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It’s eight o’clock on Wednesday, and nobody is in Ginger Scoops but me. I straighten the napkins for the zillionth time and sigh.
Business has been okay, but not quite as good as I’d hoped.
The chimes above the door tinkle, and to my surprise, Drew walks in. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, as well as a scowl. I didn’t expect to see him until the weekend, and I certainly didn’t expect to see him by himself.
“Hello,” I say. “Fancy seeing you again.”
“I’m going to be spending too much here,” he grumbles. “My niece loves your ice cream.”
“You’ve been looking after her a lot lately?”
He nods. “Every Saturday while my sister’s at work.”
“She seems like a sweet kid.”
“She is.” He manages a slight smile.
Aw. My skin prickles at that smile.
“But your niece isn’t here today,” I say.
“No. I’ve been tasked with getting ice cream for her birthday party.” He sounds as enthusiastic as someone who’s about to get a tooth pulled. “Do you sell pints?”
“We do! Just let me get the containers.”
I scurry to the back and return with a stack of pints. Drew is the first person who’s asked about take-home containers, and I can’t help feeling excited.
“Alright, what do you want?” I ask.
He reads the list of twelve flavors on the blackboard, then throws up his arms. “Fuck, I don’t know. I don’t eat ice cream.”
“Maybe you should try.”
He scowls.
“Come on, it’s just ice cream. It’s not going to bite.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Why not? Did you get hit by an ice cream truck as a child? Or did you have a particularly traumatic brain freeze?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“I know what it is,” I say. “You don’t like happiness!”
“You’re accusing me of not liking happiness?”
“Well, I don’t know. You remind me of Oscar the Grouch.”
“Because I’m green and furry and live in a trashcan?”
“Do you? I’ve never been to your place.”
And now I can’t help but imagine going home with Drew. He’d flick on the lights as soon as we walked in the door, then press me against the wall and kiss his way down my neck...
I don’t know why I’m having these thoughts.
Except I do. He’s handsome, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone.
Drew looks around the room, and his gaze lingers on the corner with the rocking unicorn and the rainbow painted on the wall. He shakes his head.
Now I feel defensive. “Look, I know you think it looks like a unicorn threw up in here—”
“Strangely, that’s exactly what I thought the first time I walked in.”
“—but most people love ice cream. And do you know how many children have sat on that rocking unicorn since I opened this place? I’m going to buy a second one.”
“I didn’t always hate ice cream,” he says. “Only in the past year.”
Interesting. “What happened?”
“It makes me gag.”
“Just all of a sudden, ice cream started making you gag?”
He nods but says nothing.
“Do you know why that happens?”
“Oh, I know exactly why.”
I wait a few seconds, hoping he’ll add something. We look at each other. His hair is a touch long, and there’s a piece sticking up near his ear. I want to smooth it down.
I don’t understand why I’m drawn to this man. He’s grouchy. He hates ice cream.
And yet, he intrigues me, and it’s not just because of his good looks.
It’s almost like the air feels different when he’s near me.
“Do you know the book Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich?”
I get whiplash from the change in topic. Where’s he going with this?
“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s a pretty big book right now.”
“My ex wrote it.”
I stare at him for a moment, and then I burst into laughter. I can’t help it. Drew dated a woman who wrote a book called Embrace Your Inner Ice Cream Sandwich?
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Sadly, yes.”
“Have you read it?”
“I just finished it.”
“Is it a literary masterpiece?”
“I, uh, wouldn’t go that far.”
“Okay, so ice cream makes you gag now because it reminds you of your ex-girlfriend?”
“My ex-fiancée. She left me at the altar.”
“Oh, Drew.” I reach out to touch him, then pull my hand back.
“Anyway,” he says, “it’s probably obvious to you why I got left at the altar, seeing as I remind you of Oscar the Grouch. Lisa had some not-so-kind things to say about me in the book—there’s a whole chapter on me. She even called me ‘a cross between Eeyore and Oscar the Grouch on steroids’. Maybe you two would get along.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I assume she didn’t get your permission to write about you?”
“No, but what am I going to do? I haven’t consulted a lawyer, but I have no interest in suing my ex-fiancée, plus most of what she said was...probably true.” He says the last two words quietly. “Although she renamed me in the book, everyone in my life knows that Marvin Wong is me, of course, and she repeatedly mentions how I melted her inner ice cream sandwich.”
“I may have to read this book for myself.”
“Go ahead. Seems like it would be right up your alley.”
“Actually, it sounds a bit silly to me.”
He flashes me a brief smile that makes me feel warm and tingly. “I’m not heartbroken over her anymore. I just can’t stomach ice cream.”
“When was the last time you had some?”
“A year ago.”
“Maybe things have changed. Are you sure you don’t want to try something?” I gesture to the ice cream tubs. “Just a taste. Maybe chocolate-raspberry or Vietnamese coffee?”
He shakes his head.
Okay, I won’t keep pushing him. “We still have to decide on some flavors for your niece’s birthday party.”
“Whatever you think will go with a chocolate ganache cake.”
“She’s having a chocolate ganache cake, not, I don’t know, a Dora the Explorer cake?”
“Foodies do not typically ask for Dora the Explorer cakes for their birthdays, even if they’re only six years old.”
I remember her trying the green tea-strawberry ice cream and saying it needed more green tea. I smile.
In fact, Drew and I are both smiling stupidly at each other.
Too bad I’ve sworn off dating. He’s kind of cute.
But even if I were interested in dating, he’s probably super bitter after his ex-fiancée left him at the altar and then wrote about him in a bestselling book.
Not the sort of person I should want to date.
Back to ice cream. “I’m thinking...not ginger-lime, and not black sesame.”
Drew snorts. “Definitely not black sesame. That’s only appropriate if you’re mysterious and a little exotic.”
“What?” I recoil at that word. I hate it, but it’s not like he’s talking about me.
“That’s how Lisa described black sesame ice cream in her book.”
I’m definitely curious about this book, but I doubt I’d like it. I also don’t want to actually pay money for it.
“How many flavors are you looking to buy?” I ask Drew.
“Two or three. I’m not sure. How much ice cream do eight little girls need? But if there’s a little extra, that’s fine. Probably best to go with three.”
“How about passionfruit, chocolate-raspberry, and strawberry-lychee sorbet? It might be good to have a dairy-free one.”
“Sure. You’re the ice cream expert, not me.”
I take the first pint and start scooping out passionfruit ice cream. If pints become popular—I hope they do!—then I’ll get a little freezer for ready-to-go pints. But for now, I have to scoop them for customers from the ice cream tubs. I try to think of something to ask Drew while I’m working.
Why are you so handsome?
What do you look like under that T-shirt?
Instead, I keep my mouth shut, and Drew steps away from the counter and wanders around the store.
“Is this you in the photograph? When you were a little girl?” he asks.
I look up. “Yes. Me and my mother.”
“You looked so much like Michelle.”
“I did.” She’s not the only young girl I’ve met who has a similar background to mine—one white parent, one East Asian parent—but she’s the only one who reminds me of my younger self.
Suddenly, I’m hit with a strange bundle of emotions. The fondness in Drew’s words and expression as he speaks of his niece... It makes me want to smile. But I don’t. I’m also thinking about my mother, wishing she could see this place. Wishing she were here to remark on how I didn’t choose exactly the shade of pink paint that she would have chosen.
My mother liked to critique little things in my life. We’d argue a lot, but when it came down to it, I think she understood me better than anyone else.
Or maybe I’m wrong about that. Maybe I’m misremembering.
It’s been five years.
What would we be like together now? How much would our relationship have changed?
I think we would have gotten along better as I got older; we wouldn’t have had so many stupid disagreements, though I suspect she’d still critique my choice of paint color.
Yet, if my mother had lived, I doubt I would have opened Ginger Scoops.
For a moment, I hate that this place exists, I hate what it represents. Then I take a deep breath and drag my mind away from the could-have-beens. It’s not productive to think of those.
“Chloe?” Drew is standing across the counter from me again. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
He looks doubtful, but he’s not pushing me to tell the truth, which makes me want to tell him.
“That picture...of my mom and me...my mother is dead.” I can’t seem to form a coherent sentence.
“I’m sorry, Chloe.” He puts his hand on the counter, beside the cash register, as though offering comfort if I want to take it. I put down the ice cream scoop and place my right hand on top of his.
We say nothing for a long moment; we simply touch. He puts his other hand on top of mine and squeezes. His hands are warm and large and immensely comforting.
I can’t help wanting more of this, but I slide my hand away and go back to scooping the chocolate-raspberry ice cream.
“Michelle asked if she would be as pretty as you when she grows up,” he says, presumably in an effort to distract me.
“Do you think I’m pretty?”
Oops. The question just popped out of my mouth.
He raises his eyebrows, just slightly. “Objectively, you’re very pretty.”
“Objectively?”
“You have nice features. I’m sure most men would agree.”
“Mm-hmm. I wasn’t asking for an objective opinion, but a personal one.”
I’m being a bit flirtatious. Huh. Flirting is not something I’ve done much of lately, and we were just talking about my mother a minute ago. This conversation is confusing the crap out of me.
“Personally, I think you’re pretty.”
He doesn’t sound cocky and confident, unlike the man who tried to pick me up at a bar last month. But I’m pretty sure Drew isn’t looking for a relationship right now.
Although that doesn’t mean he’s not looking for some fun in the bedroom...
My face heats, and we look at each other like two sixteen-year-old kids who have no idea what we’re doing, and oh God, why do I find this so endearing?
“Anyway.” He clears his throat, but his voice is still croaky afterward. “You were going to give me some strawberry-lychee sorbet?”
“Yes, yes. Of course.” I grab the last pint and quickly scoop the sorbet into it.
It’s been over six months since I’ve gone to bed with anyone. Hannah and I weren’t in a relationship; we just slept together a few times. Before that, there was a one-night stand with a guy named Brett. Or was it Brent? I’m not sure, and I feel embarrassed for not remembering the name of a guy I slept with.
No, it was Brett. I’m pretty sure.
I remind myself that there’s no shame in forgetting the name of a one-night stand.
Drew might look a touch awkward now, but I think if we actually went to bed together, he wouldn’t be awkward it all.
I swallow and put the three pints on the counter. “Will that be everything for today? Would you like a coffee?”
“Not tonight,” he says, “but I’d like to ask you a question.”
Oh? Every inch of my skin feels very aware of his presence. Maybe he’s going to ask if he can kiss me or take me back to his place after all.
“Your store and Michelle’s bedroom have a similar aesthetic,” he says. “Any suggestions for where I might, uh, buy her a birthday present?”
Totally not what I was expecting.
“There’s a place on Queen West called Libby’s Gifts,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “That’s where I got the stuffed alpacas.” I point to a shelf along one wall of the store.
“Right. Somehow I never noticed the alpacas before.”
“You were too overwhelmed by the rainbows and unicorns and pink walls.”
“Something like that.”
“Your niece’s birthday party is this weekend, and you still haven’t gotten her a present? You’re a little behind, aren’t you, Drew?” I tease.
“I got her main present on Sunday, but I thought I’d get her something else, something that’s actually...cute and intended for children.”
“What have you gotten her already?”
“A pasta maker and some expensive olive oil to have with crusty bread.”
I stare at him. “You got your niece a pasta maker? A real one, not a kids’ toy?”
He nods. “Like I said, she’s a real foodie. She’ll like it, trust me.”
I’m a little skeptical, but he knows her better than me.
I ring up the three pints of ice cream. Drew hands over his credit card, and I slide it into the machine. As I’m giving it back to him, I notice the last name on his card.
“Lum,” I say. “The only other person I knew with that name was a friend of my late grandmother’s. They were from the same area in China.” I can’t help the hope from creeping into my voice, can’t help desperately wanting that connection, but for all I know, it could be a meaningless coincidence. Perhaps it’s common in many parts of China—I know nothing about names.
“My dad’s family is from Toisan,” he says as he enters his pin number.
“My mother’s family, too! You speak the language?”
“I don’t, but my dad does. Kind of. He was born here.”
“Like my mom.”
I know it’s stupid, but this makes me happy. Toronto has an enormous Chinese population, and I had many Chinese friends growing up, but their family backgrounds were all different from my own. When I meet someone who is Chinese and over the age of fifty and doesn’t have an accent—someone who sounds like they grew up in Canada, I mean—I feel like we’re related.
Which isn’t quite as stupid as it sounds, since most of the earlier Chinese immigrants to Canada, like Drew’s father’s family, were from Sze Yup, the Four Counties—Toisan being one of them.
“And your mother?” I ask.
“She’s from Hong Kong. She came here for university, where she met my father.”
I nod and resist the urge to hug him. I feel a special bond with him now. It’s something I crave, now that my mother and Chinese grandparents are gone.
I put the ice cream pints in a bag and smile at him. “You have to keep ice cream in the freezer. Just so you know. Since, from the sounds of it, you are not particularly familiar with ice cream.” I try to keep my voice light.
He narrows his eyes at me, but I can see the amusement dancing in them.
“I’m not a total idiot when it comes to ice cream,” he says.
“Maybe I’ll convince you to try some one of these days.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
I smile at him and he heads to the door. When he opens it, he waves at me before walking out into the night. He doesn’t smile, and although he reminds me of Oscar the Grouch, I feel a strange lightness in my chest.