“It has, hasn’t it?” Oliver agrees. “I’ve loved every second of it.”
“I’m tired, though.” I yawn.
“Our ride’s waiting at the end,” he says, taking my hand as we step off the subway.
We exit the subway and find ourselves in Washington Square Park, in the heart of Greenwich Village. The park is alive with energy, street performers, live music, dancers, and poetry readings. Oliver pulls out money and tips each performer, and my heart swells at his generosity.
We stop in front of a sketch artist. He’s an older man with wire-rimmed glasses. His easel displays completed portraits of couples, families, and animals. Oliver asks him to sketch us. I bounce on my heels, thrilled by the idea of having this memory captured.
We sit close on the little bench in front of the easel. I try to hold still, but I keep glancing at Oliver, who’s fighting a grin every time I shift. The artist barely looks up as his pencil moves swiftly across the page, like he’s done this a thousand times.
When he finally turns the sketch around, I light up.
“I love it,” I say, brushing my fingers over the edge.
Oliver nods in agreement, handing the man cash. “Can you roll it up for us?”
The artist obliges, slipping the paper into a cardboard tube and capping it off. Oliver tucks it under his arm like it’s something precious.
It kind of is.
We make our way to our next stop, the Little Italy Mural in Manhattan. The mural is a stunning, colorful piece, full of pizza, pasta, Italian landscapes, and portraits of famous figures from the community.
I read the signatures on the mural, impressed by how brave the artists are for putting their work on public display. Before Oliver and the arrangement, it’s something I’ve always admired, and I hope one day I’ll be brave enough to do the same on a bigger scale than the school shop. I’m getting stronger, but I’m not quite there yet.But I will be.
“Let’s grab a picture before the final stop,” Oliver says, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Sounds good,” I reply, still on a high from the night, unable to stop smiling.
We walk down the street, and I spot Morgenstern’s Finest Ice Cream.
“This is the final stop?” I ask, a grin forming on my face as I squeeze his hand tighter.
“Yes. I take it you’ve been here before?”
“Not often, but once. And the matcha ice cream was incredible.”
We enter the shop. The sweet, creamy scent of waffle cones and freshly churned ice cream wraps around me instantly. The interior is minimalist, with sleek counters and bright color pops against walls. Behind the glass display, sits rows of different flavored ice creams.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I murmur, scanning the names.
“Try this one.” He hands me a sample spoon the lady hands him. “You’ll like it.”
I hesitate, then take the tiny spoon from his hand, our fingers brushing a second too long. His eyes don’t leave mine as I taste it, a rich chocolate with a hint of sea salt.
“Mmm,” I say, licking my lips. “That’s dangerously good.”
“Right?” He leans in a little too close. “Here, try this one too.” Asking for another scoop in a different flavor of chocolate chip cookie dough, he offers it straight to my mouth this time.
I don’t even think, I just lean forward and take the bite, letting his thumb brush my lower lip as he pulls the spoon away.
“Okay, now you have to try mine,” I say, a little breathless, turning to ask for a sample of salted caramel pretzel. He meets my gaze, his lips curving as he leans in and lets me feed him.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice lower now. “It’s going to be too hard to choose, so I say we get a scoop of all three.”
I nod, grinning.
A few minutes later, we’re outside with a single overfilled cup between us. We take turns with the spoon, laughing as we flick through the photos from the night.
