Ice Cream Lover

by Jackie Lau

  She tries a few more flavors and settles on chocolate-raspberry and ginger. We take a seat at a table inside, me with my coffee and her with her ice cream.

  “Do you know what next weekend is?” she asks.

  “No, what is it?”

  “My birthday!”

  Right. I don’t know how I forgot about that. “Are you having a party?”

  “Of course I’m having a party! Are you coming?”

  “I wasn’t invited. Is it a party just for your friends?”

  “You can come, too,” she says.

  “How generous of you.” I wonder what her birthday party will entail. Presumably the food will be good, because Michelle will not stand for anything else. Will they play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey? Will they whack at a piñata? Will ten girls in party dresses and pigtails run around screaming for two hours and throw Shopkins at each other while they demolish a charcuterie board?

  We lapse into silence. I look out the window as I sip my coffee, and when I turn my gaze back to Michelle, she’s staring at the woman behind the counter.

  I don’t blame her. The woman in question is very pretty, but...

  “It’s not polite to stare at people,” I whisper.

  Michelle doesn’t listen. “She looks like me, don’t you think? Will I be as pretty as her when I grow up?”

  “Of course you will. But please stop staring.”

  “I’ve never seen someone who looks so much like me before. Are we related?”

  “I hope not.”

  I’m certainly having thoughts about this woman that would be inappropriate if we were related. For example, I’m currently picturing her with nothing under that apron.

  But at the same time, my heart squeezes, because I know—sort of—what it’s like to be Michelle. When I was her age, there were very few books at the library about kids who looked like me. I had family and friends who looked like me, but books and movies were a different matter.

  Michelle, however, doesn’t know anyone who looks quite like her. She’s biracial, and her features are a mix of her parents’; she doesn’t strongly favor either one.

  She goes up to the counter. “What’s your name?”

  “Chloe,” says the lady.

  Chloe. I file this away for future use.

  “I’m Michelle. We look like sisters, don’t we? I always wanted a sister, but even though I ask for one every birthday, I haven’t gotten one yet.”

  “We do! I looked so much like you when I was your age.”

  “Do you have a sister?”

  Chloe shakes her head before leading my niece back to the table.

  After Michelle finishes her ice cream and I finish my coffee, I take her hand and give Chloe a curt nod.

  “What would you like to do now?” I ask my niece.

  “I want to draw!”

  As it turns out, Michelle wants to draw ice cream cones. Back at my apartment, she fills four pieces of paper with pictures of ice cream in a variety of colors. She asks me how to spell “chocolate” and “green tea” and “ginger” so she can label each one.

  By the time Adrienne shows up at five thirty, Michelle has moved on to drawing a fruit and vegetable garden. However, she seems to think everything grows on trees. Not only are there apple and pear trees, but also carrot and tomato trees.

  Perhaps a trip to the farm would be educational.

  “Mommy!” Michelle runs over and gives Adrienne a hug.

  “Did you have a good day, honey? Did you behave for Uncle Drew?”

  She nods, and Adrienne raises an eyebrow at me.

  “I invited Uncle Drew to my birthday party,” Michelle says. “Is that okay?”

  Adrienne turns to me. “I was going to ask you to help, actually, if you’re free next Saturday. Nathan isn’t around, and I’d like to have a second adult there.”

  “Sure,” I say, even though supervising a children’s birthday party sounds like the opposite of fun.

  “In fact...” Adrienne leads me to the balcony door and drops her voice. “Michelle really likes that ice cream shop. She talked about it all week. Do you think you could pick up some ice cream from there for the party?”

  Well, isn’t this just great. I’m going to have to pay an extra visit to the ice cream shop that looks like a unicorn palace and see Chloe again.

  My pulse beats quicker at the thought.

  Calm the fuck down, I tell my body.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say. “What flavors should I get?”

  “Why don’t you try all the flavors and pick the ones you like best?”

  I look at my sister in horror.

  “Just kidding.” She laughs. “Whatever Michelle likes. Something that would complement the chocolate ganache cake I’m picking up on Saturday morning.”

  * * *

  Once Adrienne and Michelle leave, I grab a beer and a half-finished bar of dark chocolate, then head to the balcony with Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich.

  I’m more than halfway through the book. The part I’m on now is about how to identify your inner ice cream sandwich. Lisa describes her own inner ice cream sandwich as oatmeal-raisin cookies with a scoop of mocha ice cream in between.

  There are so many problems with this, I don’t even know where to start. I put the book down and massage my temples.

  First of all: raisins in cookies are an abomination. Oatmeal cookies are good, but they should have chocolate chips, not raisins. Who the hell thinks raisins belong in oatmeal cookies?

  Second of all: raisins and mocha don’t go together at all. They clash. Isn’t that obvious?

  I sigh, then pick up the book and continue reading.

  It doesn’t matter if people think your inner ice cream sandwich is stupid, either because they are affronted by the very concept of having an inner ice cream sandwich, or because they don’t like your ice cream and cookie choices. This is your ice cream sandwich. It should perfectly capture you, and you should treasure it. Don’t let anyone melt your inner ice cream sandwich. Don’t let people like Marvin Wong anywhere near your ice cream sandwich.

  Uh-huh.

  Lisa provides a list of cookies and ice cream flavors the reader could consider for their own ice cream sandwich, but she emphasizes that this is not a complete list, and it’s up to you, the reader, to find your own inner truth.

  Uh-huh.

  Your flavors should be things that you like, and that represent you. Maybe your ice cream is chocolate chip cookie dough. Little chunks of sweet and raw passion. The obvious cookie pairing would be chocolate chip cookies, but dare to be different! How about double chocolate cookies? I think that adds an air of sophistication. Or perhaps peanut butter cookies because you have a nutty sense of humor?

  I have no idea what she’s going on about. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me.

  Now I, personally, am not a fan of black sesame. But if you’re mysterious and a little exotic, maybe this will work for you.

  Exotic? Seriously?

  Ugh.

  I’m probably the only reason Lisa has even tried black sesame ice cream. I recall taking her to an Asian dessert place in the north end of the city, and she had a sundae with black sesame and mango ice cream.

  I have a clear memory of that day. We sat at the back of the café, and it felt like the rest of the world just disappeared.

  I don’t expect to ever have a date like that again.

  While we’re speaking of exotic flavors, another option is green tea ice cream, which I tried once at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Frankly, I don’t think green tea and ice cream belong together, but perhaps this represents how you’re an unusual combination!

  If you need inspiration, visit a local ice cream parlor. Be bold, be brave, and order a triple scoop of things you’ve never tried before!

  Uh-huh.

  It rubs me the wrong way that the only two flavors of ice cream she doesn’t like are black sesame and green tea. I feel personally attacked, even though I no longer eat ice c
ream. Also, I doubt most all-you-can-eat sushi restaurants serve very good green tea ice cream. Maybe she’d feel differently if she tried the green tea ice cream at Ginger Scoops.

  I have a sip of beer and start reading again.

  Now, you’re probably wondering about Marvin Wong’s inner ice cream sandwich...

  Nope, not happening. I’m done with this crap for today.

  I shut the book and rub my temples, trying to restore the brain cells I lost in the past half hour.

  I don’t have any plans for the evening. I texted Glenn earlier to see if he was around, but his son caught some awful bug from daycare, and now Glenn’s sick, too. It’ll just be me and my home entertainment system.

  Well, that’s not so bad. I don’t actually mind spending Saturday nights alone.

  My chest feels a little heavy at the thought, but this is my life, and I like it.

  Really, I do.

  It suits me, being alone most of the time.

  And someday this week, I’ll go to Ginger Scoops and get a few pints of ice cream, and...crap. I also need to get Michelle a birthday present. That totally slipped my mind.

  What on earth should I get a six-year-old foodie?

  Chapter 6

  Chloe

  It’s eight o’clock on Wednesday, and nobody is in Ginger Scoops but me. I straighten the napkins for the zillionth time and sigh.

  Business has been okay, but not quite as good as I’d hoped.

  The chimes above the door tinkle, and to my surprise, Drew walks in. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, as well as a scowl. I didn’t expect to see him until the weekend, and I certainly didn’t expect to see him by himself.

  “Hello,” I say. “Fancy seeing you again.”

  “I’m going to be spending too much here,” he grumbles. “My niece loves your ice cream.”

  “You’ve been looking after her a lot lately?”

  He nods. “Every Saturday while my sister’s at work.”

  “She seems like a sweet kid.”

  “She is.” He manages a slight smile.

  Aw. My skin prickles at that smile.

  “But your niece isn’t here today,” I say.

  “No. I’ve been tasked with getting ice cream for her birthday party.” He sounds as enthusiastic as someone who’s about to get a tooth pulled. “Do you sell pints?”

  “We do! Just let me get the containers.”

  I scurry to the back and return with a stack of pints. Drew is the first person who’s asked about take-home containers, and I can’t help feeling excited.

  “Alright, what do you want?” I ask.

  He reads the list of twelve flavors on the blackboard, then throws up his arms. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t eat ice cream.”

  “Maybe you should try.”

  He scowls.

  “Come on, it’s just ice cream. It’s not going to bite.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Why not? Did you get hit by an ice cream truck as a child? Or did you have a particularly traumatic brain freeze?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  “I know what it is,” I say. “You don’t like happiness!”

  “You’re accusing me of not liking happiness?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You remind me of Oscar the Grouch.”

  “Because I’m green and furry and live in a trashcan?”

  “Do you? I’ve never been to your place.”

  And now I can’t help but imagine going home with Drew. He’d flick on the lights as soon as we walked in the door, then press me against the wall and kiss his way down my neck...

  I don’t know why I’m having these thoughts.

  Except I do. He’s handsome, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.

  Drew looks around the room, and his gaze lingers on the corner with the rocking unicorn and the rainbow painted on the wall. He shakes his head.

  Now I feel defensive. “Look, I know you think it looks like a unicorn threw up in here—”

  “Strangely, that’s exactly what I thought the first time I walked in.”

  “—but most people love ice cream. And do you know how many children have sat on that rocking unicorn since I opened this place? I’m going to buy a second one.”

  “I didn’t always hate ice cream,” he says. “Only in the past year.”

  Interesting. “What happened?”

  “It makes me gag.”

  “Just all of a sudden, ice cream started making you gag?”

  He nods but says nothing.

  “Do you know why that happens?”

  “Oh, I know exactly why.”

  I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll add something. We look at each other. His hair is a touch long, and there’s a piece sticking up near his ear. I want to smooth it down.

  I don’t understand why I’m drawn to this man. He’s grouchy. He hates ice cream.

  And yet, he intrigues me, and it’s not just because of his good looks.

  It’s almost like the air feels different when he’s near me.

  “Do you know the book Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich?”

  I get whiplash from the change in topic. Where’s he going with this?

  “Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s a pretty big book right now.”

  “My ex wrote it.”

  I stare at him for a moment, and then I burst into laughter. I can’t help it. Drew dated a woman who wrote a book called Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich?

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “I just finished it.”

  “Is it a literary masterpiece?”

  “I, uh, wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Okay, so ice cream makes you gag now because it reminds you of your ex-girlfriend?”

  “My ex-fiancée. She left me at the altar.”

  “Oh, Drew.” I reach out to touch him, then pull my hand back.

  “Anyway,” he says, “it’s probably obvious to you why I got left at the altar, seeing as I remind you of Oscar the Grouch. Lisa had some not-so-kind things to say about me in the book—there’s a whole chapter on me. She even called me ‘a cross between Eeyore and Oscar the Grouch on steroids’. Maybe you two would get along.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “I assume she didn’t get your permission to write about you?”

  “No, but what am I going to do? I haven’t consulted a lawyer, but I have no interest in suing my ex-fiancée, plus most of what she said was...probably true.” He says the last two words quietly. “Although she renamed me in the book, everyone in my life knows that Marvin Wong is me, of course, and she repeatedly mentions how I melted her inner ice cream sandwich.”

  “I may have to read this book for myself.”

  “Go ahead. Seems like it would be right up your alley.”

  “Actually, it sounds a bit silly to me.”

  He flashes me a brief smile that makes me feel warm and tingly. “I’m not heartbroken over her anymore. I just can’t stomach ice cream.”

  “When was the last time you had some?”

  “A year ago.”

  “Maybe things have changed. Are you sure you don’t want to try something?” I gesture to the ice cream tubs. “Just a taste. Maybe chocolate-raspberry or Vietnamese coffee?”

  He shakes his head.

  Okay, I won’t keep pushing him. “We still have to decide on some flavors for your niece’s birthday party.”

  “Whatever you think will go with a chocolate ganache cake.”

  “She’s having a chocolate ganache cake, not, I don’t know, a Dora the Explorer cake?”

  “Foodies do not typically ask for Dora the Explorer cakes for their birthdays, even if they’re only six years old.”

  I remember her trying the green tea-strawberry ice cream and saying it needed more green tea. I smile.

  In fact, Drew and I are both smiling stupidly at each other.

>   Too bad I’ve sworn off dating. He’s kind of cute.

  But even if I were interested in dating, he’s probably super bitter after his ex-fiancée left him at the altar and then wrote about him in a bestselling book.

  Not the sort of person I should want to date.

  Back to ice cream. “I’m thinking...not ginger-lime, and not black sesame.”

  Drew snorts. “Definitely not black sesame. That’s only appropriate if you’re mysterious and a little exotic.”

  “What?” I recoil at that word. I hate it, but it’s not like he’s talking about me.

  “That’s how Lisa described black sesame ice cream in her book.”

  I’m definitely curious about this book, but I doubt I’d like it. I also don’t want to actually pay money for it.

  “How many flavors are you looking to buy?” I ask Drew.

  “Two or three. I’m not sure. How much ice cream do eight little girls need? But if there’s a little extra, that’s fine. Probably best to go with three.”

  “How about passionfruit, chocolate-raspberry, and strawberry-lychee sorbet? It might be good to have a dairy-free one.”

  “Sure. You’re the ice cream expert, not me.”

  I take the first pint and start scooping out passionfruit ice cream. If pints become popular—I hope they do!—then I’ll get a little freezer for ready-to-go pints. But for now, I have to scoop them for customers from the ice cream tubs. I try to think of something to ask Drew while I’m working.

  Why are you so handsome?

  What do you look like under that T-shirt?

  Instead, I keep my mouth shut, and Drew steps away from the counter and wanders around the store.

  “Is this you in the photograph? When you were a little girl?” he asks.

  I look up. “Yes. Me and my mother.”

  “You looked so much like Michelle.”

  “I did.” She’s not the only young girl I’ve met who has a similar background to mine—one white parent, one East Asian parent—but she’s the only one who reminds me of my younger self.

  Suddenly, I’m hit with a strange bundle of emotions. The fondness in Drew’s words and expression as he speaks of his niece... It makes me want to smile. But I don’t. I’m also thinking about my mother, wishing she could see this place. Wishing she were here to remark on how I didn’t choose exactly the shade of pink paint that she would have chosen.