It turns out to be a dud—either they usually have a sucky selection, or it’s already been picked clean. We stop at two more and he finds some knickknacks that he says are for my bookshelves—when I tell him I don’t have bookshelves he just gives me a grin in return.
“I was really hoping to find a couch,” he says. “Yours sucks.”
Laughing, I reach for my seatbelt and slide it across my body. “It really does.”
“New it is, I guess.”
“New?” I ask dumbly because my eyes are zeroed in on the way his bicep is flexed as he backs out of the parking space.
“A brand-new couch.” A smirk dances at the edge of his lips. “I was going to thrift one, but…”
“I still have the one you love,” I admit.
His eyes widen in excitement. “Where?”
“Storage unit.” The couch now lives there along with every other memory of Fisher that I could box away.
“Can we get it out of there?” he asks. “I can rent a truck and pick it up tomorrow.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say no just to be contrary, but I really do love that couch.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
I expect him to head back to my home, but of course he doesn’t do that. Instead, he pulls up to the curb outside of the ice cream shop we frequented often when we were together.
Shirley’s Ice Creamis spelled out on the pink and green awning in a sweet script font. The front windows are painted for the holiday season in blues and pinks and green.
Fisher seems to be waiting for me to say something, so I decide to stay silent just to make him sweat.
He breaks the silence with an awkward, “Uh … do you want one?”
Turning to face him, I say, “You know I can’t say no to a chocolate malt.”
They’re my number one weakness and too few places have malt anymore.
He waits for traffic to clear and hops out. He’s around to my door before I’ve fully opened it with his hand held out in offering. I let him help me, but only because my leg is hurting and I’m scared it might give out when I stand.
Fisher, who never misses a thing, notices my slight wobble. “Do you want your cane?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him no, simply because I’m annoyed that he sees right through me, but I set my feelings on him aside and nod instead.
He reaches in and secures my cane, placing it in my hand. I spent hours upon hours bedazzling it. I didn’t want my cane to just be athing. It’s an extension of my personality.
Using the cane to steady my gait, I follow him to the door he holds open for me to pass through first.
I close my eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the sugary sweet smell of the ice cream they prepare daily in the shop. A shiver works its way down my spine and I startle, my eyes popping open when Fisher gives my elbow a soft squeeze.
“You good?” he asks, concern knitting his brows.
“I’m fine.”
He steps up to the counter to order and I join him, pulling out my wallet.
“What are you doing with that?” he asks under his breath, shooting a smile in the direction of the older gentleman heading toward us. He flicks my wallet just in case I didn’t understand his interpretation ofwith that.
“Paying.”
“No, you’re not.”
