When I’m silent a beat too long trying to figure out his reasoning, Jack tilts his head toward me. “I hope I haven’t offended you. I just think we determine the outcome of our lives. Every day, we make decisions. Every day, these decisions yield results. You call it fate. I call it choice.”
“It takes a lot more than expressing your opinion to offend me, Jack. Take that last breadstick and you’ll offend me, though,” I say with a grin before enjoying my last bite. “But you’re not changing my mind.”
“I can respect that,” he says.
The music increases in speed, the pianist and bassist really putting their skills on full display. It’s easy being around Jack. Some could call us strangers. Technically, we are, having known each other for just a few hours. And yet there’s something familiar about Jack that gives me the sense I’ve known him for longer, as though meeting him was like stumbling upon a new piece of art that feels like I’ve seen it a thousand times before.
Savory gives way to sweet when our red bean ice cream comes. I take a bite, letting the ice cream melt slowly on my tongue.
“This ice cream is thick. Very creamy. No weird aftertaste or coating on my tongue. That tastes like fresh whole milk,” Jack evaluates.
I point my spoon at him. “You’re like an ice cream sommelier.”
He takes another bite for a second round of assessment. “It’s something I like to do.”
“Eat ice cream? Same,” I say.
“Well, yes. Eating. But also making.”
“Do you have your own shop? Is that what you do? Is that why you’re here? You’re scouting locations for a new ice cream place!” This excites me a lot. “You said you have tests in your world. Like ice cream taste tests?”
“Nope. Nothing like that,” he says with a laugh. “I do like experimenting with making different ice cream flavors, though. Different measurements. See what results.”
“Like an ice cream scientist.”
He drags his spoon along the bottom of the bowl. “Let’s go with that. Here’s some ice cream science for you: when ice cream melts, it tastes sweeter than when it’s frozen. Frozen ice cream numbs the tongue. Melted ice cream doesn’t, so you taste more of the sugar when the ice cream is melted.”
I stare at my ice cream in disbelief. “Now that I know that, itsounds so obvious. My mind is also kind of blown,” I say, taking another bite to test out this fact.
“That’s not throwaway science, Rooney! That fact is relatable to your life,” Jack says, tapping his fingers against the spoon in his bowl.
I laugh while watching his fingers move to the rhythm. “Are you playing the imaginary guitar?”
He hides his hands in his lap. “Imaginary double bass.”
“Don’t stop! Keep going. It was beautiful.”
The music stops as the band takes a break. The temporary soundtrack to our conversation becomes the sound of glassware and ice clinking against tumblers.
He raises his eyebrows. “Show’s over.”
I wait for his fingers to reappear. “Are you in a band?”
“Definitely not. I play on my own for fun,” he says.
“So you play that,” I ask, nodding toward the large wooden bass. “Or electric?”
“Yeah. Like that one,” he says, slightly wavering.
“Show me.”
“It’s not like I can whip out a bass and play,” he says with a grunt.
An idea forms. “Be right back.”
When I leave the table, I watch Jack study the drink menu. With his back turned, I introduce myself to the bass player and explain my situation. She agrees to my plan, and I float back to the table to let Jack know the good news.
“Get ready to play,” I say casually.
