Instead, I open my mouth because, apparently, I have admissions to make.
“I like hanging out with you.”
The words land between us, quiet but clear.
She stops and looks at me like I’ve revealed something completely out of left field, which I have. Note made to discuss this with my therapist at our next session Monday.
“Hold up, Ty McCade. Are you messing with me because of the kiss?”
I stare at her. “No.”
It must have been the way I said it. Too quick? Too honest. Who knows, but her brows lift slightly, like she’s trying to figure out where this version of me came from.
I glance past her for half a second, catching sight of a narrow alley tucked between two brick buildings. It’s shadowed and boasting one of those old wrought-iron side gates Old Town seems to hide everywhere, allowing it to sit half open like an invitation.
Exactly what I need.
A place to step out of the noise. Fewer variables. Less movement. Somewhere I can take a second and let everything settle back into something I recognize.
My brain latches onto it immediately. Maps it out. Distance, angle, how long it would take to get there.
Two steps off the curb. Six more to the door. Done. Simple. I shift my weight slightly, already half-planning the exit before I remember I’m not alone.
I look back at her and Vivian’s still watching me, that same almost-smile on her lips, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. Like she knows there’s something happening here, even if she’s not naming it.
I glance over at the alley once more, the open gate still there, still offering exactly what I needed five seconds ago.
Only now, it’s not a place to go alone.
It’s a place to takeher.
Decision made.
I step back toward her, closing the small space between us, reaching for her cone before she can react.
“Hey—”
“I’ve got it,” I say, taking it from her hand.
She blinks at me, clearly not following.
“Ty—what are you doing?”
I take mine in my other hand, then turn, crossing the few steps to the trash near the alley entrance and dropping both cones in without a second thought.
“That was perfectly good ice cream,” she calls after me.
“Was melting,” I say.
“That’s the point of ice cream!”
I’m already walking back toward her.
She’s still standing there, half confused, half amused, and entirely unaware of what’s about to happen.
“Come here,” I say, quieter now.
She doesn’t move. Not right away, but she doesn’t leave either. Which is enough.
