by Jackie Lau
I pour myself more wine instead.
* * *
My father deposits a steak on my plate, and I help myself to some grilled asparagus and peppers. It’s Monday, my day off. I’ve gone to his house—my childhood home—for dinner. Just the two of us, filling only half the kitchen table.
“How’s work?” I ask him.
He tells me about one of the cases he’s working on, and I pay enough attention so that I can interject questions here and there. His job is a safe topic.
Mine? Not so much.
But, inevitably, we come around to that subject.
“How’s the ice cream business?” he asks.
“It’s doing okay,” I say.
“What’s your bestselling flavor?”
Ah, such a nice, innocuous question.
“Vietnamese coffee. I have to make another batch tomorrow.”
“Huh. Vietnamese coffee. Maybe your grandmother would like that.”
“Are you going to bring her soon?” I ask.
“Actually, I suggested we go on Saturday, but she said she was busy.”
“Busy? What on earth is she busy with, other than church?”
“I don’t know.” He smiles faintly, and that makes me smile, too. For once, I can pretend there’s no distance between us. I can pretend he isn’t completely vexed with my life choices.
To my surprise, he doesn’t bring up dentistry at all. Not during dinner, not when we have tea and half-heartedly watch the NHL playoffs afterward. Not when he shows me how well the lilac tree in the backyard is doing.
But I don’t kid myself that he’s changed his opinion on what I should do with my life. It’s nice to not be arguing with each other, but it seems a little fake.
When I’m ready to leave, he gives me a couple containers of chickpea salad “so you don’t end up eating ice cream for lunch.”
“Don’t worry, Dad, I never eat ice cream for lunch.”
He gives me a look.
“Really,” I say. “Though sometimes I eat pie. My friend owns a pie store across the street. She has curried lamb pie, chicken pot pie—things like that.”
“Make sure you get enough iron. Your mother had problems with anemia, and I don’t know if that’s hereditary, but—”
“I know, you’ve told me before.”
Dad never used to check up on me like this—he left that to my mother—but now it’s just the two of us.
“Are you going to the cemetery on Sunday?” he asks.
Sunday would have been my mother’s fifty-sixth birthday. I’m a little surprised he said something about it.
“No,” I say.
“That’s fine.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Whatever works for you. You can grieve however you need to grieve.”
I swallow. I wish he had that opinion about other parts of my life.
“Are you going?” I ask.
“I don’t think so. I went for our wedding anniversary.”
That was at the end of April, and I feel bad that it totally slipped my mind. I should have called him.
We say our goodbyes, leaving so many things left unsaid.
Chapter 9
Drew
“Daycares are breeding grounds for disease,” Glenn says. “I swear, every other week, Tommy picks up something new, and then Radhika or I have to stay home with him, and sometimes one of us gets sick, too. I’ve been sick five times this year, and it’s only May.”
We’re sitting in a pub on College, one of the ones we used to go to back when we were in university. Glenn Chalmers is one of my friends from engineering school. He works as an engineer now, while I went on to get a masters in financial math and work for a bank. His wife, Radhika, is also an engineer, in addition to running a successful blog about food in Toronto.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that about daycare,” I say. “When your kid starts daycare, be prepared for lots of sick days.”
Glenn leans forward. “At first, Radhika was the one taking all the sick days, and I didn’t think anything of it. But then she pointed out that really, I ought to be staying home sometimes, too—it’s not like my job is more important than hers. So I stayed home one day with Tommy, and my boss was totally confused as to why I would have to miss work because my son was sick.” He shakes his head. “We’re so conditioned to think women should always be the ones making sacrifices for the kids.”
“Yeah, that’s true.” And it’s a problem.
“You seeing anyone?” he asks with a smile.
“Nope.”
“You gotta work on that, man.”
Glenn says this every time. Always the exact same phrase. You gotta work on that, man. But since he never dwells on it, I don’t mind. It’s not like he wants to swap stories of misery about marriage, which I think is why some people tell me that I should get married. Glenn is generally a happy guy—the opposite of what people say about me—and he seems content with life, his eighteen-month-old son’s frequent sickness aside.
Rather than smoothly moving on to a discussion about the Blue Jays or NHL playoffs as he usually would, he says, “You haven’t dated much since Lisa. You’re over her, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“The whole thing was unfortunate.” Glenn was standing next to me in the church when I learned that my bride had escaped through a window. “You’re better off without her, though.”
“Yeah, I am.” I pause. “I read the whole book. Finally.”
“Did you?” He grins. “And have you embraced your inner ice cream sandwich?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s fucking miraculous how much my mindset changed once I embraced the fact that my ice cream sandwich is oatmeal-raisin cookies—”
“Hold on a second. Raisins in cookies are an abomination.”
“—filled with cotton candy ice cream.” I chuckle. “You’re right, raisins don’t belong in cookies.”
We talk a little more about cookies and beer and other things, and then, before it’s even nine o’clock, we take our leave.
Back in university, our night would just be getting started at nine on a Friday, but now we’re old men who like to be in bed before midnight and don’t fancy having hangovers the next day. I nursed two pints of beer, and although I can feel that I’ve been drinking, I’m nowhere close to being drunk.
Glenn heads to the subway, and I walk east to my condo. It’s starting to rain, but they predicted that in the forecast, so I’ve got my trusty umbrella with me. It’s a pink Hello Kitty umbrella with ears sticking out of the top.
Just kidding. It’s a plain black umbrella. Why the fuck would I have anything else?
I did, however, see an array of cutesy animal umbrellas at Libby’s Gifts last week, and I couldn’t help thinking of Chloe skipping down the street and holding a flamingo umbrella.
Don’t ask.
All of a sudden, the rain changes from moderate to a torrential downpour. My umbrella isn’t enough, not in this heavy rain, not with the stupid wind blowing the rain against my chest. I duck under an awning. Maybe it’ll only be really heavy for a few minutes and I can wait it out.
From my quasi-dry position under the awning of a Chinese seafood restaurant, I look up to see where I am.
I’m on Baldwin Street.
For fuck’s sake.
Why am I on Baldwin? It’s not out of the way, true, but it’s not how I’d usually walk home. Why did my feet take me here?
Not only am I on Baldwin, but Ginger Scoops is just two doors down, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve walked to the ice cream shop and opened the door.
Nobody’s here but me and Chloe.
“We’re closing in a few minutes,” she says cheerily as she straightens the tables. “But if you...” She trails off when she notices it’s me. “Hi, Drew.”
I don’t know why I’m here.
I mean, I do, but I don’t.
“Would you like a coffee?” she asks.
“No, it’s too late for coffee.”
> “Tea?”
“Sure. Tea would be great.”
“Sit down and I’ll bring it over to you.”
I take a seat at a table by the window and watch the rain hammering the sidewalks. But even though my gaze is in the opposite direction of Chloe, I’m very much aware of her presence.
She returns a minute later with two cups of tea and sits across from me. Someone else could come in at any moment to escape the storm, but for now, it’s just us.
It feels momentous.
Although I haven’t really dated since the wedding that never happened, I can’t deny that I’m drawn to her, even though we’re nothing alike.
“I was nearby, and I thought I’d wait out the rain here,” I explain.
She nods. “It’s really coming down out there. You look a little wet.”
I lean my umbrella against a chair, then bring the cup of tea up to my mouth, even though it’s too hot to drink. I sniff it instead.
“Oolong,” she says. “I hope that’s okay.”
“It is. Thank you.”
We look at each other.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “How was your niece’s birthday party? Did she like the ice cream?”
“She did. The strawberry-lychee was particularly popular with the under-seven set.”
Chloe smiles. “Did you get anything at Libby’s Gifts?”
“Oh my God. That store.”
“You felt like you were bombarded by cuteness?”
“Yeah. But I got Michelle a stuffed alpaca and a hedgehog stationery set, which she loved. She also loved the pasta maker. My sister sent me a picture of the first thing she made. With help, of course.” I pull out my phone and show Chloe a close-up of the pasta carbonara. Next, there’s a picture of Michelle grinning as she holds up the dish.
Chloe leans closer to me to look at the photo. She smells of lavender.
“What did you do at the birthday party?” she asks.
Distracted by her nearness, it takes me a moment to find my voice. “It was a paint-your-own unicorn figurine party.”
“That sounds awesome.”
“I knew you’d think that. It reminded me of you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You were thinking about me at your niece’s birthday party?”
“With the ice cream and the unicorns...sure. Yes. I was.”
“Mm.”
I don’t know what the mm means. I don’t know anything right now, except that I want to be here. With her.
“I got to paint a unicorn, too,” I tell her. “There was an extra one, and Michelle insisted.” I flip through the photos on my phone. “Here.”
She regards the picture of my white-and-purple unicorn and chuckles. “Oh, man. I wish I’d been there.”
I wish she’d been there, too, but I don’t say that.
“I borrowed your ex-fiancée’s book from the library,” she says. “I’m on chapter two.”
“So you haven’t been introduced to Marvin Wong yet.”
“No, not yet, but I’m looking forward to that part.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I also read an Oscar the Grouch book while I was at the library. You do have a startling resemblance to him. It’s uncanny.”
I give her my best scowl, and when she laughs, she slaps her hand against my knee...and leaves it there. I can feel the warmth of her hand through my jeans, and God, I want it against my bare skin.
Why her?
I don’t know.
It feels like we’re in our own little world. Outside, it’s dark and rain is pelting the road, but in here, in this brightly-lit ice cream shop, we’re safe.
Although this doesn’t exactly feel “safe” to me.
I’ve done this before. I met a girl at a restaurant, we had mutual friends. We flirted all evening, and then I offered to walk her home, and we kissed on her doorstep. I took her out for ice cream sandwiches the next day. It lasted four years until it all went to shit.
Right now, it feels the same as that, but different, in a way, though I can’t describe how.
Chloe stands up, closes the blinds, and flips the sign from “open” to “closed.”
“It’s nine o’clock,” she says.
“Are you kicking me out?”
“No.” But rather than coming back to the table, she goes around the counter and comes back with a spoon containing my nemesis.
Ice cream.
“I take it this is for me,” I say.
“You’ve been in here four times, and you’ve yet to try a bite of ice cream. I think we need to change that. Just a bite, nothing more. On the house.”
“How magnanimous of you,” I mutter, “giving away a tiny sample for free.”
“It’s matcha cheesecake.” She sits down and holds the spoon up to my mouth. Her face is close to mine, and my gaze shifts from her dark eyes to her cute and slightly upturned nose, then down to her lips, which are widened in a slight smile. My skin heats.
“No, thank you,” I say.
“What about chocolate-raspberry? You said you like chocolate, right?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Hong Kong milk tea is our newest flavor.”
“Chloe, I don’t want any goddamn ice cream.”
“Fine.” She frowns. “I won’t force you.”
“I want...”
I lean forward and brush my fingers over her cheek. She startles in surprise and I withdraw, but she grasps my hand and puts it back on her cheek.
“Drew,” she murmurs, and I kiss her.
I slant my lips and press a single kiss to hers, wait for a beat, and then I kiss her again. She kisses me back, and then we both withdraw, our faces a couple inches apart.
“You have an unfortunate taste in dessert,” I say, “but otherwise...”
“No, I think you’re the one with unfortunate taste in dessert. Everybody loves ice cream, except you.”
She slides the spoon into her mouth and eats the matcha cheesecake ice cream that was meant for me. Then she cups my face in her hands. She’s so gentle. I’m not used to anyone being gentle with me, and I like it. I do. But I’m desperate to feel more of her, so I grab her ass and pull her onto my lap.
This kiss is needy with our desperation to get closer and closer. And yes, her lips are a little cold from the ice cream, but just for a moment before they capture my warmth.
It feels wonderful to have a woman in my lap, to have Chloe in my lap. I run my hands through her hair, which is a rich, dark brown, and press her closer to me. I want to feel all of her.
She does taste faintly of matcha and cream, but that’s only a small part of her taste. In fact, she tastes so fucking amazing, even better than bourbon barrel-aged imperial stout and chocolate, which is my gold standard. Even better than ice cream did back when I was young.
She presses her chest against mine and tightens her thighs around my hips.
God, I want her.
I want to trail kisses down her naked body and listen to her sighs of pleasure. I want to suck on her nipples. I want my head between her legs. I want to brush my cock against her slit and hear her beg.
I want all that. Badly.
But it’s not that simple.
I’ve had sex a few times in the past three years, but not many. All of those times, we met at a bar, and it was obvious from the beginning that a one-night stand was what was on the table. We would fuck and go our separate ways. It would be purely sexual.
Right now... Oh, it’s sexual, of course it is. I’m hardening against her, and there’s no way she could miss that.
But it’s not only sexual.
As I hold her, it’s filling some other kind of need inside me. I hadn’t realized that I missed simply being close to someone, physically, until now, but apparently I did.
Should I ask if she wants to come home with me?
I don’t know.
I don’t know anything anymore.
I’m lost.
We sep
arate, ever so slightly, and she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and looks down shyly—she’s never seemed like a shy woman to me before, but there it is. Perhaps she’s in desperate need of human touch, too.
Which makes me angry. Chloe should not be starved for physical affection.
I wrap her hair around my hand, and she tentatively slides her hands under my shirt.
“Is this okay?” she asks.
I nod.
She explores my stomach and chest with her fingers, her breath in time with mine.
Maybe if she’d read chapter three of Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich, she wouldn’t be here on my lap. Maybe this will be the only chance I have to go to bed with her.
I think she’d come home with me now, if I asked.
I don’t ask.
Because one night of sex, with me worried she’ll lose interest the minute she reads that chapter, doesn’t appeal. I’m not sure what I want, however. I don’t do things like kiss girls in empty ice cream shops anymore.
I need some time to figure it out.
I press my lips against hers and feast on her mouth again, drowning out my thoughts for a few precious moments. Her hands climb further up my chest, and she circles a fingertip over my nipple, making me gasp.
She smiles, the smile of a woman who knows how much power she has.
“Has it been a long time since you were with a guy?” I push up the bottom of her shirt and idly drag my hand across her bare skin.
She looks at me, as though considering her answer.
“It’s none of my business,” I say quickly. “You don’t need to answer.”
“I’ll answer.” She pauses. “Yes, it’s been a while, but...I’m bi. The last time I was with a woman—that was more recent.”
My hands still on her stomach, just for a second, and then I nod.
I want to know everything about her. Does she have siblings? A pink flamingo umbrella? How does it feel to be inside her?
I have a feeling my imagination isn’t quite good enough for that.
Everything I learn about her is magnificent.
“Is my streak going to end tonight?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Dammit,” she mutters, and I laugh.
I slide my mouth up her neck, to her ear. “Soon, I hope.”
But it’s getting late and I’ve had enough confusing thoughts for today. I pick her up and set her feet on the floor. Her hair is a little mussed now, and her lips are slightly swollen from our kisses. I want to see what she looks like when she’s even more disheveled, when she’s been well fucked. We would be good together in bed. That, I know, even if I don’t know much else.