The domestic scene sends a shard of inexplicable sensation through my chest. Almost like pain, but that's impossible. I don't feel emotions like that.
Still, I watch them for another few seconds, unable to name the odd feeling.
The bell over the door to the ice cream shop chimes as it opens again. This time a young woman exits, holding a stuffed animal. She calls to them, and the mother turns back to take it. I can't hear the exchange at this distance. Not that it matters. It's just... the uncomfortable shift in my chest is stronger.
The mom takes the dingy pink bunny, hands it to the little girl in the man's arms, and they slowly walk away, faces full of smiles.
The young woman watches them a moment, arms crossed over her waist, before she returns inside.
I'm not sure how long I linger watching that door and the people who come out. Five minutes? Ten? Every person who leaves is smiling, and beyond the glass, I can just make out the young woman behind the counter. She laughs with them, leans down to the same level as the children when she talks, and sneaks an extra helping of sprinkles when a parent has their back turned.
I rub my chest where that... thatachehas settled. Is it the ice cream? Is that why everyone smiles? I can't remember seeing so much happiness in one place.
When was the last time I had ice cream? The army before I entered sniper school?
Another couple leaves the shop, and a quick scan of the windows tells me Sweet Scoops ice cream is empty except for the woman behind the counter. It's close to five. She's probably getting ready to close.
I watch the door another minute. Sweat slides down my back beneath the suit jacket.
Ice cream might be nice. Sort of a celebration of my last job. Proof that I can have something in my life besides cold metal and gun oil.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I cross the street and go for an ice cream.
Cool air meets my heated skin, bringing my body temperature down a notch. The shop is empty. The woman must be in the back.
The walls are loud, with bright pink stripes and pictures of ice cream cones. A cooler hums at the end of the long counter, where candy toppings and a cold case of dozens of ice cream flavors sit in containers.
I take another step in, clocking the doors and scanning the wide windows once more. I feel exposed here. There’s too much light and space. What the fuck am I even doing? I'm a grown man. I don't need ice cream.
I turn on my heel and have one hand on the door when a soft voice behind me says, "Oh! Hi. Sorry, I didn't hear the bell over the door. Welcome to Sweet Scoops."
Her voice is as sweet as the ice cream she sells.
That strange feeling in my chest is back, stronger than before. I'm tempted to leave anyway.
I turn to tell her not to bother and instead am snared in the kind of smile that makes a man rethink his life choices.Swallowing over the sudden lump in my throat, I release my grip on the door.
"What can I get you?" she asks.
Her smile never dims. Not even when I approach and only the counter separates us. Most people only meet my eyes once. Something about my presence makes them uncomfortable.
Not her.
I glance down at the name tag pinned to her dark pink dress. It says Gemma in gold letters with a little hand-drawn pink heart beside it. It’s pretty, like her, and I feel a flicker of recognition with her name that I can’t place. With her standing this close, I don’t try.
She looks like a kindergarten teacher—pure sunshine and sweetness. Curvy in the best way, with honey-blonde hair in aponytail, smoky gray eyes, and plump pink lips that... I am not thinking about.
When I don’t respond, she leans closer, eyes sparkling. "I promise not to tell anyone you were here. You can whisper your order."
The warm scent of vanilla surrounds her, teasing my senses and drowning out the sugary-sweet ice cream scent.
I draw it deep into my lungs, unable to look away. Jesus. This isn’t me.
I force myself to look at the menu and say the first thing I see. "A single scoop."
"Wise choice. In a waffle cone, sugar cone, or bowl?"
"Bowl." I'll draw attention to myself if I walk back into the convention center wearing ice cream on my black suit.
