There's nothing like a sugar rush to fix a week from hell, or at least that's what I keep telling myself. Shelby swears ice cream heals all emotional trauma. Personally, I think she just likes sprinkles and the excuse to gossip over waffle cones.
After working on our masquerade stuff all morning, we make our usual stop at the Chillville Creamery. It's our weekly ritual—half dessert, half people-watching, and entirely about one staff member in particular.
Alexander St. Cyr.
Alexander St. Cyr is a unique individual, akin to a hybrid of Dave Franco and Chris Pratt. We even figured out his schedule so we could "accidentally" time our visits when he's working. It's not stalking; it's strategic desserting.
At least, that's what I used to tell myself—before Will happened.
Now, no matter what I do, Will keeps finding ways to invade my thoughts. The way he looked at me. The way his voice pulled me apart and put me back together in the same breath. It's like he carved out a space in my brain and refuses to leave.
I sigh as we pull into the parking lot. "Remind me why we do this every week?"
Shelby grins, already halfway out of the car. "Because eye candy makes calories not count."
I roll my eyes but follow her in anyway.
The place smells like fried food and waffle cones, and the air buzzes with country music and laughter. Same as always. Yet somehow, it feels… different. Maybe I do.
Shel and I, in perfect unison, walk up to the counter and say, "Hey, Alex!"
His smile is as stunning as ever—bright, effortless, and practiced. We both sigh a little, out of habit more than anything.
"Hey, ladies!" he says, leaning forward on the counter. "How's it going? You want your usual?"
Even his voice, usually good for a shiver down my spine, doesn't spark anything this time. Weird. I thought—or maybe hoped—he'd be my next dating adventure. Something uncomplicated. Fun. But right now, even the idea of flirting feels exhausting.
I glance at Shelby, who's half paying attention while texting, probably Evan.
"Thanks for remembering, Alex!" I say, forcing a cheerful tone. "So, how's business today?"
He shrugs, flashing that grin that usually makes people melt. "Good. Steady, at least. Let me go put your order in, and I'll bring it over as soon as it's done."
"Sounds excellent. Thanks a bunch." I smile and flutter my eyelashes out of habit more than intention.
He winks and walks away, and I feel nothing but a faint sense of guilt for pretending I do.
We head to our favorite booth, the one by the big front window, while balancing two monstrous ice cream sundaes that could probably feed a small village. Chillville Creamery calls them "The Avalanche," and it lives up to the name: three scoops of chocolate and vanilla buried under a mountain of whipped cream, brownie chunks, cookie crumbles, caramel drizzle, and enough sprinkles to violate several food safety codes.
Alex lingered just long enough to watch us walk away, that grin still plastered on his face. I caught it, even though I pretended not to. Unfortunately, Shelby caught me catching it.
I looked up from my spoon to find her staring at me like a cat who just caught a mouse made of gossip.
"Ang," she said, grinning. "You realize Alex is adorable, right? Like, painfully adorable. Why don't you ask him to the ball?"
I rolled my eyes, digging into the sundae to hide my face. "I'm all set, thanks. Plus, look at him—he's gorgeous. Guys like that always have girlfriends. Or at least he probably has better things to do than attend a college ball with a random girl covered in caramel sauce.
Shelby snorted. "You're not random. You're just dramatic."
"Same thing."
Just then, Alex reappeared beside our table with napkins and extra spoons, his timing so perfect it made my stomach drop. I wasn't sure if he'd overheard what I said, but the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth made me suspicious.
"Here you go, ladies," he said, setting them down. "Figured you might need reinforcements. Those Avalanches can be dangerous without backup."
"Thanks," I said quickly, my voice doing that awkward, too-bright thing it does when I'm flustered.
He smiled, winked, and headed back toward the bar.
Shelby watched him walk away, then turned back to me with a smirk. "You're hopeless."
"Thanks," I said, stabbing a brownie chunk. "I aim for consistency."
We spent the next hour talking about classes and finals—pretending to care about our workload while eating our body weight in sugar. But even as I laughed with her, the edges of my mind drifted back to Will.
Because no matter how sweet the sundae, nothing drowned out the taste he left behind.
Since it's my turn to cover the bill, I grab my wallet and head to the register. Alex is behind the counter, half watching the football game on the TV overhead, one elbow propped casually against the bar.
He glances over when I approach, flashing that effortless grin. "Hey, Ang. How was it?"
"Great, like always," I say, smiling as I hand him the cash. "You might actually be a bad influence. We've eaten enough sugar to make our dentist rich."
He laughs, counting the bills. "I'll take full responsibility for that. Gotta keep my favorite customers coming back somehow."
"Mission accomplished," I say.
As he rings up the order, he hesitates—eyes flicking to the screen, then back to me. "So, uh… I was wondering if you might be interested in going out sometime. Like, maybe dinner or a movie? With me, I mean. As a date."
For a second, I just stare at him. Alex Phelps, the guy who could charm anyone, the one I used to daydream about, actually sounds nervous. The thought makes me smile.
He's looking down at the register, which is kind of attractive.
I lean forward a little, tilting my head until our eyes meet. "Are you asking me or the register?"
He laughs, cheeks pink. "Sorry. You. Definitely you."
And for once, I don't overthink it. I don't hesitate or weigh what it means or who it might hurt. I just decide, right there, in the middle of the creamery with the smell of caramel and waffle cones in the air, that I'm done second-guessing myself.
"That would be great," I say, smiling. "I'd love to."
It feels satisfying to say it. Empowering, even. Like choosing yes is the first step toward taking my confidence back—a tiny rebellion against everything that's made me doubt myself.
"Do you still have my number?" I ask.
His grin widens. "Yeah. How about tomorrow night?"
"Can't," I say with a small laugh. "It's my birthday; I already have family plans. But next week works."
His face brightens again. "Perfect. I'll call you once I get my schedule. And hey—happy early birthday, Ang."
"Thanks," I say, warmth blooming in my chest.
He waves me off as Shelby honks from the parking lot. I turn to leave but glance back just in time to see him grinning and punching the air in a quick, triumphant fist pump.
I laugh to myself, pushing open the door, that confidence still pulsing through me.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I'm not thinking about Will or fate or the weight of everything I can't control.
Just me, standing on my own again, choosing what comes next.