An hour later, my G-Wagon is somehow miraculously unscratched, and we’re pulling into the small ice cream stand tucked just off the scenic highway in a dusty parking lot. It’s one of those places you’d miss if you didn’t know it was there—faded paint, picnic tables scattered on the grass, a short trail through the scrub pines that leads to a small, rocky beach.
I used to bring dates here in high school. Haven’t been back in years.
“What do you want?” I ask Izzy as we approach the window.
“I can pay for my own ice cream.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
She narrows her eyes at me, then sighs. “Mint chocolate chip.”
“Classic. Should have guessed.”
“You seem like a bubblegum guy, honestly.”
Man, she really has it out for me today. “Cookie dough, actually.”
“Just as boring.”
I turn to the teenager behind the counter, choosing to let that one go. “Mint chocolate chip for her, cookie dough for me, and—” I glance at Riley, who peeks up from her phone.
“Strawberry!” Riley bounces on her toes. “With extra sprinkles.”
The afternoon’s cooled off, and the wind off the ocean is mild enough that Izzy ties her sweatshirt around her waist instead of putting it on. We walk along the beach, Riley twenty feet ahead of us, taking photos of the waves with her phone.
The tide’s gone out, leaving shallow pools between the rocks, crusted with barnacles and tangled with seaweed, while the crabs scatter every time a seagull gets too close.
“You okay?” I ask Izzy at last.
“Fine.” She peeks at her phone, then stuffs it back in her pocket.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it.”
I catch her wrist gently, turning her arm to examine the scrape she got earlier when she stumbled against the rocks. It’s not deep, but it’s red and probably stings. There’s a small bruise forming at the edge.
“Jack, you don’t?—”
“Hold still.” Not sure why I care so much about a scrape that’ll heal in a few days, but I run my thumb just below it, careful not to press too hard. “You should clean this when you get home.”
“I will.”
“Promise?”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide. The wind pulls a strandof black hair loose, and I have to stop myself from tucking it back.
“Promise,” she says quietly.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The ocean crashes behind us, Riley laughs at something on her phone, and I’m still holding her wrist.
I should let go. I don’t.
“Listen—” My chest feels tight, and I don’t know what to do with that. “I know I’m probably making a mess of this deal between us.”
“You’re not.”
“I don’t…” I exhale, frustrated with myself. “I don’t usually—this isn’t?—”
