Page 9 of Bottle Rocket
He laughed. Talk about a swing and a miss.
* * *
The snow conestand was in the lot of a local park. When Leo had last been in this area, there was rusty playground equipment and not much else, but now it was a gorgeous space with a large walking-trail system. There were a few picnic tables close by under a huge cottonwood. The differences thirteen years could make.
They made it to the front of the line, and Leo was pummeled by a memory.
“Rosie,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
“Yes?”
“Can I order for you?”
“Only if I get to return the favor.”
“You’re on.”
He stepped up to the open window of the stand. The worker popped her gum and gave them a bored hello.
“A medium sour-cherry snow cone, please,” he said.
Rosie nudged his shoulder with her own, which he took as a win.
Sour-cherry snow cones had been their thing. They’d eaten them constantly that last summer they’d spent together. They’d been sharing a sour-cherry snow cone the first time they’d fooled around. He’d gone down on her that night and discovered the miracle of oral sex. Thinking about it sent a sense memory to his taste buds. Sour cherry and Rosie’s distinctly beachy flavor on the back of his tongue. He’d never forget that moment. He enjoyed fuck clubs and sex parties and drew erotic art of his friends and had slept with a hugely diverse array of people in his life, but those first experiences with Rosie were special in a way very few had been since.
He wondered if she tasted the same.
He needed to get control before he threw himself at her feet. He didn’t have a love life currently. He had a sex life. It wasn’t fair to start a fling with Rosie if she didn’t understand the reasons for that.
He wondered what sour-cherry memory was in the back of her mind. The last time they’d seen each other, the night before he’d driven to California, she’d finished his snow cone and kissed him until their mouths were sore. He’d never said the word goodbye. He’d just left with the taste of her on his lips.
Rosie stepped up to the window next and ordered him a medium silver-fox snow cone. He quirked his eyebrow. Her order for him seemed random. She reached up and touched the edge of his jaw with her thumb, and his heart shot to his throat.
“Grey.”
He laughed. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Always.”
“I’m vain. I’d been coloring that patch on my beard with one of those at-home kits from Walgreens, but I decided to start shaving instead to save money. You’re seeing a few days of stubble so the gray is coming through.”
Her eyes flashed with delight. “One, the stubble is a good look on you. Two, so is that little spot of silver. You should not waste money to hide your hotness. That’s illogical.”
“Hotness, huh?”
“You own a mirror, Leo Whittaker.”
Tension arced between them until the snow-cone girl said, “Dudes,” to get their attention.
Leo grabbed his silver fox and passed the sour cherry over to Rosie. He followed her to a picnic table. She sat up on the tabletop, rather than on one of the benches, her legs dangling off the end. He moved to stand between her legs without thought. It was automatic. They’d been in that position so many times in the six months they’d snuck around as teenagers—her sitting and him standing in the vee of her thighs. But now, they both froze as his actions caught up with them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice ragged. He started to take a step back from her, but she stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Fire rushed through him, lighting him up where her palm held him in place.
“I missed you too. I didn’t say that earlier, and I should have,” she said. “You’re not on social media. I tried to find you while I was waiting for the figure-drawing class to finish.”
He took a bite of his snow cone, savoring the vanilla-almond sweetness of the silver-fox syrup. “I used to have personal profiles on every social media platforms, but now I only have them under my professional name. I checked your Facebook probably every other day for years after we broke up,” he admitted.
“Really? I figured you’d left and never looked back.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, and his fingers itched to trace the silky strands.
