Brandi looked slowly around the shop.
The tables.
The mural.
The display case.
Then me.
Her eyes dragged over me in a way that made my skin crawl. “So this is the place,” she said.
I smiled tightly. “This is my place.”
Her friend leaned against one of the tables and ran a finger along the edge. “Cute.”
The way she said it made it sound like an insult.
I ignored it.
Professional. That was the word of the night.
Professional.
Brandi moved closer to the display case and bent slightly, scanning the flavors. She didn’t look impressed by any of them, which was fine. I didn’t need her approval to know my ice cream was good. “I just want one scoop,” she said.
“Sure. What flavor?”
She tapped a nail against the glass. “Vanilla.”
Of course.
I grabbed a cup. “One scoop of vanilla.”
“Small,” she added.
I looked up. “One small vanilla.”
She smiled. “Can’t let myself get fat like some people.”
The words landed exactly where she meant them to.
Right in the soft spot. Right in the place that had already been bruised too many times. My fingers tightened around the scoop. For half a second, I wanted to throw the whole container of vanilla at her, but instead, I smiled. Barely.
“Anything else?”
Her friend laughed softly.
Brandi’s eyes glittered. “No. That should be enough.”
I scooped the vanilla, dropped it into a small cup, and set it on the counter. My hand shook a little, and I hated that she probably noticed. “Three dollars.”
Brandi dug through her tiny purse slowly, like making me wait was part of the show. She pulled out a ten and set it on the counter with two fingers.
I rang her up and handed over her change.
She pushed a five back toward me. “Keep that.”
I stared at it. “I’m good.”
