Page 76 of The Tiger in the Sack

“The usual?”

“Give us a sec. My friend here is new.”

Matty grinned and went back to wiping down the nitrogen machine, which huffed a small cloud at him like it was affectionate.

Clover had stopped just inside the door. She was reading the chalkboard menu behind the counter, which ran the whole length of the back wall and was hand-lettered in every color, and her mouth was moving silently.

“Porkopolis Peanut Butter Cup, Rhine and Shine, Queen City Crème Brûlée.”

“That one’s new. It’s good. Matty, isn’t that one good?” What was I five-years-old?

“It’s real good,” Matty said, without looking up.

“Over-the-Rhine Fudge.”

“There’s also Cincinnati Chili Chocolate if you’re feeling brave,” Matty offered. “Nobody ever feels brave enough for that one. I don’t know why we still have it.”

Clover was still reading. Her finger had come up at some point to track the list and she finger-gun pointed at her choice. “Flying Pig Fudge Ripple.”

Then she laughed. Not a big one. A small one, one sharp breath out through her nose, like the joke was on her and she’d decided to take the punchline.

“That one.”

“You got it,” said Matty.

“Flying Pig Fudge Ripple and my usual.”

“Coming right up.”

She turned to me, the helmet was on the counter next to her elbow. The sleeves of my jacket were still rolled twice.

“You’re a regular at an ice cream place.”

I tried not to snort-laugh. “I am.”

“With a kid who calls you Isak instead of Kingman.” She gave me a squint, but also an eyebrow raise. Very what the hell.

“I found this place the first summer I was here. Before I was all famous. So was Matty.”

“How often do you come in?”

I did some quick figuring. “Twice a week. Maybe.”

“Twice a week?” She bit her lip before she finished the question and it slipped through her teeth as she laughed at me.

I was having a hard time keeping my gaze off her lips. “Sometimes three.”

“Isak. I had no idea you were an addict.”

I did laugh this time and threw my hands up in the air. “It’s across the street from the gym.”

She studied me for a second with something on her face that I couldn’t read fast enough to clock, and then it was gone, and she was turning back to the counter because Matty was handing over two bowls with little wooden spoons sticking out of them and a last curl of nitrogen smoke coming off the top of hers.

“Booth or window?” I said.

“Booth.”

She picked the booth in the back corner, slid in, picked up the spoon, and she tucked one foot up under her on the bench. “Okay, let’s talk fake dating.”