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“Auntie Em?” Caroline asks, wriggling underneath the hold of her seatbelt. “Do we have to go home now?”
I pretend to think about it. “Well… tonightisa school night.”
I’m met with a disappointed chorus of “awww’s.” I twist around in my seat. “Then again…” The girls hitch up their breaths. “It’s not every day we get a new car! Let’s get ice cream!”
I have to cover my ears as the car erupts with cheers and screams. I’m smiling so damn hard that my face hurts by the time we get to the ice cream parlor just north of Hudson Yards.
It’s one of those boujee places with neon signs that say stuff like “I Licked It So It’s Mine”and a line of eager patrons wrapped around the block more often than not. It’s also one of those places where a child-sized cup of vanilla with sprinkles sets you back fourteen bucks—so needless to say, we’ve never been before.
But if there was ever a day to drop a hundred bucks on a sweet treat, it’s today.
Caroline and Reagan’s eyes double in size when we walk in. Aside from the delectable smell of melted caramel and cookie dough, the ambience promises all sorts of sugary goodness. The tables sit between swings that are anchored to the floor and the ceiling to keep them in place. The walls are covered in floral arrangements that bloom between framed posters featuring ice cream cones pasted into old Renaissance paintings. TheMona Lisais partial to rocky road, apparently.
We each pick a flavor and settle at the table right beneath a pink neon billboard that reads,You Can’t Buy Happiness, But You Can Buy Ice Cream, & That’s Practically the Same Thing.
Reagan seems to agree. “This is the best day ever!” she declares between licks of her double chocolate fudge scoop.
Josh and Caroline’s mouths are stuffed with ice cream so they just nod emphatically. My heart is fit to bursting.
I can’t remember when I last felt this good.
I bite another mouthful of salted caramel cheesecake and sigh contentedly.It can’t get any better than this.
Then Josh gasps. “Oh, Auntie Em! I almost forgot.” He reaches around into his backpack and pulls out a thin stack of papers. “It’s for basketball.”
Dang it. I might’ve spoken too soon.
My heart drops. It’s so much worse this time around because Icanactually afford to pay for Josh’s basketball program. The problem isn’t money—it’s Ben.
“Oh, honey…”
But he shakes his head and beams. “I have a patron.”
I stop short. “I’m sorry, a—what?”
“A patron.” He turns to the third page and hands it over to me. “You just need to fill out the rest of the form.”
I scroll down to the bottom end of the page where instructions for payment methods are outlined. Sure enough, right there on the dotted line are words printed in thick bold letters:PAID IN FULL—PATRON.
No.
It can’t be.
Ruslan?
I remember mentioning it to him during one of my word vomit episodes, which—now that I think about it—are becoming entirely too frequent. Is it possible that he not only remembered, but actuallydidsomething about it?
“Are you my patron?” Josh asks innocently.
“I wish I could take the credit, but no, I’m not.”
Caroline gasps. “Maybe you have a fairy godmother!”
“Or a fairy godfather,” I mutter. The sudden image of Ruslan in a Tom Ford suit and sparkling fairy wings makes my snorts turn into giggles and the kids join in until we’re all laughing so hard we have tears running down our cheeks.
The moment is too good to forget. I take my phone out, open the camera, and switch it to selfie mode. “Okay, everyone: smile!”
Afterwards, the kids gobble down their ice creams and I open Ruslan’s thread and attach the picture I just took.
