Page 18 of Sugar & Ink
Maybe one of those small delivery vans that came with a cheerful logo on the side and a driver who waved while he ruined your day.
Every muscle in my body complained when I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. My feet ached before I’d even put them on the floor, my shoulders were stiff, and my right wrist was sore from scooping what felt like seven thousand servings of ice cream the day before. Apparently, owning an ice cream shop was less cute aprons and happy customers and more realizing you had muscles in your hands you had never thought about before.
Still, I smiled.
Opening day had worked.
People had come. They had lined up. They had ordered cones, sundaes, milkshakes, waffle bowls, and enough cookie dough ice cream to make me wonder if I should double my next order. Kids had pressed sticky fingers to the glass and pointed at flavors. Parents had apologized while still buying more ice cream. Teenagers had pretended to be too cool to care, then taken pictures by the mural like it had personally changed their lives.
It had been loud, messy, exhausting, and absolutely perfect.
Then Rome had walked in.
I closed my eyes and groaned. Not because I regretted him walking in. That would’ve been easier.
I groaned because I remembered exactly how he’d looked standing in my shop, dressed in black like he had some personal vendetta against color, tattoos covering his arms, dark eyes taking in everything without making a big deal out of any of it. He had eaten the ice cream I picked for him, denied liking it while taking bite after bite, and then had the nerve to come back later with burgers like that was a normal thing men did.
It wasn’t normal.
At least, it wasn’t normal in my experience.
Bruce’s version of thoughtful had been texting me from the couch to ask if we had any chips in the kitchen. If he remembered my birthday before noon, he’d considered that effort. The bar had been so low in my marriage that it was probably buried somewhere under the basement floor.
Rome showing up with food because I’d mentioned I hadn’t eaten lunch should not have felt like a big deal.
It did anyway.
I threw the blanket off and sat up slowly. My body protested, but I ignored it and reached for the sweatshirt thrown across the chair in the corner of my bedroom. The apartment was quiet around me, the kind of quiet that had been unbearable right after the divorce but had slowly become something I could breathe inside.
The first few weeks alone had been awful.
I used to hate the silence. It made every room feel too big, every noise too noticeable, every empty space a reminder that my marriage had ended in the ugliest way possible. I would leave the television on just so there was something happening around me that didn’t involve my own thoughts.
Now, I liked it.
Mostly.
I liked making coffee without Bruce complaining there wasn’t any creamer. I liked leaving dishes in the sink until morning if I was too tired to deal with them. I liked sleeping in the middle of the bed, even if I still sometimes woke up on the left side out of habit.
I liked not having to answer to anyone.
I padded into the kitchen and started the coffee, leaning my hip against the counter while the machine sputtered to life. My phone sat face down next to the sink, and I didn’t bother checking it. If the world had ended overnight, someone else could handle it until caffeine hit my bloodstream.
The only thing on my schedule was Scoop & Swirl.
Day two.
I had survived day one.
Day two should’ve felt easier.
Instead, my stomach fluttered in that annoying way it had when I was nervous and pretending I wasn’t.
I pulled a mug from the cabinet and filled it halfway before the pot had even finished brewing. Patience had never been one of my stronger qualities, and owning a business wasn’t magically improving me.
Coffee in hand, I wandered to the small table by the window and sat down. My notebook was still open from the night before, where I’d scribbled a list of things I needed to restock before opening. Napkins. Waffle bowls. Strawberry syrup. More cookie dough if the world continued its obsession.
I had also written, in much messier handwriting, hire help eventually.
