Page 75 of This I Know
I scoot over. I place my hand on her upper leg and lightly grip it. She looks at me, surprised that I’ve made such a move, but the action works to calm her down.
Okay, that’s enough. I don’t want to be the one to bring her down, so I change the subject. I pull my hand back.
“You know, I’ve never been here before.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
I shrug.
“You? Ethan Harrington? You’ve never been to a Dairy Queen before?”
“Nope. Never in my life.”
“Not even when you were little?”
I shake my head. “Why does that surprise you?”
“You just seems so…well-traveled, I guess. Like you’ve seen it all.”
I laugh. “I seem well-traveled?”
“Well, yeah. You know what I mean. And how does someone even manage to do that? I don’t think I’d have survived my childhood without ever having been to a Dairy Queen. Sugar highs were kind of my thing.”
“I have no idea, actually. It just never happened. My mom was working all the time, and my dad was never really around.”
She puts her hand up, the one hand that’s cone-free. “I get it. No judgment.”
She delivered it in a silly way, but it hit me. Finally, no judgment. Here’s someone in the world who I can hear those words from, even if she has yet to know the real truth about my family and me.
I lean closer once again. I set my ice cream cone down, not caring if it gets ruined on this dirty table, and I put my own hand up. I place it against hers and as though on instinct, our fingers perfectly entwine together.
I hope she doesn’t think I’m being too forward.
I hope she feels the same way I’ve felt about her all this time, and that I’m feeling for her right now.
I hope with all that’s left of my heart.
And even though it must have taken her by surprise, she doesn’t pull away. She actually looks at our hands, then to my abandoned, unfinished cone dripping through the table, then looks at me, and she smiles sweetly.
Then she looks back at our hands, which are still curled neatly into one, seeming to study them with all her might.
She whispers, “There’s something about you that’s so familiar.”
That pang of curiosity overcoming her, she removes her hand in order to more closely inspect mine. She does it quickly, as though she’s come to some realization quickly, and once that look of realization appears she drops me. The back of my hand lands against the table, empty.
And in an instant, the adrenaline courses through me once again, and I pull my hand away and stuff it between my seat and under my leg.
“What is it?” I ask cautiously.
She resumes eating her ice cream. “Nothing.”
I’d told Avery that I’d never been to a Dairy Queen, and that’s the truth. But the really sucky thing is that Avery’s assault isn’t the only reason my father’s been to prison.
I spent some of my childhood frequenting a local ice cream shop, a tiny chain that didn’t venture outside our home state. And I didn’t bother to tell her because, quite frankly, no one wants to hear about the shit show that it was.
It was a small square building. I still remember the name. The Frozen Spoon. I was seven years old, and to my relief, it’s the last time we’d ever visit.
As we drive up, the neon, iridescent lettering of The Frozen Spoon is flickering, as usual, and the letterphas long since burned out. All that surrounds the business is a thick wooded area, and the darkness from these woods creeps into the outside seating area. I grew up in a decent, safe suburb, but we’re close to some outlaying areas that could verge on the shady sort, so even at my young age I always take note of my surroundings, especially after what happened with the Queen of the Sea.
