He studies me for a moment, his expression softening. “That’s cool. Not many people find something they love and stick with it.”
“Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I intended.
The rain continues to lighten, and the steady drumming on the awning becomes a soft patter. The smell of wet grass and lake air fills the space, and for a second, it feels like we’re the only two people here.
“I think the rain’s letting up,” I say, more to break the silence than anything.
“Looks like it,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
The spell breaks when someone shouts from the bleachers, calling for a lost glove. Dylan steps back, the easy grin returning to his face.
“Guess I’d better check on my team,” he says, tipping his hat slightly.
“Yeah. Good luck out there, Coach.”
He pauses, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “See you around, Addison,” he says, starting to walk away — then stops. “Unless you’re planning to hide under more awnings just to bump into me again.”
And with that, he’s gone, leaving me under the awning with a soggy tub of popcorn and a fluttering in my chest I’m not ready to name.
7
ICE CREAM FOR ALL
SUNDAY, AUGUST 31ST
Dylan
A low rumble of thunder fades over the ball diamond as parents haul coolers and soggy lawn chairs toward the parking lot. I clap once, loud enough to bounce off the aluminum bleachers.
“Rain or shine, a tie still earns ice cream — who’s with me?”
Twenty-three kids answer with a roar that rattles the flagpoles. Owen, my mint-chip-obsessed nephew, flings himself to my side, cleats clacking.
“Uncle Dylan, three scoops of mint... please? We tied! That’s basically a victory.”
“Two scoops,” I say, steering him toward the sidewalk. “A tie plus good sportsmanship equals two.”
He considers, then nods like a tiny negotiator accepting a plea deal.
Perry’s Scoop Shop — the town’s lone ice-cream parlor — glows ahead, teal clapboard siding under a crooked neon sign that buzzes in the damp air.
While Owen confers with the teenage clerk about the precise ratio of chocolate flakes to mint base, I scan the crowd. That’s when I spot her — Addison — not laughing, not talking, just staring at her phone as though it has delivered a tax audit and a breakup text at the same time.
Sliding closer, I lower my voice. “Everything okay?”
She nearly drops the phone. “Oh! Dylan. Sorry, I was miles away.” She slips the device into her lavender rain jacket pocket, but her tight shoulders say the problem is still weighing on her.
“So, what’s got the event planner extraordinaire frowning during the holy ritual of ice cream?”
Addison exhales, glances at the floor, then at the menu board as if it offers answers in hot fudge form. “I lost my carpenter,” she murmurs.
“Like… wandered into the woods?”
“Nothing like that. She has to leave town to care for her mom who needs an emergency surgery. She was building every wooden element for the Langford wedding — arch, benches, signposts. Ceremony’s in three weeks. The bride color-codes her vitamins; she’ll implode if I don’t replace the carpenter tomorrow.”
“That’s rough,” I say, folding my arms. “But survivable.”
