“I don’t have a template,” she says.
“You have routines,” he corrects gently. “Remember? Every night, story and music. Always in same order. Our lawyer does this with everything. Food. TV. Clothes.”
Livy looks up at me, her little nose scrunched up in disbelief. “Really?”
I shake my head. “No, your dad loves to exaggerate. I like to plan things so that I don’t forget them. Do you know Dory fromFinding Nemo?”
She nods, grinning like she loves that movie as much as I do.
“Without templates, I’m like Dory.”
Livy considers this, then nods, satisfied. “I love Dory. But… ice cream is not a routine, right?”
“No,” Colton agrees easily.
She pouts. “It should be.”
“We can’t have sweets all the time, Livy. It’s not good for our bodies—but sometimes we treat ourselves, okay?”
She rolls her eyes as if discussions about healthy food with her dad are a regular thing. “I wantrainbow ice cream!”
Livy doesn’t even look at him anymore, like that entire exchange never happened. But to be fair, the giant rainbow ice cream sign practically screams for attention. I can’t even blame her.
We stop at the stand, and I’m just about to ask Colton what he wants when I notice the vendor go completely pale. His eyes widen; his mouth opens?—
“Holy shit, you’re?—”
“Colton King!” someone behind him blurts out.
I hear Colton grunt and just like that, it’s over. It’s like he’s summoned every hockey fan within a five-mile radius. One second it’s just us, the next, it’s a crowd— people pressing in, voices overlapping, phones out. Livy and I get pushed aside like we’re part of the background, and Colton is suddenly swallowed whole by strangers.
He looks… not thrilled and I’m afraid he’s going to kill every single one.
“I’ll handle the ice cream!” I quickly call out to him over the noise. “Don’t worry. You just do… whatever… this is.”
He doesn’t argue. He can’t—because he’s buried under a pile of napkins and raised phones, first to sign his name, then to flash a grin at the eager faces surrounding him. God, I don’t envy this life.
I tug Livy along to the next ice cream stand, where a girl behind the counter looks just as done with humanity as I feel. Perfect. A normal person.
“Two, please,” I say. “One fudge, one rainbow.”
A few minutes later, Livy and I are sitting on a bench a safe distance away from the chaos. Livy beams at her ice cream, and before I can warn her—yep—a bright smear lands right on her beautiful dress.
“Wait. Hold on—” I try to fix it with one hand, which is a mistake, because now I’ve managed to get fudge on my own sleeve. That’s why I don’t buy Louis Vuitton.
We both freeze.
Look at the damage.
Then at each other and burst out laughing.
“Well,” I say. “I guess that’s why washing machines exist, right?”
“Right,” she agrees, right before taking another enthusiastic lick.
“Thank you for helping Daddy,” she later adds inbetween licks and I look at her. Really look at her. She doesn’t seem like the same Livy I came to know during our countless emergency meetings. She looks at her dad, angrily signing napkins.
“He is different with you. He laughs. He never does with Mom.”
