Chapter Three

“Bitches!” Frankie said, as she watched soft serve feed out of the machine. “I can’t believe she bowed up on you like that. What was she going to do? That’s right! Nothing!”

“Are you even talking to me right now?” I asked, amused.

“I would love to talk to the twaterati about it. Love!”

I laughed once and shook my head, letting the mixer blades make love to the M&M Blizzard I was making. When Frankie trained me, she said it looked a lot like giving a guy a hand job. I wasn’t exactly sure what that was like, but I would make someone very happy one day.

Frankie was ten customers deep when I finally arrived after the senior class meeting, and we hadn’t had a break in four hours. Friday nights were always hectic, but that didn’t stop Frankie from ranting about my confrontation with Sonny.

She put her hand on her hip, and all of her weight on one leg. “I am so proud of you. For real. I think it’s the first time you’ve ever stood up for yourself, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know. It wasn’t really standing up for myself. I just told her that I was staying.”

“And to sit her bitch ass down.” She wrinkled her nose. “That part’s my favorite.”

Just as the sun began to set, the pace eased up a bit. The last car left the parking lot, and I began scrubbing the huge mess we’d made when we didn’t have time to clean up after ourselves—or be careful—before the next rush.

A truck pulled in quickly, and I knew instantly who it was. Weston Gates was the only person in town with a lift kit and Rock Star rims on a cherry red Chevy. He hopped down and jogged over to my window. He was sweaty, still in his baseball cleats, and alone.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” I said, glancing over to Frankie. “What can I get for you?”

Weston watched me for a moment.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He blinked. “Yeah. Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “Are you?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine. Can I make you something?”

“Just a . . . whatever.”

I made him a Hawaiian Blizzard and he paid, still with that expectant look in his eyes. “I’m sorry. About today.”

I shook my head dismissively.

“I should have said something sooner.”

“Yeah, like ten years ago,” Frankie shot back.

He nodded and then walked back to his truck, but he was hesitant, as if he were leaving something unsaid.

Frankie sighed. “I shouldn’t have snapped at him. He seems like a good kid.”

“He is,” I said, unable to stop staring as Weston climbed up into the driver’s seat and shut the door.

“That was . . . weird.”

“Yeah, I wonder what that was about?” As I watched his truck pull onto Main Street, a wide grin stretched across my face.

“I think he likes you.”

The smile vanished. “What about that bizarre exchange brought you to that conclusion?”