Page 44 of Seven Summer Weekends

And although the sweat on her back was not completely dry, she could think of nothing better to say than, “I think you could use a hug.”

“I’m still a little sweaty,” he said, as if reading her mind.

She shrugged, stood up in front of him, and motioned for him to do the same.

He did, and she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed with all of her might, not even cringing when her hands reached the sweaty spot on his back. After a solid minute of their bodies pressed together, Ben nuzzled into her neck and whispered in her ear, “I am really sorry, Addison.”

It brought her an odd sense of comfort that wiped out the last threads of distrust she had previously felt for him. She broke away and looked into his eyes. She was sure she saw something warm and loving in them, under the sadness. Like looking into the sun, it suddenly became too much.

Ben clearly felt it too. He broke away.

“Want a tour of the ice cream flavors at Scoops?”

“Absolutely.” She blushed, embarrassed by the sudden intimacy.

Soon, they plopped down onto the stoop in front of the ice cream shop with two cones. On one side, two kids were selling painted shells out of their wagon; on the other, a couple seemed to be breaking up. It was hard not to listen to them fighting, and Addison and Ben were happy when the girl stormed off and the guy followed.

Ben got up to check out the painted shells.

“What’s your sign?” he asked Addison.

“Sagittarius.”

“How much for the painted Sagittarius shell?” he asked the two young proprietors. They consulted with each other for longer than contestants onShark Tank.Both Ben and Addison were holding in laughter.

“Two dollars and fifty cents,” the older of the two (who couldn’t have been more than eight) finally announced.

Ben handed him a five. “Keep the change,” he said. “Two fifty, each.”

Their eyes nearly burst out of their heads. Ben handed Addison a gold-painted shell with the sign of an archer decoupaged onto it. It was pretty.

“I’ll keep it always,” she joked—though she meant it.

Am I a hoarder now?

“What’s your sign?” Addison inquired.

“Couldn’t you tell on the dance floor? I’m an Elaine,” Ben said, waving his hands in the air in imitation.

Addison laughed. He was an Elaine. “I see that. I think everyone wants to be an Elaine.”

“You?”

“I’m a Jerry. I really love cereal.”

Speaking about the friends fromSeinfeldreminded her of her own friend.

“Kizzy! We ran out on Kizzy!” Addison suddenly remembered, adding, “She’s very fragile right now!”

As if on call, Kizzy came flying out of the club, covered in foam.

“Guys!” she shouted. “It’s a foam party! Come back!”

They joined Kizzy back inside, where copious amounts of frothy bubbles were blasting out from a contraption on the ceiling. As the volume rose and the lights dimmed, they belted the lyrics to “Stacy’s Mom.” At first, the foam situation felt kind of good—cool and wet and decadent. But soon the three began to slip and slide and feel genuinely ancient compared to the rest of the crowd, who now looked to be about 99 percent fake ID holders. They shook off as much lather as they could and made their way to the front door. Riding home, side by side by side, they laughed about their fun night and analyzed whether Stacy’s mom really had it going on or if she was a bit of a perv.

“Would you describe these walks as wide sidewalks or narrow streets?” Addison asked Ben when they stopped between their houses.

“Depends on the day,” he responded, leaning off his bike and placing a sweet good night kiss on the top of her head.

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