We walked an entire half block together in silence. I tried to avoid her gaze, keeping my eyes on the lush green of the trees, my focus on the infectious sounds coming from outdoor cafés: laughter and clinking of drinks. Normally, I loved New York City when it hinted at summer. But my thoughts quickly switched back to my empty, sterile apartment, and I racked my brain for something else to think about. I was about to ask her how work was going when she stopped abruptly and gasped.

“What?” I asked, looking around, genuinely confused.

“Italian ice,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, pointing to the white food truck parked on the corner. “This is exactly what I need tonight. If I’m gonna go broke, I’m gonna do it with Italian ice.”

She started toward the truck. “You don’t have to wait,” she added. “But I’m getting some.”

I wanted to wait, since it would mean more time with her.

“I don’t mind,” I said, though I couldn’t remember the last time I’d gotten ice cream or a Popsicle from an actual ice cream truck, much less Italian ice. Middle school?

“Do you want something?” she asked, shrugging that giant handbag off her shoulder and zipping open a side pocket to pull out a small leather wallet.

I shook my head. “I’m good,” I assured her.

“Why not?” she asked, her eyes lifting, hinting at an eye roll. “Oh no. Are you keto? One of those weird sugar-free people?”

“I’m definitely not keto,” I said, a defensive edge to my voice. “I just save sugar for special occasions.”

“Hayes”—she clasped a hand to her chest, faking a dramatic gesture—“are you suggesting that the discovery of your cousin on a date with my best friend is not a special occasion?”

“I’ll let you know when the occasion is special enough,” I replied, chuckling at her performance.

“Your loss,” she said with a shrug.

“Or gain, since I won’t be torturing my body with a carcinogenic substance that’s purposefully manufactured to be addictive,” I said playfully, knowing instinctively this would needle her.

“Oh my god.” She gave an exaggerated grimace. “You are worse than I remembered.”

I laughed. She was beautiful, especially when she was joking around. At least, I hoped she was joking.

I stood back as she ordered, watched as she chatted with the mustachioed older man who leaned out of the truck’s window. She handed over her money, and moments later he passed her a cup steeped in red and yellow, the scoops already bleeding together in the hazy nighttime heat. She took a small wooden spoon and dug it into the ice with zero hesitation.