One thing I keep reminding myself: there is nothing a sugar high can't at least temporarily fix.
Shelby swears ice cream can heal emotional trauma. I'm pretty sure she's emotionally dependent on sprinkles and the therapeutic power of venting over waffle cones.
I don't argue. Not today.
The afternoon after our costume-making marathon, we drove to our weekly ritual spot—Chillville Creamery. Therapy with calories.
And of course—Alexander St. Cyr is there.
Walking heart attack. Dave Franco meets Chris Pratt. A smile bright enough to qualify as a renewable energy source.
We've even engineered our dessert schedule to match his shifts.
It's not stalking. It's strategic dessert consumption.
Except it feels… irrelevant now.
Because Will is still there, uninvited and unshakable, carved into the inside of my mind like something that refuses to fade no matter how hard I scrub at it. He looks at me like I'm both the knife and the cure. Like I ruin him and save him in the same breath.
I hate that my body remembers that.
I sigh as Shelby parks.
"Remind me why we do this every week?"
She's already halfway out of the car.
"Because eye candy makes calories not count!"
Inside, the creamery smells like waffle cones and caramel and summer pretending it never ends. Country music hums. Kids laugh. Everything looks the same.
Except me.
"Hey, Alex!" Shelby chirps as we reach the counter.
He flashes that sun-bright smile, and something twists low in my stomach—not attraction, not nerves. Recognition. Like my body is checking for something that isn't there.
And finding nothing.
"Your usual?" he asks.
"Yep!" Shelby says.
"Thanks," I add, polite and distant in a way I don't mean to be.
He turns to prep our orders. The static under my skin buzzes—not louder, not softer. Just… present.
We slide into our favorite booth. Alex brings our Avalanches—brownie rubble, cookie wreckage, caramel drizzle, an obscene amount of sprinkles—and extra napkins.
"You might need reinforcements," he jokes.
"Thank you," I say.
He leaves.
And I feel nothing.
Shelby narrows her eyes.
"Ang. You're aware Alex is sexy adorable, right?"
I drag my spoon through the ice cream, carving a slow trench through caramel.
"He probably has a girlfriend," I mutter with a mouth full of greatness.
"No, he doesn't," Shelby says immediately.
I glance at her. "You know that how?"
"Because he'd mention her. Or at most stop hovering." She tilts her head. "He's hovering."
"Or he has better things to do than talk to a caramel-covered stranger."
"You're dramatic."
"Same thing."
Alex returns with more napkins we absolutely do not need. He sets them down carefully, like he's buying time.
"Everything okay?" he asks—looking at me, not Shelby.
I nod. "Yeah. Thanks."
He hesitates. Just a fraction too long. His fingers tighten around the edge of the booth like he's considering something.
"If you, um—" He clears his throat. "If you need anything else."
Shelby raises an eyebrow. Smirks. Says nothing.
Alex gives a small, almost apologetic smile. "Enjoy," he adds, quieter this time, and retreats.
Shelby waits until he's out of earshot.
"Oh," she says lightly. "He wants to talk to you."
I snort. "About napkins?"
"No," she says. "About you."
She watches him go—like a predator watches prey.
Assessing.
"You're hopeless."
"I do aim for consistency."
We eat. We laugh. We pretend to study. For the first time all week, something almost feels normal.
Almost.
Because underneath the sugar rush, the pull at the base of my ribs never leaves. A quiet hum, tuned to a frequency I don't want to recognize.
Eventually, I go up to pay. Alex is leaning against the counter watching football. He brightens when he sees me.
"Hey, Ang. Good as always?"
"You're personally responsible for keeping my dentist employed."
He laughs. Real laughter. Then hesitates.
"So… uh." He clears his throat. "I was wondering if you'd want to go out sometime. Dinner. A movie. Whatever you like. With me."
Alexander St. Cyr is nervous. Looking down while putting the cash in the register.
Something soft opens in my chest.
I lean in. "Are you asking me, or the register?"
He laughs, cheeks flushing.
"You. Definitely you."
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself choose.
Not prophecy.
Not memory.
Not a bond I don't remember agreeing to.
Just me.
"I'd love that."
For half a second, the freezer behind him goes quiet—no hum, no rattle.
The air feels thinner. Like something paused to take a measurement.
Not loud enough for anyone else to notice. Not long enough to draw attention. Just a brief, uncanny absence — like the world forgot to breathe.
Then the hum snaps back on.
Alex's face lights up like I handed him the sun.
"You've got my number?"
"I do."
"How about tomorrow?"
"I can't — birthday stuff. But next week?"
"Perfect. And… happy early birthday, Angela."
Warmth settles in my chest. Gentle. Human.
Shelby honks from outside. I turn to leave.
In the reflection of the glass, Alex fist-pumps like he just won a championship.
I step into the parking lot smiling as a giggle escapes.
For the first time in days, my heart feels like it belongs to me again.
Not to fate.
Not to a story I didn't write.
Not to a past I don't remember.
Just… me.
Then a cold ripple slides down my spine.
Not fear.
Recognition.
A soft pressure blooms behind my sternum — not pain, not emotion. Alignment. Like something deep inside me just adjusted its weight.
I don't turn around. I don't slow down.
Because Shelby is car dancing and waving. Because KPop is already blasting from the car. Because I refuse to let my life become a hunted thing.
I climb into the passenger seat. We laugh. We argue about glitter shoes. We pretend.
But beneath it all, something tightens.
A thread I can't see.
A system recalibrating.
A presence acknowledging a variable it hadn't expected.
Not him. Not the bond. Something farther back—older.
Fate doesn't blink when I choose someone else.
It doesn't intervene.
It waits.
And the moment I step into a life that wasn't written for me, something old shifts—not angry, not alarmed.
Aware.
And already adjusting.