Ice Cream Lover

by Jackie Lau

  “Goodnight,” I say, bending down to kiss her on the cheek. I brush my lips over her temple and whisper, “I’m going to think about you in the shower tonight.”

  I hear her sharp intake of breath as I head out the door and into the light rain.

  Chapter 10

  Chloe

  There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight without getting myself off first.

  Not after Drew kissed me.

  Not after he held me close, his erection between my thighs.

  Not after he had the nerve to tease me after saying goodnight.

  That bastard.

  I lie naked in bed, on my back, and I picture Drew in the shower, soapy water streaming down his gorgeous body. I didn’t see much of it, but I pressed myself all over him, and I very much liked what I could feel. I picture him taking his cock in hand. It’s already a little hard, but as he jacks himself off slowly, it gets longer, harder, and he tilts his head back, under the stream of water.

  I grab my dildo—the larger one—out of my night table and slide the tip over my folds. I’m wet for him, I’m ready to take him, but I run the toy over my slit a few more times before I satisfy my urge to be filled. I groan as I push it inside me, imagining it’s him, and that I can feel the weight of him on top of me.

  Next, I grab my vibrator, the one I bought because it’s super quiet, and press it to my clit as I knead my breasts with my other hand.

  I tweak my nipple and wish I could feel his mouth there.

  Maybe one day.

  God, I hope so.

  I imagine him in the shower once more, bracing himself against the tile wall with one arm—because the thought of me makes his legs weak—as he touches himself with his other hand, moving faster and faster as he thinks of me grinding myself against him. And then he comes in his hand with a growl.

  I set aside the vibrator and turn onto my stomach. I roll my hips against the bed, and I cover my mouth to stifle my moan as the dildo shifts inside me.

  What if I were in the shower with him? I could drop to my knees and take his cock between my lips, reveling in his reaction to my mouth...

  I roll onto my side and press the vibrator on my clit once more. Tension builds inside me, and my toes curl before my release shatters me.

  * * *

  “Chloe?” Valerie says as she opens the door to the back room.

  “Uh, yes?”

  “I think you should come out front. Drew’s here.”

  I’ve been hiding in the back, pretending to go over bills, because I’m not sure I can look at Drew without my face turning as red as a tomato.

  “Chloe?” Valerie says again. “He’s your guy, not mine.”

  “Either of us can serve any customer,” I snap. “He’s not mine.”

  Valerie tilts her head. “Did something happen? Have you seen him since he came to get those pints of ice cream?”

  “He came here last night,” I say morosely, because I know she won’t give this up.

  “And that was a bad thing?”

  “We kissed, okay?”

  “Ooh, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  I say nothing more, just stalk out to the front, where I see Drew and Michelle standing at the counter.

  “What can I get you two today?” I focus on Michelle, who smiles up at me.

  “I want to try the durian. Please.”

  “You know what durian is?”

  “It’s the big spiky fruit in Chinatown!”

  “That’s right. But it smells bad. Very bad.”

  “Like stinky cheese! I love stinky cheese. I’m not scared of it.”

  Oh, man. She’s adorable. I look at Drew, and my heart catches in my chest. He’s looking at his niece, but then his gaze snaps up to me, and my breathing becomes unsteady.

  What were we talking about again?

  Durian. Right.

  “It’s much worse than stinky cheese,” I say, “at least any stinky cheese that I’ve ever had. It’s banned on the transit system in Singapore.”

  She still doesn’t seem put off, so I scoop her a small amount of durian ice cream. To be honest, I don’t love durian, but Valerie does, and she insisted I make this flavor.

  Michelle puts the spoon up to her nose. “It smells like a gas station. How can food smell like that?” Then she puts the spoon in her mouth. “Mm.”

  “You like it?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but not as much as the other flavors.”

  “Thank God,” Drew mutters.

  “I will get ginger and taro,” Michelle says. “Please.”

  “And I’ll get a coffee,” Drew says. “Plus I’ll pay for the tea, too.”

  It takes me a moment to realize what he’s talking about, and then my face heats as I remember last night. As I remember sitting on his lap and feeling up his chest.

  And later, making myself come while I thought of him.

  “Um. No. That’s okay. On the house.”

  “I insist,” he says, so I ring it up because I’m not up to arguing right now.

  Once they have their coffee and ice cream, they go to sit by the rocking unicorn. I serve the next customers in line, though I keep stealing glances at Drew. He’s wearing jeans and a polo shirt today. The shirt is loose—it’s not the optimal piece of clothing for displaying his muscles, but I have a good imagination and I know how he feels, even if I’ve never seen him shirtless.

  When I’ve finished serving the customers in line, Drew walks over. “Come sit with me.”

  I swallow. “Last time I did that...what we did...would not be appropriate.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. “That’s true.”

  “But...” The pull he has on me is too strong, and since there are no more customers, I head out from behind the counter. He motions me to the table next to the one where Michelle is sitting. She’s finished her ice cream, and he pulls out a box. “Remember how I said we would stay here a little longer today, and you could color?”

  She nods, and he puts a sheet of paper in front of her and takes out a package of crayons.

  “I’ll be right here beside you, talking to Chloe.”

  “You’re talking about adult things?”

  “Yes.”

  “Food isn’t an adult thing.”

  He looks like he’s suppressing a smile. “Don’t worry, Michelle. We won’t talk about food without you.”

  He sits across from me, coffee in hand. “So.”

  “So,” I say.

  He scratches the back of his neck, and oh my God, I find it adorable that he’s not some smooth, charming guy who always knows exactly what to say.

  “The coffee is good,” he says at last.

  “The Vietnamese coffee ice cream is good, too,” I counter.

  He chuckles while still retaining his scowl.

  “Or you could try our pie à la mode special. Coconut pie and green tea ice cream.”

  “You know I don’t eat ice cream.”

  “You know I’m determined to change your mind.”

  “I know,” he says. “What are your, uh, plans for the rest of the weekend?”

  “I work on the weekends. It’s when we’re busiest.”

  “Right. Of course.”

  “On Sunday night, I sometimes... Oh, shit. Tomorrow is my mother’s birthday.” I don’t know how I forgot. “She would have been fifty-six.”

  He squeezes my hand under the table. Just a simple squeeze, but it’s more meaningful than it should be.

  Neither of us speaks for a minute, and then he says, “Would you like to go out tomorrow morning, before Ginger Scoops opens? We could have brunch.”

  I don’t understand. Is he asking me on a date?

  “So you don’t have to be alone tomorrow,” he clarifies.

  Okay. Not a date, but it sounds lovely.

  “Sure.”

  “Do you know any brunch restaurants in the area?” he asks. “Because I confess, brunch isn’t something I’ve done in a long, long time.” />
  “Um...” I can’t think of anything, either.

  “Or we could have dumplings in Chinatown? I know a place.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “What’s your number? I’ll text you later with the address and we’ll figure out the time.”

  Before I can reply, Michelle comes over to our table.

  “You said you wouldn’t talk about food.” She jabs a finger in Drew’s direction. “But you were talking about ice cream. And dumplings.”

  Drew laughs, then follows Michelle back to her table. I glance over and see that she’s drawn a large bowl of ice cream. She asks her uncle how to spell “ice cream sundae” and writes it down.

  Seeing Drew and Michelle together causes something to knot in my chest. I picture him with his own children—with our children—and then I shake my head.

  I am getting way, way ahead of myself.

  And I remind myself that he was left at the altar and skewered in a bestselling book—he’s probably not interested in anything serious. Plus, I haven’t been able to have a proper relationship since my mom died. I’ve felt too disconnected from people I’m supposed to be intimate with; I haven’t been able to truly invest myself in any relationship.

  I always feel like I don’t quite belong. Although last night, when I was in his lap, pressed against him, I did feel like I was fully there. Whereas with other people I’ve kissed, there’s been a sort of distance, despite the physical contact.

  I don’t know. I’m probably reading too much into this.

  We had one make-out session. So what?

  And tomorrow? It’s just dumplings.

  Dumplings, nothing more.

  Chapter 11

  Chloe

  It’s just dumplings, I tell myself as I enter the restaurant.

  There are no other customers here. It’s two minutes after eleven and they just opened, so that’s not surprising. A woman comes over to me, regards me for a moment, and starts speaking in Mandarin. I catch a word or two, but nothing more. Before I can say anything, she switches to English and tells me to sit wherever I like. After I take a seat in the middle of the restaurant, she brings over a teapot and a teacup.

  “I’m waiting for someone,” I say.

  She nods and brings another teacup.

  Drew is only four minutes late now, but I can’t help worrying that he won’t show up and I’ll be stuck here eating dumplings alone, feeling like I don’t belong. Although I want dumplings, perhaps this wasn’t the greatest idea—I feel “other” in Chinatown, just like I feel “other” when I’m with my father’s family.

  I don’t speak Cantonese or Mandarin, aside from the little I learned when I took that class. I can’t read the language. I don’t look quite right. I’ve never been to China.

  I don’t share a lot of experiences that other people of Chinese descent share.

  I don’t even have any Asian relatives anymore.

  I feel like a fraud.

  Well, that’s not quite true about the relatives. There’s Aunt Anita in New York City, but I haven’t seen her in ages. I feel like she’s abandoned me, though I shouldn’t feel that way.

  I pour myself some tea, then start to read the menu to calm my mind. Each item is listed both in Chinese and English and has a number beside it. There are little sheets of paper and pencils for you to write down the number corresponding to each of the dishes you want.

  Okay. I’ll read the menu over slowly, and if Drew still isn’t here by the time I’ve finished, I’ll order something. This will be fine, even if I have to do it alone.

  I’m on the “boiled dumpling” section of the menu when Drew walks in, and I want to weep in relief, which is ridiculous. He comes to sit across from me.

  I pour him some tea, my hand shaking on the teapot.

  “Are you okay, Chloe?” he asks, taking the teapot from me.

  “I’m fine.”

  He tilts his head in an I-don’t-believe-you manner. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

  “You were less than ten minutes late.” I try to be reasonable. “It’s no big deal.”

  He touches my knee under the table. “Do you know what you want to eat?”

  “Um.” Suddenly, figuring that out seems like an insurmountable problem.

  “I’ll order for us,” he says. “If that’s okay. Is there anything you can’t have?”

  I shake my head.

  He removes his hand from my knee and picks up the menu, but his other hand closes around mine on top of the table. This small gesture feels like a very public declaration.

  I like it.

  The server comes over to our table. Drew hands the paper to her and says a few words in English, and then his attention is on me. His expression is serious but kind.

  I feel like I could say anything, and he would listen, and it would be okay.

  “My mom loved her birthday,” I say, “and she never tried to hide her age. When she turned fifty, she said the whole year would be a celebration.”

  He smiles faintly and rubs his thumb over my hand.

  I take a deep breath, and then I tell him something I’ve never told anyone else. “Ice cream makes me happy, but really, the ice cream shop is for her. In her memory. I decided I would have Asian flavors, because my mom was Asian, and God, it sounds stupid when I put it like that, but as soon as I thought of it, I loved the idea. Green tea and red bean and coconut...”

  “And durian.”

  “Yes. But that’s only because Valerie insisted.” I pause. “Since my mom died, I’ve felt like half of me has been wiped from existence. Like more than just my mother is gone. But reading Chinese history and folklore and trying to learn a language she never spoke didn’t help me feel more connected.”

  He doesn’t speak; he just listens and continues to stroke my hand.

  “I needed something else, so now I make green tea and ginger ice cream, in an ice cream shop just outside of Chinatown.” I shrug. “It feels so frivolous, to have an ice cream shop in my mother’s memory. An ice cream shop.”

  “It’s not frivolous,” he says.

  Which is the first time anyone has ever said that to me, but I’ve never given anyone the chance to say it to me before; I don’t talk about this, not even with Valerie.

  “I’m a frivolous woman,” I insist. “I have an ice cream shop with pink walls and rainbows and unicorns, and I wear a frilly apron because I like it. I was planning to go to dental school, but then my mom died and I quit university. You think I’m ridiculous, don’t you? You, who doesn’t even like ice cream.”

  “Chloe, I don’t think you’re ridiculous. I think you should do what makes you happy—”

  “Do you?”

  “—in a sensible way,” he finishes. “I assume you have a solid business plan?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  He shrugs. “Because I don’t think you’re frivolous and ridiculous. You just have very different, uh, tastes than I do.”

  “My dad thinks I’m ridiculous. And he said he didn’t think of my mother as Chinese, and he’s confused by all my Asian ice cream flavors. I’m his, so I must be white. Or he thinks of me as colorless, because he believes it’s best not to see color.”

  I’m rambling. I don’t know what I’m doing. I just have all these thoughts crowding my brain, and they’re popping out at random, even though I usually keep these things to myself. But for once, I’m not filtering what I’m saying.

  Why with Drew? Why not with Valerie? Or Lillian?

  “My white relatives are nice,” I say, “but I feel a little removed from them. They’re family, though. I shouldn’t feel that way. Outside of my family, it feels like white people think of me as Asian, and Asian people think of me as white—nobody sees me as one of their own. Like here.” I gesture around the room. “I don’t belong.”

  He squeezes my hand again, as though saying, You do.

  I close my eyes for a moment, concentrating on his hand on mine, before I continue.
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  “Asian people are expected to be either immigrants or the children of immigrants. If we’re raised here, we’re supposed to be struggling with the divide with our parents, who were raised in a different country. But I’m third generation, not second generation. Unlike the kids I went to school with. Unlike the Asian Americans in the TV shows I watch.”

  “I know how you feel.”

  I manage a smile. It’s rare for someone to say that to me. “What was it like for you?”

  “I told you my father was born here, right?” he says, and I nod. “It always surprises people when I say that. My mother didn’t grow up here, though, and I think that’s a lot of the reason why my parents had different ideas on how we should be raised. They fought about it quite a bit.”

  A bamboo steamer is set in front of us. Drew opens it up to reveal twelve dumplings.

  “I think these are the beef and celery,” he says.

  I reach for a dumpling with my chopsticks and pop it in my mouth. It’s a little too hot, but it’s tasty.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes. I feel like I need the silence after what I said. It’s weird to talk about things like this.

  My mom died, and I miss her. But the effects of her death rippled through my life, affecting what I do for work, how I feel about myself, and how I relate to my father—and people in general.

  What would it be like if she’d lived?

  I want that so desperately. I’d be a different person. I don’t know who.

  Drew hasn’t lost a parent, and he isn’t biracial. He doesn’t have exactly the same family history as me, but there are similarities. More than with most people.

  And I just like talking to him.

  I don’t know what it is about him, because it’s not his frown or his really great arms—though they are quite fine—or the quiet concentration in his expression.

  “Have you been to China?” I ask.