Chapter 180: Caught In Between
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As soon as the bell rang marking the end of the school day, the three of us squeezed into Skylar’s worn-out hatchback, our breath fogging the windows and the heater blasting against the December chill.
Of course, Gigi took charge of the music, excitedly selecting her classic "holiday cheese" playlist that kicked off with a hilariously cheery version of "All I Want for Christmas Is You." By the time we parked in front of Joe’s Ice Cream Parlor, we were all singing along, our laughter filling the car like confetti.
Joe’s had remained unchanged for years, and that’s exactly what we loved about it. The bright neon sign buzzed cheerfully in pink and blue, boasting "Homemade Since 1957." Inside, the delightful aroma of freshly baked waffle cones wafted from the old iron press behind the counter, mingling warm sugar and cool dairy, making our mouths water long before we reached the glass display.
Red vinyl booths lined the walls, decorated with framed black-and-white photos of Willow Haven from decades past, while an ancient jukebox in the corner softly played a slow tune by Dean Martin. A few other customers were scattered about...two little kids with sticky fingers pressed against the freezer glass, an older couple sharing a banana split like newlyweds, and the usual group of middle-schoolers dominating the corner booth.
At the counter, we placed our orders with all the seriousness reserved for life’s big moments. Gigi went all out for the holidays with a double scoop of peppermint stick smothered in hot fudge and whipped cream, topped with mandatory rainbow sprinkles.
Skylar chose classic chocolate chip in a waffle cone dipped in chocolate and rolled in crushed peanuts. I, still buzzing from the day’s good news, decided to treat myself to a peppermint bark milkshake—thick, minty, filled with dark chocolate chunks, and adorned with an excessive swirl of whipped cream and a bright red cherry.
And me, being the stepson of the richest men in the city...decided to handle the bill with my now fat allowance, Gigi almost teared up when I declared they could have any many ice creams as they wanted.
With our sweet treats in hand, we settled into our usual booth by the window, sliding into the cool vinyl until we were nestled shoulder-to-shoulder, our spoons clinking against glass dishes.
For a while, the conversation flowed easily and lightly, we recapped our pop quiz disaster, ranked the worst holiday sweaters we’d seen that week, and wildly speculated about which classmates might pair up at the Snow Ball now that Vanessa wasn’t orchestrating the drama.
Gigi had us in stitches mimicking Mr. Delgado’s disappointed eyebrow raise when half the class left the molar mass question blank, and Skylar nearly snorted her fudge when Gigi pulled off one last faux hair flip like Vanessa used to do.
I laughed along with them, the sound genuine enough, as being with them always felt like the coziest version of myself. Yet, beneath the giggles and sugar rush, a gnawing sense of deception lingered within me.