“What were his injuries?” I hear the hesitation as he asks.
“Brain damage, a torn artery, spine damage, a collapsed lung, and two dozen broken bones were the worst of the injuries.”
“I’m so sorry,” Brody says, pulling into an empty meter-spot in front of the ice cream shop.
“It’s not your fault,” I remind him.
I hop down from the truck as he opens his door, and I meet him on the curb. “Do you think people in Vermont are the only weirdos who enjoy ice cream in the dead of winter?” Brody asks.
“Possibly.”
Brody opens the glass door to the shop and the cowbell above the doorjamb greets us into the empty space.
I approach the counter first, knowing what I plan to order. “The King Banana Split, please. All chocolate scoops.”
Brody is staring at me with either amazement or shock. “Where are you going to put all that?”
“I’ll handle it,” I tell him.
“I don’t believe you.”
With a shrug and a smirk, I grab a wad of napkins with two spoons, and pull out a ten-dollar bill.
“No, I got this. It was my idea,” he tells me. “I’ll have the same as this crazy woman.” Brody and his games.
“Thank you,” I offer before tending to the pick-up area of the counter.
If my mind wasn’t jolted by rehashing old wounds, I would have argued his point about ice cream being his idea. He needs to be reminded I did not voluntarily walk out to his truck.
Brody takes both our sundaes and places them down on the nearest table. I lay down the stack of napkins and spoons before taking a seat.
“So, what about you?” I ask. What’s your full story?”
With his spoon carving out a massive wad of ice cream, he smiles and glances up at me. “When you finish your King Banana Split, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”
“Forget it, I don’t want to know anything, but I do plan to eat this entire sundae.” I don’t play for bribes.
“You’re unbreakable, huh?” he counters.
I’m a cracked windshield waiting for the next hot or cold day to shatter me into an in-repairable state. “No one is unbreakable,” I tell him.
“Speaking of which,” he says, taking another bite. “I know this might sound rude and it’s certainly not my place, but do you always eat like this?” Confused by his question, I stare with a raised brow, waiting for clarification. “I just mean—” He takes my hand and runs his thumb over my wrist bone. His touch sends a shiver up my arm, but I do my best not to react. “Have you been eating okay since your dad—”
I yank my hand away from him and tuck my fists into my sleeves. “Did my mother say something to you?”
Brody’s eyes widen and he swallows hard. “No, of course not. I don’t think your mom would say something like that to me.”
“Melody?”
He shakes his head. “I was just asking a question.”
I must look terrible if he’s asking. “Do I look sick?”
“No, not at all. I’ve noticed you speak like you have the appetite of an overweight man, but it doesn’t appear that you’ve been eating like one.”
“I’m fine but thank you for checking.”
I continue digging at my ice cream, needing to prove that I can consume this gigantic mess of chocolate, banana, and whipped cream. The bites continue one after another until I scrape my bowl clean before he does. I’ve endured four brain-freeze headaches and my stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a lead weight, but I did it.
