice cream. “But this isn’t even the best part.”
I take a bite, savoring the sweetness before I say, “It’s not?”
He takes a large bite, his eyes lighting up. “This is better than fungus and fruit.”
I laugh.
“And no, it’s not . . .” He puts his float to the side as he gathers up all the other soda in the cooler and moves it out of the way. When he sits back down with his float in hand, our bodies brush against each other, the realization causing the hairs on myarm to tense. Then he points at the sunset. “This. This is the best part.”
I take in the sunset. Pinks, oranges, and yellows painted together in the sky as faint stars begin to sparkle above. The silhouette of Dusty Hollow is dark but clear. Houses, the grain elevator, the water tower . . .
We sit quietly, eating our floats while watching the sun continue to sink into the horizon, colors changing and a coolness settling over us as the sky grows blue.
“I love seeing our town like this,” he comments. His tone is warm and contented, as if Dusty Hollow could be the only place in the entire world and he’d be happy with that.
I wonder what it would feel like to love a place without wondering what else exists beyond it.
