My smile says it all, and he sips his with the same satisfied expression.
“Is this… legal?” I ask after devouring half of mine in three bites. Or slurps, or whatever word you would use to describe biting-slurping a champagne snow cone. “I remember it’s mostly kids who come here.”
“It’s special,” he says, pouring more champagne over our half-eaten cones. “One night only, for my special VIP guests.”
I nod toward the Snow Hut. “This… this is yours?”
He nods, wearing a smile of intense pride that makes me warm inside. And more than a little proud, too.
“And the Tour?” I ask.
Another nod. “After school,” he explains, “my Mom got sick. I turned down a few job offers in Atlanta and DC, and came home instead. Took care of her. Then she got really sick, and my care wasn’t enough…”
He pauses, soft brown eyes misty in the hanging Snow Hut lights. Looking past me, beyond me, he continues. “After she passed, I just… hung around. She’d left me the house, a little money, a little insurance. I sold the house and cashed in everything else and bought the Snow Hut. And I was doing fine, great even, except every few customers, someone would ask me if I knew where Slade grew up, or Kane or Fuzzy or Hub. And I got to thinking… there’s a market for that kind of thing…”
His voice trails off again, eyes no longer shiny, but still soft and warm. “So Hang Ten Tours was started,” I prod.
He looks up, as if surprised I’m still here. “Exactly,” he says, nodding and returning to devour his cone. “Exactly…”
Our Polar Bears done, he takes to pouring the champagne directly into our empty paper cones. We sip them, like the cups you get at the water cooler at work, and watch each other watch each other.
“None of that explains why I’m here tonight, Reggie,” I say, softly, reaching out to touch his forearm as it rests atop the picnic table. “Or how you know so much about me.”
He looks away, then back to me, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine.
“What do I have to lose now?” he asks, absently, as if he’s talking to himself. Sighing heavily, he presses onward. “I was in love with you, Tara. From the minute I transferred here in my sophomore year and I saw you at the water fountain in C-wing, I just…”
He looks away, then back at me. “I guess I got a little carried away. And by senior year, I kept thinking I would ask you out. At Mindy’s Halloween party, at the gazebo that day, on Valentine’s Day when you got your acceptance letter. Every time I tried, someone – or something – beat me to it…”
I smile, still clutching his arm. “And you never told me?” I ask, voice hoarse with emotion, catching slightly on the high notes, dipping softly on the low ones. “All that time? All… this… time?”
“Soon enough it was graduation, and then summer was over, and then you were gone and, well… so was I.”
“But all that summer, I worked at the Shake Shack…”
He shakes his head and, looking down, I realize my hand is magically inside his. “And every time I came in, you had your girls around you, or some guy hitting on you. I didn’t want to be another one adding to your list…”
I shake my head and squeeze his hand. “I’m sorry, Reggie. I… if I had only known.”
“What?” he chuckles, squeezing my hand back. “If you had only known… what?”
“I would have said ‘yes,’ Reggie. If you had asked me, I would have said ‘yes’. At Mindy’s Halloween party. To senior prom. On Valentine’s Day. At the Shake Shack… Reggie, I would have said ‘yes’. Anytime, anywhere, to anything… yes.”
He smirks and lets go of my hand, crossing his arms over his chest and turning away from me. “Easy to say now, Tara. You know I can’t ask anymore.”
“Ask me something now,” I flirt, glancing at my cell phone and knowing it’s close. That the time is almost at hand. That magical moment, that one time of year when time stands still and what’s old is new, and what’s impossible is possible.
“Yeah, right. Like what?”
“Ask me to dance with you on New Year’s,” I suggest playfully.
I listen and, as if on cue, an instrumental jazzy version of “Baby, it’s Cold Outside” kicks in on the Snow Hut speakers.
But now he’s shy again, looking away, biting his lower lip. I reach for his hand again, squeeze it tight and say, persistently, “Ask me, Reggie. Just. Ask. Me.”
He turns to me, voice low, eyes soft and says, “After all this time, Tara, I shouldn’t have to.”
I nod and stand, dragging him with me. Alone, amidst the wooden picnic tables of our youth, jazzy Christmas music in our ears, the sound of the ocean crashing in the distance, our hometown sleepy all around us, we dance.
And dance and dance. The music changes and the lights twinkle and the night wears on and still we dance. A little chime rings in his pocket and he smirks, pushing me gently away.
“Happy New Year, Tara,” he says, and I don’t have to ask if it’s finally midnight.
Unflinchingly, eagerly, I lean forward and find his lips, waiting for me. Just as they have been, all this time…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of A Town Called Snowflake and Greetings from Snowflake, both from Musa Publishing. Visit him at Rushing the Season, www.rushingtheseason.com, where you can read his FREE stories and collections, many about the fictional town of Snowflake, South Carolina.
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