Page 95 of Ours to Lose
I tried to shake it off.
Gabe was like Evan. Or maybe Evan was like Gabe. Either way, when they had something intense to process, they did the emotional equivalent of barricading themselves in an underground bunker.
It was why I could handle waiting for Evan to cool off instead of tracking him down. Unless he was ready to talk or stuck in a car with me with nowhere to run, he’d shut down more if I tried to push.
But with Gabe, a greedy part of me wanted to be his exception. To be the one person he let inside the bunker, who offered him what no one else could. The one who made the hurt hurt less just by being there.
I wanted him to need me. So much he never wanted to give me up.
The guilt of it shredded my stomach right alongside where his dismissal dug in its claws. Mixed with the worry rounding out my emotions, it felt like someone had split me open and poured inside the dump bucket Neela kept behind the bar to toss unfinished drinks into.
The mess sloshed around, making me sick, as I hauled my limbs up the stairs of the subway to the darkened street above.
When I reached the sidewalk, I just kind of…stood there. My body too drained to move and my brain too weary to instruct it differently. I’d planned to go home, but the idea of being in my empty apartment, dark, quiet, and solitary, was the last thing I wanted right now.
My stomach spoke up, growling in protest from not eating all afternoon. Between trekking back and forth to the suburbs and worrying about Gabe and Evan, I hadn’t thought to.
Which meant I should probably eat a grain bowl or a giant salad—something substantial with a bunch of colors and nourishing stuff like protein and vitamins.
Coming up with a meal that satisfied those parameters and that I also felt like eating right now seemed about as likely as me winning a pair of custom-designed Jimmy Choos.
What I wanted was the culinary equivalent of a hug. Something comforting and sweet I could drown all my worries in, since all the worrying in the world wouldn’t change things either way.
I let my legs carry me to the first place that came to mind.
The bell over the door of the Froyo shop a few blocks from my apartment rang as I walked in, and wafts of chocolate and other sweet scents filled my nose. Less than an hour till close on a chilly spring night meant I was the only customer here.
I skimmed the menu as I made my way to the front. This place offered a wide variety, like artisanal ice cream and water ice, which was probably why they hadn’t shut down like a lot of other Froyo spots in town.
But I didn’t need fancy tonight. I craved something simple and sweet under a mound of candy, cookies, and fruit. And if I could get it without having to decide which of those toppings I ended up with, even better.
I took two twenties from my wallet. “This is probably a weird request,” I said to the lone worker, whose long box braids were tied in an intricate knot held back by a brightly patterned headband. It did way more for her cool brown skin than the black corporate T-shirt she had to wear. If I had to guess, she was in college, maybe a little older. I slid one bill across the counter. “If I gave you this and asked you to make me a large Froyo with as many toppings as it would get me in whatever flavor combo you think is best, is that something you’d be up for?”
One dark eyebrow rose above her wire-rimmed glasses. She glanced at the twenty and back at me. I tucked the other twenty into the tip jar.
She shrugged as she put the first twenty in the register and reached for a large cup.
I expected her to dump some vanilla frozen yogurt in the bottom, walk down the row of toppings, grab a spoonful of each, and call it a day. Which—for the record—I’d have been good with. Whatever ended up in that cup worked for me as long as it was more sugar than anything else, and I didn’t have to make it myself.
So when she set the cup to the side and headed for the topping bins first, armed with a plastic tray of empty to-go sauce containers, I got curious.
After a moment of contemplation, she filled each sauce container, nine of them total, with a different topping and brought them behind the counter. Then she grabbed the large cup and went to the Froyo machines.
She picked one flavor, filled the cup a fraction of the way, brought it back, and carefully arranged a layer of toppings. Then she set the cup on the scale, checked the weight, and went for more Froyo. This time, she chose a different flavor, still only adding a little bit, before bringing it back and selecting a different set of toppings.
She went through the routine twice more, creating a parfait-style concoction I imagined Jase would make if he ever came here.
When the cup was overflowing and the scale read a few cents shy of twenty dollars, she went for a small cutting board and paring knife, grabbed a strawberry from a fridge behind the counter, and sliced it in a perfect fan before placing it on top of her creation. She stuck a spoon into the cup, slid a rainbow gummy ring over the handle, and handed the whole thing to me.
“You ever work in a restaurant before?” I asked as I took it. She moved like she had. Gathering the ingredients she needed beforehand, being precise and methodical, cleaning her space as she went.
She blinked at the question. “Yeah. I do now, just…as a dishwasher. They haven’t let me cook yet.”
“Do you want to cook?” I pulled the spoon from the top layer, leaving the gummy ring on the handle, and took a bite. Mmm. Taro Froyo with coconut flakes and white chocolate chips.
Her guarded expression eased slightly when it was clear I enjoyed what she’d made. “I mean, yeah.”
“But most restaurants want you to stage for free first, and you can’t afford to lose a month’s income, right?”
