“This is Noah.” Macey paused. “He’s my boyfriend.”
As if to prove a point, I threw an arm over her shoulders.That’ll show him.
She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye but didn’t say anything else.
“Boyfriend?” Bob laughed. “Lucky fellow, indeed. You better not keep her from us, young man.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said truthfully.
Macey handed him a stack of information along with a number that read 133. “Bob, he’s a volunteer, too.”
Yeah. And I’d be at the next 5k too, Bob.
Was I…jealous of an innocent old man? God help me.
“We’ll be seeing you around then, Noah.” Bob pinned his number to his T-shirt and left with a wink.
The race began shortly after with a burst of enthusiasm as participants crossed the start line. The route was designed to run through Grant Park’s greenery, past flower gardens and along paved paths that offered glimpses of Lake Michigan.
The course itself was inclusive, with clear markings and smooth surfaces to accommodate all types of mobility aids. Spectators lined the way, waving signs with positive messages and cheering loud enough to make my head spin.
“What now?” I asked now that registration had closed.
“Now,” said Macey, “we get ice cream and cheer them on at the finish line.”
Amid a sea of healthy food trucks serving kale wraps and quinoa bowls, there it was—a lone ice cream truck, like a sugar-coated rebel. I hadn’t seen one since I was a kid, and honestly, part of me still suspected they were just elaborate fronts for money laundering.
I couldn’t believe how much fun I was having. Until now, volunteering had been in a completely different circle than dating in my head. Though I guess anything could be a date if you were with the right person.
Fake date, the voice in my head reprimanded me.
The teenager inside the truck handed me my order, rocky road in a waffle cone. Macey received her cup of mint chocolate chip gleefully.
“Don’t judge,” she said, grabbing a plastic spoon.
“You can’t ask that of me,” I said. “People who order toothpaste ice cream deserve to be made fun of.”
“It’s called taste,” she muttered. “Let’s go sit in the grass for a few minutes.”
Under the shade of a tree, we leaned back and enjoyed dessert. Macey took a few minutes to capture the perfect selfie of us, but by the time she did, my ice cream was half gone.
We had agreed to alternate who posted pictures of us each week. Technically, neither of us had posted one of us yet. We had only liked and reshared the photo from Opal Serenity. I was sure she’d make a big splash with the picture, and I’d rather she get the flurry of love than me.
“So if you weren’t a full-time influencer, what would you be doing?” Macey asked, her plastic spoon resting against her bottom lip, her eyes steady on mine.
I had to think about it. “Maybe I would have gone back to college and finished my degree.”
She dipped the spoon back into her cup, finishing the last bit of ice cream with a slow lick that made my pulse jump.
My ice cream was long gone, but my hands still felt sticky—a discomfort that conveniently mirrored the knot tightening in my chest. I fished around in my pocket for a tissue, more to stall than anything else.
“What’s the readmittance process for Cornell like?”
Embarrassed, I admitted, “I have no idea. It’s way too far to consider reapplying.”
She didn’t judge my ignorance. “What were you studying?”
Flashes of my time at Cornell came to me in emotions. Thepride I felt holding the acceptance letter. Freshman year, the nerves before meeting my random roommate. The challenges I faced in classes. The pure joy, and exhaustion, of hours spent in the architecture studio.
