The walk to the ice cream parlor takes an eternity, but maybe it’s because Roman trails behind me, and I can’t help feeling his stare on my back.

I have to fight the urge to glance over my shoulder at him.

We come to a halt outside a busy ice cream parlor with a chalkboard full of bizarre flavors like lavender and green tea. I’ve passed this place multiple times, but I’ve never been. Parker and Jacob always want Blizzards at Dairy Queen.

Willow puts herself in line behind a pair of young men, who gawk at her before coming to their senses and turning back to the counter. They don’t glance at me. I can hardly blame them. Willow’s long blond hair swings almost to her waist and is tangled in a way that makes you imagine her running through the forest in her bare feet while branches snag her hair. She turns bark-colored eyes toward me.

“Do you have a favorite flavor?”

“Vanilla, I guess.” Based on the sign I saw outside, vanilla is off the table.

She hums, twisting around the boys in front of her to eye the multicolored tubs. “You should try the green tea.”

I don’t know how vanilla led her to green tea, but I nod, and she grins like this is some spectacular moment for us. If this were a movie, this would be the moment we realize we are destined to be friends forever. We get to the counter, and she orders me one scoop of honey vanilla and one scoop of green tea. She orders lavender and peanut butter for herself—just the thought of the combination makes me gag, and I try not to show it. She pays for our cones before I can even reach for my pocket.

“You don’t need to—”

“I want to. It’s what friends do.”

“You’re not friends,” Roman grumbles behind me.

I glare at him like I wasn’t thinking the exact same thing. We can’t be friends.

She ignores Roman and leads me to a chrome table surrounded by metal chairs with wooden seats and backs. The chairs shriek in protest as she rearranges them.

“I guess we have to include him,” she says, and sighs.

“I guess.” I glance at Roman, who sits next to Willow with a single cup of honey vanilla. He seems to be pretending not to hear us.

Willow licks a drip of cream running down her cone and eyes him. “He doesn’t know how to do ice cream.” She grins at me.

“It’s sad, really,” I answer with a stiff smile, but I can feel myself melting a little bit, like the ice cream in my hand. In this bright place, Willow’s energy bounces all around, filling me with a buoyancy I don’t often feel in social situations. I take a lick of my vanilla ice cream. It’s sweet and thick, with the slightest tang of honey. “That’s amazing.”