15. Zayn
Zayn
The ice cream shop is packed when we arrive. This is our third week in a row going, and people around town are starting to take note. Groups of people wait outside and around the shop, stealing glances at Annie and I as we make our way toward the front entrance.
Annie loops her arm through mine, stitching us together as we walk the final stretch across the parking lot.
She’s smiling at people, waving, showing the side of her that people expect to see on the arm of an actor.
I try mimicking her. A thin smile graces my face as I give out a few nods here and there until we finally reach the door.
“Wow, it’s packed in here,” Annie notes. She’s not wrong, nearly every seat is taken in the small place. The booths and stools at the bar are all occupied by groups of teenagers.
“Annie, glad to see you!” The worker behind the counter greets her as if they are long lost friends. He’s here nearly every time we are, yet I can never remember his name.
We walk up to the counter, where I pretend to look at the ice cream in the display case.
Every week we order “Summer Bliss” out of habit.
Annie and I both tend to get hyper fixated on something, like her with blueberry muffins.
For me, I figure, if I like it, why would I change what I order and risk not liking it as much and regretting it?
There’s a new tag next to the giant tub of ice cream. Leaning closer to the glass to try and get a better view, I see the worker shuffling in front of me to aid me with any questions.
“What’s the tag mean?” I ask.
A look of shock appears on his face, wide eyes and all. “Well, Mr. Barnes, you see, well—”
“Call me Zayn.” I’m grateful this kid has manners, but damn, him calling me Mr. Barnes makes me feel old.
“Right, Zayn, okay.” A smile appears on his face, followed by a bit of confidence.
“Mr. Jones, the owner of Sunshine Scoops, was planning to shut this place down at the end of the season. And well, with you two stopping by as often as y’all do, we don’t have to anymore.
Or at least, that’s what he tells me, and you two only ever order this flavor, which I get why, it’s so good, I also like this flavor, it has the perfect balance of sweet and nutty with a bit of—” His hand goes to his chest, as if he’s trying to calm his heart.
I’m used to nervous rambling, having been involved with a lot of youth in the past at the Young Actors Association.
The kid shakes his head, recentering his thoughts.
“Anyway, this is now our best seller. Well, kind of only seller, so we put a tag here to honor the two of you as a way of public thanks.”
Huh. The tag reads “Zayn Barnes and Annie Mitchell, favorite ice cream” with a few graphics of an ice cream cone and suns with faces.
Seeing our names together, even on a silly printed label, sends waves of heat through my body.
I feel like the Grinch; my heart is growing larger and larger the more I’m around Annie. Everyone gravitates toward her.
She radiates pure fucking sunshine.
“That’s amazing, Liam.” Annie beams. I smile too, a little bigger than usual. This smile is real, and it’s all because of Annie.
“Here you two are.” The worker, Liam, hands us our normal ice cream.
We pay and hover by the end of the counter. Both of us look around trying to find a place to sit but come up with nothing. A couple tries to get up to offer us a seat, even though they still have what looks to be most of their ice cream, and I politely decline.
Turning to Annie, I can see her brain churning.
Her eyes dart around the room, but she’s trying to be inconspicuous.
The ice cream cone currently on its way to melting is being passed back and forth between her hands like a basketball.
She’s trying to figure out the plan, or what plans B and C are.
Sometimes I forget these nights together are technically work for her.
The success of all of this doesn’t only fall on her shoulders, but she is the mastermind behind this whole fake-dating ruse.
“Do we have time for a short walk on the beach?”
Annie turns to me, a smile blooming on her face. “We have a few minutes.”
“After you, Princess.” I add a wink for extra points, and for the reporters that seem to be moseying about.
A few patrons also have cameras out, likely recording or trying to get a picture of the two of us.
We haven’t had a lot of people stop us for interviews, which I attribute to the scowl that still remains on my face.
Just because I’m out in public doesn’t mean I want people to interrupt our time together.
I’m used to people around me taking photos, though the amount of cameras ebbs and flows depending on what movie or campaign I’m promoting.
When I’m able to step outside my complex and take in the sounds of the city, when I hear the noises of birds chirping and cars beeping, that’s when I know it’s going to be a good day.
When I’m able to walk down the street to Flora and know that when I stroll inside I won’t be asked for a photo or an autograph.
It’s my favorite time of the year, when I’m able to be slightly invisible to others around me.
Once the photographers show up in the busier months, I stop those walks and stay indoors as much as possible.
There was a time when I wouldn’t have cared as much, still gone outside knowing I’d be bombarded by the media.
Marissa always took control of the narrative.
She could talk to a reporter for me, letting me stand there watching as she handled the interview.
I didn’t know it at the time, but I let her define our relationship, my feelings.
But, Annie, she’s the opposite. Sure, she may have the same friendly persona, but she doesn’t speak for me. She stands there, lets me have my say, and squeezes my arm to show my support. She doesn’t need to answer questions for me and certainly doesn’t care that the camera isn’t pointed to her.
The difference is that Annie isn’t Marissa.
The more time I spend with Annie, the more I open up.
The wounds of my previous relationship fade, chipping away until they are simply scars.
Still visible, still present, not going away, but merely a reminder.
My past is starting to be simply that, a memory of what was and how I’m better because of it.
It’s because of Marissa that I lack trust in others and can never tell if people are telling me the full truth. It’s the reason why I ended up alone and the thing that holds me back from developing relationships with others.
Annie leads the way out of the shop while I process these thoughts.
“I haven’t been on the beach in a year,” I say.
Annie reaches for my free hand, lacing our fingers together. We walk, our other hands holding our cones of ice cream.
“We don’t have to talk about what happened if you’re not ready to tell me,” Annie mutters, masking her curiosity with empathy.
I hesitate. No one has cared to offer me any semblance of respect like Annie has. She could push me, ask me questions, but she doesn’t. And if she does, I believe she would know what is the right thing to ask to not push me further than I’d want to go.
I want to tell Annie what happened. I want her to know me on a deeper level, to understand why I am the way that I am. Someone I loved chose not to love me back, and I wasn’t prepared to handle that.
Instead of telling her, I give her hand a squeeze. It’s my way of saying thanks for letting me open up on my own terms and not being forced into telling her something if I’m not ready.
“We should turn around.” Annie peers behind us and to the right up the bank of sand. Besides a few people lounging on towels, we are practically alone, the reporters that were around us nowhere to be seen.
Our ice cream is gone, and I realize that I’m leaning too close to starting to feel something for Annie, so I drop her hand like it was suddenly burning me.
Her gaze drops down to where our hands were just laced.
She clasps hers together and lets out a small sigh.
I watch as her chest rises and falls, breathing in the salty air of the ocean.
“Let’s go pick some pumpkins.” Annie smiles, but it stops short from reaching her eyes. Where little crinkles should form, smooth lines remain.
I know I caused that. Let her down somehow with my lack of intimacy, but this is fake. It’s best if we both remember that.