Page 14

“Do you want to get a coffee?” Preston asks, nodding toward the shop behind him.

“They’re closing.”

“Ice cream, then?” He points to Sweet Scoops just a few doors down, its neon open sign flickering in the growing darkness.

I hesitate. Going home means sitting alone with my thoughts, replaying the day’s events over and over. I’ll just sit there, jumping at every sound, wondering when flowers and notes will appear again.

“You know what? I’d love to.”

Preston offers me his arm with old-fashioned gallantry, and I loop mine through his. The contrast between us is striking. Not only does he have several inches and a shit-ton of muscle on me, but my worn jeans and oversized Sherpa jacket against his tailored suit look outlandish; I was sure of it.

The bell above Sweet Scoops’ door jingles as Preston holds it open for me, while a small Italian man emerges from the back with a beaming smile.

“Mr. Grant!” He says, wiping his hands on his apron. “The usual?”

“Yes, please, Antonio. And the lady will have…”

I scan the hanging menu before landing on an item. “A strawberry sundae, please.”

Before Antonio begins scooping the ice cream, he locks eyes with me, a smile still plastered on his face.

“This man, he’s a good one. We love Mr. Grant around here; anything you need while you’re here, just ask.”

I smile back at the man and give him a thankful nod.

We settle into a booth by the window, our knees nearly touching under the small table. It doesn’t take long for Antonio to bring us our ice cream, giving Preston an affectionate pat on the shoulder before returning to his work in the back.

“So, you’re a regular here?”

“Since I was eight. My mom would bring me, my brother, and my sister here after piano lessons. This exact banana split was my weekly reward for not driving Ms. Stephens bat-shit fucking insane.”

“Piano lessons, huh? Are you any good at it?”

“Terrible,” he laughs with a mouthful of ice cream. “My mom never understood why I couldn’t get past the basics, but my brother picked it up right away. However, I can play a mean Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, if you ever need party entertainment.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” I laugh. “Have you ever considered trying again?”

“God, no. I barely have time to sleep, let alone practice scales.” He pauses for a second, taking in another scoop before continuing. “What about you? Any hidden musical talent?”

“Does singing in the shower off-key count?”

“Absolutely. What’s your go-to shower song?”

“That’s classified information. A girl has to maintain some mystery.”

“Fair enough.” I take a bite of my sundae as his amber eyes gleam at me, along with a smile. “What about family? Do you have any?”

The question catches me off guard, and I feel my smile falter slightly.

“I, uh… Well, my dad, he died when I was little, and my mom… that’s complicated.”

I wait for the response everyone gives: the pitying look, the awkward apology, the rush to change the subject. Instead, Preston just nods.

“Complicated how? Obviously, you can tell me to fuck off instead of answering, but…” He cuts himself off with a bite.

Something about his tone makes me want to answer honestly, while the other half of me wants to keep my traumatic family history locked in a box so he wouldn’t think of me any differently.

“You know, she just isn’t really the maternal type. Never has been. Some people just aren’t meant to be parents.”