She needs somewhere safe, somewhere that isn’t about the club or her family or any of the weight she’s carrying. Somewhere that might, for just a few minutes, make things lighter.
“I know a place,” I say.
Seven minutes later, we’re parked outside Dixie Scoops. The ice cream parlor’s empty except for the two teenage employees more interested in their phones than customers.
Just how I hoped things would be.
We slide into a corner booth. Her with a single scoop of cookies and cream. Me with a double of Neapolitan.
She stares at her cup, the glum energy she gives off pulling at the strings deep inside my chest. Once again, I’m uncertain how to approach the moment. How I can broach whatever’s troubling her without pushing too hard or making her shutdown even more?
“Thanks,” I say.
She looks up, confused. “For what?”
“For giving me an excuse to leave the party. It was torture.”
“Oh.” She blinks a couple times, thrown by the direction I’ve taken but also maybe a little grateful for the reprieve. “Um… why?”
“I’d much rather make sure you’re okay.”
She considers this, stirring her ice cream into soup. “I’d be more okay if I had someone to talk to. Just... someone to have a conversation with.”
The loneliness in her tone hits me on a deeper level than she probably realizes.
I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve got nobody to turn to. Nobody to confide in.
I’ve been living with the same feeling since the divorce. Going from seeing my family every day to seeing Jack and Tabby a couple times a month has been torture.
Having Rachel in my bed at night to suddenly having nobody to hold has been a mindfuck.
Rachel and I always had our problems, but I took pride in being a husband and a father. It was a vital part of my identity that’s been stripped away, leaving me to figure out what it’s like being a bachelor again.
Most would think I’ve adjusted just fine. But most aren’t there for the sigh I give coming home and the loud silence that greets me…
“I get that,” I say. “I’ve felt that. Things’re only gonna get more complicated with Tom back.”
“Because he’s the real president?”
“I’m fine with that part. Hell, I voted for him when we first made it official years ago. But things’ve changed. The club’s changed. I’ve changed.”
“Things always change,” she murmurs, propping her head up with her elbow on the table.
“Tom and I have different visions for the club now. I’m not sure there’s room for both of us.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks with genuine interest.
I take a bite of ice cream, buying time. “I don’t know. Wish I had an answer, but I don’t.”
“You know what’s funny? When I was a kid, I thought adults had all the answers. Like once you hit twenty, you’d just know everything. You have it all figured out.”
“And?” I prompt.
“And,” she sighs, “now I’m twenty, and I’ve never felt more lost. More clueless.”
I reach across the table without thinking, taking her hand. Her fingers are cold from the ice cream cup, slim and delicate in mine. The touch sends a cool shiver straight through me unlike anything I’ve felt in recent times. I ignore it and press on.
“Solana, you can tell me what’s bothering you. No pressure… but you can tell me, and you won’t have to worry about anybody else finding out.”
