Click to Subscribe - By L. M. Augustine Page 0,60

the hook so easily. Somehow, it doesn’t feel right, especially not after what he did to Mom.

Maybe, one day, I’ll forgive him. But he’ll have to work for it.

I sigh and refresh my phone again. This time, a notification shows—a new comment on my vlog. I frown. It’s from… HarperLikesPizza?

Wait…

But Harper is…

…fake…

Right?

Immediately, I scroll over to the comment, my throat catching, wondering what exactly is going on. When I read over the comment, a breath of relief escapes me. “It’s time to move on from me, O’ Illustrious Sam Green,” it reads. “I hear there’s this hot Cat girl waiting for you in the ice cream shop behind you, too… AND it’s her birthday. You should totally check her out. In fact, she’s so amazing that one could make the argument that she is me.”

I let out a little smile. Cat seriously got me there. I check the time—2:02. Right when Harper always comments. So I let my cheekbones appear, mumble “Goodbye, Harper,” shut my phone, and turn around.

I have a girlfriend to meet.

Cat waves to me through The Icecreamery window, and I jog in after her. Cool air blasts me as I step into the shop, and I hear the familiar hum of freezers everywhere. The wondrous scent of ice cream surrounds me as I walk over to Cat, who is seated in the corner.

The place is quiet for once, with only two squealing toddlers and their mom this time, both on the opposite side of the room. The rest of the shop is just Cat and me.

“Are you Cat, the hot girl I heard I should meet?” I say to her as I approach.

“That I am.” She gets to her feet and touches my shoulder with her hand. “Are you ready for the ice cream of a lifetime, oh wonderfully charismatic stranger?”

“Ummmmm hell yes.”

I take her hand then, and we walk over to the cashier, laughing at each other’s stupidity. “Can I help you?” the same cashier from before asks, recognizing us. I don’t mean to brag, of course, but we’re pretty damn popular in the world of children’s ice cream.

I glance at Cat, who squeezes my hand, and I turn back to the cashier. “Boy could you, Sharon…”

“I’m well aware, West,” Sharon responds, suppressing a little smile.

I quirk my eyebrow and scan the freezer, as if it’s actually a possibility that I’ll choose a different ice cream flavor than always, even though we all know it isn’t.

“I will have your finest vanilla ice cream,” I say at last. “With sprinkles and a cherry and in a kiddy cone, please.”

“And what kind of sprinkles would you like, sir?” she says just to get me going. I can’t help but notice the irony of her calling a sixteen-year-old boy who is ordering a rainbow-sprinkled vanilla ice cream in a kiddy cone “sir.” But I like it anyway.

“Rainbow sprinkles. They are what make the world go ‘round. Literally.”

“I’m well aware. A world without rainbow sprinkles is a world without happiness.”

“Yes!” I say too loudly. Then I turn to Cat. “See, Red Velvet? Someone who gets me!”

Cat rolls her eyes.

“And you?” Sharon asks Cat.

“The same thing,” she says, “but with chocolate sprinkles, please.” She shoots me a look.

“Wow,” I say, feigning a gasp. “No rainbow sprinkles? Some nerve you have there, woman.”

She melodramatically tosses her hair. “I guess you could see I’m feeling gutsy today.”

“Oh really? Is that hot shirtless stranger rubbing off on you?” I ask.

“Maybe so.”

Once the ice cream is done, we pay Sharon, thank her for her “continued support in the children’s ice cream industry,” grab our cones, and sit down. This time, though, Cat does not sit opposite me. She pulls up a chair directly next to mine, nudges my shoulder, and it feels so good to be this close to her.

“Whatcha got there?” Cat says, pointing at the wrapped-up cake under my arm.

“Oh, just the greatest birthday present in the history of the world. No bigs.”

“For me?” she asks, batting her eyelashes.

“No, no, of course not. I’m just holding it for a friend.”

She rolls her eyes. “One day, I’m going to be damned for falling in love with someone so weird.”

“And thank god this is not that day.” I slide the present over to her across the table. “Open it,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. As long as you promise to prepare for badassery.”

Cat laughs a little. “I promise.”

Then, she glances down, tears off the bow, rips apart the striped Harry Potter wrapping paper, and slowly lifts