Page 80 of Home Ice

I’m really, really starting to hate that word. “Now I know that I like what I like. Chocolate is the bomb. No point fucking around with the other flavors.”

“Yeah. Right.”

His disinterest will not get to me. I won’t let it. We reach the ice cream counter, and Kasen stares down at the six flavors there. I’m not sure if they rotate or not, but there’s chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, then cookies and cream, boysenberry, and a caramel swirl. It’s not a hard choice.

But Kasen’s really thinking about it.

I place my order and turn to him. “Know what you want yet?”

“Nope.”

Mine is handed over. The girl serving us eyes him. “You can have a mix if you can’t choose,” she says.

“Just give me boysenberry.”

I could not think of anything worse. Guess he gets his taste buds from Carly.

She rings us up, I pay, and then we leave again.

“There’s a spot I like by the river. Want to stop there and eat?”

“You’re the one driving.”

It’s not a yes, but considering Kasen has no issues with telling me when he doesn’t want to do something, I’m going to assume it’s his way of agreeing without agreeing.

Are all kids this complicated?

I take him to the spot I always come with Barrett. There’s a family already here, a little way down, but otherwise, it’s just us. I try to play our usual game of letting everything go, but it’s a bit hard to do that when the person causing me the most stress right now is sitting next to me.

I pull up, turn off the car, then grab my ice cream and go sit on the hood. I have no idea if he’ll join me, but if Barrett’s theory was correct that he wants this, this will be my sign. He’ll willingly take the step.

And when I hear the car door pop open and close again, I try not to let my eagerness show on my face.

Without looking at him, I pat the spot beside me, and after a second, he takes it.

I know I should probably try for conversation, but I poke at my ice cream instead. I’m not exactly uncomfortable; it’s more that I’m sitting here next to him … and for the first time ever, he isn’t directing hate or anger my way.

I clear my throat, knowing I have to do something. “Do you ever come here?”

“Sometimes.”

“When I was in high school, this was my go-to spot.”

He hums disinterestedly.

“Barrett and I were best friends. Spent our whole summer here.”

“You know he’s gay?”

It’s so abrupt that I don’t know where he’s going with that. “I didn’t then, but I do now.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

I frown, turning to him. “Are you not?”

His eyes fly wide. “I am. I’m not a dick. I want to make sure that you are.”

Relief floods me. “It would be hypocritical if I wasn’t.”