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“So, why Pistachio?” Caleb says, leading the way towards the cash register.
“Because Mars is a health nut and pistachios are supposed to be, like, really healthy, right?”
“I guess,” Caleb says with a shrug.
“Plus Pistachio just seems to fit his whole vibe,” I add.
“His vibe?”
“Yeah, you know his whole moody, broody, silently thoughtful thing. Like he never says a word, right? But he’s always there, and he’s always paying attention. He seeseverything. And he just seems to likeknowthings, you know? That feels more like a Pistachio than a Vanilla Swiss Almond.”
“Whatever you say,” he says with a laugh.
I frown. “You still don’t believe this is a super power.”
“Of course I don’t.”
I shove the basket at him, crossing my arms. “Okay, then allow me to go on—”
“I really wish you wouldn’t—”
“Some flavors insist on themselves,” I say. “Like Birthday Cake. Seriously? What’s wrong with just eating cake? Why do I need an ice cream that tastes like cake? With Mars, what you see is exactly what you get. He’s not a liar, posing as one thing when he’s really another. And he doesn’t change on you either, like a fancy special edition flavor, here one month, gone the next. Mars is always in the crease, doing his job. Whether you see him or not, whether he’s the focus of attention or not, he’s standing in front of that goal. Same with Pistachio. It’s always there. People may overlook it, thinking it’s a funky flavor or even a boring flavor, but it’s not. It’s reassuring and delicious.”
Caleb frowns. “So Mars is Pistachio ice cream to you? Reassuring, always there, silent, and real…and delicious, apparently?”
I nod, liking his list. “Yep. Plus, you know, it seemed the most European,” I add. “I could imagine him on vacation in Italy with some hot Finnish girl, walking by the Trevi Fountain, sharing a scoop of pistachio gelato.”
Caleb snorts, handing the basket over to the cashier.. “He’s with a hot Finnish girl, huh?”
“Well, I mean, now all I can see is Mars with Rachel. He looks at her likeshe’sice cream. Know what I mean?”
He makes some noncommittal response before ducking down and snatching up a pack of cinnamon gum. He adds it to the pile of ice creams.
“You think he loves her?” I ask, arms crossed as I watch the cashier swipe all our ice creams across the scanner. Mine goes first, then Caleb’s, then Rachel’s, then the new pint of Pistachio. It feels symbolic somehow. Four ice creams, four different flavors, but ultimately all the same.
Caleb stands right next to me. When he crosses his arms, our elbows brush. Just when I think he’s not going to reply, he does. “Yeah, I do,” he says, his tone solemn.
“You think he can ever learn to love us too?” I ask, not daring to look his way. “And not in the gay way—I mean, I know he doesn’t—not like that,” I reply, tugging my wallet from my pocket. “I wasn’t implying—”
“I know what you meant,” he replies.
I work my card through the machine, typing in my pin. “Well?” I repeat. “Do you?”
As I tuck my card back inside my wallet he sighs, shaking his head. “We’ll have to see. Let’s just hope you didn’t fuck this all up and get him Pistachio ice cream when he’s allergic to nuts. Hurricane’ll never forgive you if you poison him to death.”
“Wait—is he allergic to nuts?” I say, suddenly anxious that he might be right. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mars eat a nut.
Oh shit…
Caleb ignores me, thanking the cashier and snatching up our bags.
“Cay, is he allergic to nuts?” I say again, taking the receipt from the cashier.
But he’s already on the move, walking with a hitch in his step towards the sliding glass doors.
“Cay!” I shout.
He doesn’t turn around.
