A retort is hot on my tongue, but Peter—Shirley’s husband—has reached us and I quickly shut my mouth.
“Hey, folks. What can I get you today?”
“Two chocolate malts.” Fisher wiggles two fingers.
“You two look familiar,” Peter says, tapping at the register. “Have you been here before?”
“Long time ago.” Fisher slides out his own wallet and grabs his card.
“I’m paying.”
He smirks. “No, you’re not.”
I take a deep, calming breath. Fisher manages to get under my skin in a way no one else does. “You bought all that stuff for the condo. I can buy this.”
He holds my gaze and just when I think he’s going to let me pay for the malts he taps his card to the machine. “Let your husband take care of you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
“Careful.” Fisher taps my chin. “You’ll catch flies with your mouth open like that.”
“Newlyweds?” Peter asks, dipping out the ice cream into the stainless-steel container.
“We are,” Fisher confirms when I can’t seem to find my voice because I’m still processinglet your husband take care of youand analyzing why my brain immediately went to us naked between the sheets.
“I remember those days,” Peter muses. “Cherish them. The next thing you know you’re old.” He gives a deep chuckle. “I’ll have these ready for you kids in a few.”
“Do you want to grab a table outside? I’ll wait here for them to be ready.”
Nodding, I slip out the doors and sit down at one of the tables in front of the shop’s windows. The chair scrapes across the sidewalk, the sound grating to my ears and the guy passingby with a skateboard tucked beneath his arm must agree based on the scowl he sends my way.
I rest my cane against the edge of the table and try my hardest not to look inside.
But resisting is futile, and I dare a peek. Fisher has his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans and he’s wearing a loose blue plaid shirt open over a white t-shirt. There’s nothing inherently put together about his look, but it’s sohimin a way I haven’t seen much for years. I’m used to seeing him in athletic wear around the tennis courts at various matches.
This casually dressed Fisher feels likemyFisher and it makes my chest squeeze painfully. The thing I’ve never wanted to admit to myself is that I never stopped missing him. He was always like the perfect puzzle piece I was missing from my life and when we broke up, I was never the same. No matter how many times I rearranged the pieces they never went back together right, and no new pieces ever fit the pattern.
Peter says something to him and Fisher glances back, catching my eye before I can turn away. His eyes glimmer with amusement.
I decide to own it and stick my tongue out at him.
He laughs, his hair flopping when he shakes his head at me. Peter hands him the cups—one with a hot pink straw, the other teal.
Fisher heads for the exit and I make myself suddenly engrossed in the butterfly that’s landed on a nearby flowering plant.
“Were you checking me out, Ebba?”
“I was not,” I say, taking the cup with the pink straw when he holds both out for me to choose from. “I was making sure that the malts were being made correctly.”
He settles in the chair, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. “Yeah.” He looks through the window. “Because you can really see the back counter from here.”
Using the straw to stir the malt, I say, “You’ve gotten awfully full of yourself. I didn’t think you’d ever be so arrogant.”
“Is it arrogant if I looked and your eyes were glued to me?” he counters, bringing his straw to his lips. When I say nothing, he says, “That’s what I thought.”
I lean closer, a challenging expression pinching my lips. “Why were you turning around? To look at me?”
He leans in as well, until we’re nearly nose to nose. “I turned to look because Peter said my wife was checking me out. I wanted to see if he was right.”