Ice Cream Lover

by Jackie Lau

  And then I see the sign:

  3-5 pm: Book Signing with Lisa Mathieson, Author of Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich.

  Oh, God.

  I look around. There are crowds of people holding a familiar teal book with an ice cream sandwich on the cover. Mostly middle-aged white women, but there are other people here, too. I make my way toward the signing table set up at the far end of the store. I can’t get too close, however, because the line-up is super long. I can just barely make out Lisa, sitting at the table.

  I knock into another sign and turn to see an enormous close-up of an ice cream sandwich. The sight is nearly enough to make me gag. The sign is so large that the raisins in the cookies are practically the size of my fist, and the ice cream looks so damn creamy...

  I hurry toward the exit, then pause.

  Although I don’t need a signed copy of the book, I do have something I want to ask Lisa, and she’s probably done lots of signings and is very efficient at them by now.

  Sure, the line is long, but it can’t be more than ten minutes, right?

  Wrong.

  Half an hour later, I’m still standing in line, and I have a splitting headache.

  “At first I thought my ice cream sandwich was chocolate chip cookies and vanilla ice cream,” says one of the women behind me, “but then I realized I wasn’t being true to myself. I wasn’t accepting my quirky side; I was always stuck in the same old patterns. So I went to an ice cream shop near my house, Fancy Schmancy Ice Cream, every day for a month and tried all the flavors. I realized my inner ice cream sandwich isn’t plain vanilla but pear-vanilla-peppercorn inside a ginger-molasses cookie, and my asshole of a husband had denied my true nature and turned me into plain vanilla ice cream. That’s when I knew I had to get divorced. Now, I always keep a pint of pear-vanilla-peppercorn ice cream in my freezer, and I make sure my cook keeps my pantry stocked with ginger cookies.”

  Oh my God. I want to punch something.

  “Well, my inner ice cream sandwich is dark chocolate ice cream inside lemon-rosemary shortbread cookies, and let me tell you, Ricky is very good at respecting it.”

  Pear Vanilla Peppercorn sighs. “You’re so lucky.”

  “But I think my aura is black cherry ice cream.”

  What?

  I try to push this conversation out of my mind by focusing on the women in front of me. There are three of them, about my age.

  “I wish I had the money to travel around the world like Lisa Mathieson,” one woman says. “I don’t, but at least I have the money to buy myself an ice cream every now and then. It’s important to treat yourself, you know? Women shouldn’t need a self-help book to tell them that, but that’s the problem with our society. Women are expected to think of everyone but themselves.”

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” says one of her friends. “We finally found an afternoon when we’re all free to hang out, and what are we doing? Standing in line at a book signing for some pretentious self-help writer I’d never heard of until today. Why are we here when we could be pouring wine down our throats? Someone better buy me a fucking drink for putting up with this.”

  “I’ll buy you an ice cream sandwich instead,” says the first woman. “Actually, I’ll buy you something even better. A bubble waffle with a double scoop of ice cream. There’s this great place nearby called Ginger Scoops...”

  My ears perk up.

  “...They have so many great flavors. The ginger and matcha cheesecake are amazing, but my favorite is the strawberry-lychee sorbet. I’ve decided my inner ice cream sandwich is oatmeal chocolate chip cookies with strawberry-lychee sorbet. I’m a rebel—instead of an inner ice cream sandwich, I have an inner sorbet sandwich! Wait, that doesn’t sound nearly as cool.”

  “My inner ice cream sandwich is chocolate cookies and mint chocolate chip ice cream,” says the third woman, “and I will protect it at all costs.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you two?” asks the second woman, who I am now calling Fucking Ridiculous. “Inner ice cream sandwiches? Will you listen to yourselves?”

  “Maybe you should read the book before you judge,” says Strawberry Lychee.

  Ugh. Why is this line-up taking so long? I consider leaving, but I’ve already wasted more than half an hour. I’m not going to give up yet, even if my patience is hanging by a thread.

  “Her ex-fiancé sounds like a giant dick,” says Mint Chocolate Chip. “Good thing she climbed out that church window.”

  I stiffen.

  “And then she went on an expensive trip around the world to find herself?” says Fucking Ridiculous. “Is she aware of how much privilege she has? That poor guy is lucky to be rid of her.”

  “Marvin Wong is not a good guy,” says Strawberry Lychee. “Trust me, I read the book three times. I know how the story goes.”

  “You read the book three times?” Fucking Ridiculous stares at her incredulously, as though the idea is...fucking ridiculous.

  “Hey! It’s a good book. Anyway, Marvin Wong...”

  I don’t want to hear complete strangers discuss my failings. I’d read one of the thrillers in my hand if I could, but it’s just too damn loud in here to concentrate.

  Instead, I listen to the scintillating conversation of Pear Vanilla Peppercorn and Cherry Aura.

  “I’m pretty sure my dog’s inner ice cream sandwich is spumoni ice cream with peanut butter cookies,” says Cherry Aura.

  For fuck’s sake. Waiting in this line is worse than my nightmares about unicorns. If I ever talk about my dog’s inner ice cream sandwich—not that I have a dog—I hope someone hits me over the head with a two-by-four.

  I’m getting closer to the signing table, closer to Lisa. My heart is thumping. I’m worried about how she’ll answer my question.

  Chloe, I tell myself. Remember Chloe.

  She’s the reason I need to know the truth.

  “My inner ice cream sandwich is wine,” says Fucking Ridiculous.

  “Your inner ice cream sandwich can’t be wine,” says Mint Chocolate Chip.

  At least they’ve stopped talking about me, and they’re not talking about the inner ice cream sandwiches of their pets, either. Though frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if someone mentioned their budgie’s inner ice cream sandwich right about now.

  I glance at the signing table. I have a good view of Lisa from here. She’s wearing a navy blazer and a colorful scarf, and her blonde hair falls in soft waves. She looks good, I admit. However, I feel nothing when I look at her. No surge of affection, like I might have experienced once upon a time.

  Okay, that’s not quite true. I do feel something.

  Annoyance.

  Now that I’m nearing the front of the line, I can see why it’s taking so long. Lisa is attempting to have a conversation with everyone who comes to get her autograph. She’s probably asking them about their inner ice cream sandwiches and listening to stories of how the book changed their lives. Some sort of nonsense like that.

  “It’s almost our turn!” says Strawberry Lychee excitedly.

  “Does anyone have any wine?” asks Fucking Ridiculous.

  “I wish,” I mutter.

  I would prefer a bourbon barrel-aged imperial stout, but wine would do.

  “Do you think Lisa Mathieson will want to hear about Pixie Dust’s inner ice cream sandwich?” asks Cherry Aura. “Should I get Pixie Dust her own signed copy?”

  “You probably don’t need to get a book for your dog,” says Pear Vanilla Peppercorn. “I can’t believe we’re actually here! It’s so exciting.”

  Definitely not the word I’d use.

  It’s now Strawberry Lychee’s turn. She briefly tells Lisa about how she loved the book, then gets a signed copy and asks for a photo. Lisa obliges.

  Mint Chocolate Chip is next. Fucking Ridiculous, in a move that doesn’t surprise me at all, doesn’t ask Lisa for her autograph.

  I step up to the table.

  “What’s your...” Lisa trails off when she sees w
ho it is. “Marvin...I mean Drew.”

  Suddenly, the crowd of women is quiet. Strawberry Lychee, Fucking Ridiculous, and Mint Chocolate Chip were walking away, but they turn back to look at me.

  And then everyone starts talking.

  “It’s Marvin Wong!”

  “How can it be Marvin Wong? He wouldn’t dare show his face at one of her signings.”

  “But she said ‘Marvin’! He looks Chinese, and he’s about the right age. It must be him.”

  “I don’t know, I think he’s Korean.”

  “OMG. He looks like Chris Pang.”

  “Who the hell is Chris Pang?”

  “I bet he’s here to ruin her signing.”

  “It’s Marvin Wong!”

  “Marvin Wong!”

  “It’s that asshole she almost married!”

  I turn away from Lisa and look at the crowd. There are lots of angry women. And then they start advancing on me like a landslide. I’m jostled from behind.

  “Drew,” Lisa hisses. “Get behind the table. Quickly.”

  I follow her instructions, unable to think for myself.

  There must be over a hundred women here, and they all look like they want to clonk me over the head with their purses. They’ve read the book. They think I’m the monster who crushed the spirit of their beloved heroine.

  “Security!” Lisa shouts. “Everyone, please, stop this.”

  I hurry away from the table and duck behind a bookshelf, but Cherry Aura and Pear Vanilla Peppercorn find me.

  “You don’t deserve to escape,” says Cherry Aura.

  “What are you going to do? Set Pixie Dust on me?” I retort.

  “I bet your inner ice cream sandwich is dog shit between two slices of moldy bread.”

  “Why are you such a huge asshole, Marvin?” asks Pear Vanilla Peppercorn.

  Someone grabs my arm, and I flinch.

  “Come with me,” says Fucking Ridiculous.

  A security guard joins us while another security guard attempts to calm the swelling crowd. I’m led out an emergency exit and onto the street. I bend over, hands on my knees, and rapidly breathe in the fresh air.

  “You okay?” asks Fucking Ridiculous.

  “Uh...yeah.” I can’t manage any more words.

  The security guard nods, seeming satisfied that he’s done his job.

  Fucking Ridiculous cocks her head to the side. “Actually, you’re kind of cute. You look like Chris Pang. You want my number?”

  “I’ve already got a girlfriend,” I say.

  “I assume she isn’t obsessed with a stupid book about finding your inner ice cream sandwich.”

  “No, but she runs an ice cream shop. Ginger Scoops, the one your friend mentioned.”

  Fucking Ridiculous throws her head back and laughs. “I bet most of the shit in that book is false. Why were you at the signing?”

  I don’t answer that question, just shake my head. It was clearly a mistake to waste forty-five minutes of life waiting in line, only to have a mob of women rush at me before I could talk to Lisa.

  “Thanks for the help,” I say. “I better get out of here before they find me.”

  I start jogging home.

  * * *

  Once I’m in my condo, I make myself a strong coffee and sit on the balcony.

  I caused a mini riot. Me.

  A normal man wouldn’t cause an angry mob of women to descend on him like that. A normal man wouldn’t be ripped apart in an international bestseller. A normal man would at least like ice cream.

  I am not a normal man.

  I didn’t need to ask Lisa my question after all. I already knew the truth; I just didn’t want to admit it.

  I might not be Lisa Mathieson’s biggest fan, but she managed to write a book that really spoke to millions of people around the world—that’s no small feat. Lisa is a decent person. There’s a reason we were together for four years; there’s a reason I proposed to her. Even when her fans turned on me, she tried to get me out safely.

  Lisa wasn’t lying in her book. She was right about me.

  I think of Chloe.

  It’s like a fist clamping my heart.

  Chloe is a joyful, generous person who’s thrown everything she has into a business that makes people happy. Whereas I snuffed out someone’s spark, inspiring her to go on a journey of self-discovery to “find herself” because she’d lost herself when she was with me.

  The thought of that happening to Chloe is just too damn painful. She might not think I could do that to her now, but I haven’t been with her for long. She doesn’t know me like Lisa does.

  If I truly love Chloe...

  Wait a second. Do I love her?

  Yes.

  I love Chloe Jenkins.

  And because I love her, I have to walk away. I want her to be happy, and I don’t see how she can be happy with me. Maybe in the short term, but not in the long term. If she wants to have a family—and I’m pretty sure she does—I want her to have one. But I can’t provide that for her. I should not have children if I’m going to be a crappy parent who would crush their dreams.

  Before, I told myself that Lisa was exaggerating, but after the events of today, I can’t think that anymore. I know, in my bones, that she’s right.

  I don’t want to break up with Chloe, the only woman I’ve loved in a long, long time.

  But I’m going to do it anyway.

  She deserves a better boyfriend than me.

  Chapter 21

  Chloe

  Sunday afternoon, Grandma and Dad walk into Ginger Scoops.

  “Grandma, you were just here on Tuesday!” I say.

  She waves this away. “What’s the point in living to eighty if you don’t get to do whatever you want? If I want to go out for ice cream twice in a week, then I will.” She turns to my father. “You have to try the durian.”

  My father dutifully takes the sample I offer him. “This smells revolting.” He tastes it. “No, not for me.”

  “Try the green tea,” Grandma says.

  “I had it last time. I don’t think tea belongs in ice cream.”

  Grandma rolls her eyes. “I will have the durian, green tea, and Vietnamese coffee in a medium cup.”

  “And I will have chocolate-raspberry and ginger,” Dad says.

  “Come sit with us when you have a minute, Chloe,” Grandma says as I scoop out her ice cream. “I have a question for you.”

  I serve the next family in line, then leave Valerie to deal with the customers while I sit with my family.

  “What’s your question?” I ask my grandmother.

  “I want to try durian. The fruit, not the ice cream. Where can I get one?”

  “It’s, uh, rather expensive, and very smelly,”

  “I know how it smells.”

  “You shouldn’t bring it into your house. Maybe you could start by trying the frozen stuff in a package. You can get it at T&T, I think.”

  “What’s T&T?”

  “It’s an Asian supermarket,” Dad says. “I can take you, if you like.”

  I sit there as my white father and grandmother make plans to go to an Asian grocery store in the suburbs, which isn’t something I’d ever expected to see.

  My grandmother reaches into her purse. “I have something for you,” she says to me, then pulls out a copy of Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich.

  I stifle a laugh.

  “I read it last week,” she says. “We’re going to discuss it at our next book club meeting. It’s actually quite good.”

  “It sounds like a bunch of baloney,” Dad says.

  She continues on. “I think my inner ice cream sandwich is chocolate chip cookies with durian and green tea ice cream inside.”

  “Are you allowed to pick two flavors or is that against the rules?” Dad mutters.

  “There are no rules.”

  “Your inner ice cream sandwich stinks, quite literally.”

  “John!” She proceeds to lecture him as though he’s
a schoolboy.

  When they’re ready to leave, Dad turns to me and says, “You’re still coming over for dinner tomorrow, right?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Monday night, I’m at my father’s, and rather than barbecuing, he’s heating up a frozen lasagna and making a salad, which reminds me of the dinner Drew cooked for me. I suppress a smile as he sets a plate in front of me.

  I haven’t seen Drew in a few days. I texted him yesterday and asked if I could come over after work. It took him a while to respond, and then he said something vague about having plans.

  Hopefully I can see him tonight. I miss him.

  Dad and I chat about work. I ask about his cases and half-listen as he drones on about stuff that doesn’t interest me. But I don’t mind, because that means he isn’t badgering me about my career choices.

  You know what? I’m going to have it out with him once and for all. It wasn’t the right time when Anita visited, but it is now.

  “Dad.” I put down my fork. “I need you to stop nagging me to finish university and apply to dental school. Every time I see you, I worry you’re going to bring it up again, and I try to distract you with other topics in the hopes you’ll forget about it. But I’m tired of this. I want to see you without having to worry you’ll criticize my career choice.”

  He looks at me for a moment, then down at his plate, then back up at me. “You could do better than what you’re doing now. I just want you to do the best you can. It’s like you don’t believe in yourself anymore.”

  Is he serious? “That’s not true. In fact, going against what was expected of me? Taking a leap of faith and opening my own business? That required me to have a lot of faith in myself.” I don’t voice my fear that maybe that faith was misplaced, maybe my business will fail because we aren’t getting enough customers. I’m worried, yes, but I’m determined to do everything I can to make it succeed. “I realized what I wanted to do with my life, and I made it happen.”

  “But what you wanted was to go to dental school.”

  “Dreams change.”

  He shakes his head. He can’t accept that my dream has changed from something he approved of to something he doesn’t approve of at all.

  “This is my choice,” I say. “Stop trying to get me to do something else. Don’t you want me to be happy?”