Page 157 of Dating Goals
"It looks like a trash can." She glances back at the red box, comprehension dawning slowly on her face. "Oh."
"Oh? OH?" My voice rises an octave. "That's a postal collection box! You just mailed ice cream!"
"Oh. Well, I am sure postal workers have delivered worse things."
“Anika! The Canadian postal service doesn't deliver ice cream!"
Anika's cheeks turn bright red. "Will we be fined? Arrested?" She glances around furtively. "Should we run? Pretend we know nothing?"
I press my face against the mail slot, peering into darkness. "We need to get that cone back."
“Why? It's already ruined." Anika’s eyes dart around, then back at me. “I still think we should run.”
"No, you don't understand." I press my forehead against the cool metal of the mailbox. "There was something in your cone."
"Besides ice cream?" Her voice turns wary.
"I hid something in there."
“Something in my ice cream?"
"It wasn't IN your ice cream," I explain, my cheeks burning hot. "It was wrapped in plastic and pushed into the bottom of the waffle cone."
"Griffin." Her voice drops dangerously low. "What was in my cone?"
I take a deep breath. This is not how I planned this. Not even close. "A ring."
"A what?"
"A ring," I say louder, my face burning hot. "An engagement ring."
Anika's jaw drops. She stares at the postal box, then back at me, then at the postal box again. "You... hid an engagement ring... in an ice cream cone?"
I nod miserably.
Anika stares at me, her mouth opening and closing without sound.
"Say something," I plead.
"You put jewelry... in food?"
"It seemed romantic in my head!" I throw my hands up. "I had this whole plan. The ice cream, then a walk to the island ferry, sunset proposal overlooking the city skyline. Now it's melting inside a federal mailbox, probably ruining someone's birthday card."
"You hid jewelry. In food I was eating. What if I had swallowed it?"
"It was in a little waterproof container!" I defend myself. "And I was watching carefully."
Anika presses her palms against her eyes. "This is insane."
"I know. I'm sorry. My grandmother always says?—"
"If you quote your grandmother right now, I'll push you into that fountain."
My shoulders slump. "I'll call the post office on Monday and explain."
"No. It could be long gone by then."
She glances around, spots a meter maid writing parking tickets, and marches straight toward her. I trail behind, convinced we're about to be arrested for mail tampering.
