He was sure Sydney thought he had abandoned her, like her mother, or that he didn’t want to be her friend, like the other kids. He felt terrible. In the end, Hunter John Matteson fell hard for her and did what Henry couldn’t—he actually told her. Henry watched while Hunter John’s friends became her friends and she began to act like them, laughing at people in the hallways, even Henry.

That was so long ago. He’d heard she was back in town, but he didn’t think much of it. Just like before, he had no reason to expect that her coming back would make things any different.

Then he saw her, and the whole thing started over again, that curious wanting, that sensation of seeing her again for the first time. Hopkins men always married older women, so he wondered if seeing her change, get older, made him feel like this. Like when she grew up over the summer before sixth grade. Like coming back after ten years looking wiser, more experienced.

“You’re staring so hard you’re going to knock her over.”

Henry turned to his grandfather, who was sitting in his aluminum lawn chair behind the tables. He was holding his cane and every once in a while called out to passersby like a carnival barker. “I was staring?”

“For the past thirty minutes,” Lester said. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“Heads up. She’s on the move.”

Henry turned and saw that Sydney had left the Waverley table and was walking to the children’s area. Her hair shone in the sun, bright like honey. She went to her daughter and laughed when her daughter put a paper hat on her head. Sydney said something to her, her daughter nodded, and together they walked hand in hand toward him.

They were walking toward him.

He wanted to run to the bathroom, just like he did in middle school.

When they approached the table, Sydney smiled. “Hi, Henry.”

Henry was afraid to move for fear he would explode from the riot going on in his body.

“Do you remember me?” Sydney asked.

He nodded.

“This is my daughter, Bay.”

He nodded again.

Sydney looked disappointed but shrugged it off and discussed the choices of ice cream with her daughter. There was chocolate mint, strawberry rhubarb, caramel peach, and vanilla coffee. It was his grandfather’s idea. Give people something they don’t know they like yet. They’ll always remember you for it. The wives of some of the dairy workers were helping that day. Henry did some scooping, but it was clear the women were in charge.

“Could we have two chocolate mint, please?” Sydney finally asked.

Henry immediately scooped out small balls of ice cream and put them on the paper cones. Sydney watched him while he did it, her eyes on his hands, then traveling up his forearms, then finally to his face.

She studied him as he handed them the cones. Still, he didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even smile.