Vanilla Sixteen Years Old, Virginia
Vanilla
Sixteen Years Old, Virginia
Over the years, Beck and I argued about the dumbest shit.
Which movie to watch.
What type of pet is superior.
Who was, pound for pound, stronger.
Which Busch Gardens ride is best.
Whether Pluto (outer space) is a planet.
Whether Pluto (Disney) is the same species as Goofy.
When we were little, we nearly came to blows over whose father was most like GI Joe, an argument our parents found infinitely funny.
There were serious arguments too. Arguments that shaped him and me—shaped us . Arguments that, in their heaviest moments, felt like monumental battles.
A couple days before he was due to leave CVU for Thanksgiving break, he called for backup regarding ice cream flavors. He and James were about to have a knock-down-drag-out over which reigned supreme.
“Beck likes Vanilla!” James bellowed. “Did you know that, Lia? Vanilla!”
“It’s the only flavor he ever chooses,” I said, curling up on my bed. “No hot fudge. No sprinkles. In a cup—not even a cone.”
Beck laughed unapologetically and James groaned, as if his roommate’s dull flavor preferences pained him physically. “I can’t. Vanilla . Lia, what’s your favorite?”
“She likes Pralines and Cream,” Beck said, without missing a beat. “In a waffle cone.”
“A respectable choice,” James said. “Why’s your girl so much more interesting than you?”
“Fuck off,” Beck said lightly. And then, to me, “Can you believe the grief he’s giving me?”
“Poor baby,” I said, burrowing under my comforter, wishing I was there to feed him his boring ice cream, to kiss the whininess from his voice.
“Vanilla!” James hooted. “Why?”
“Because Vanilla’s consistently delicious,” Beck said in an obviously tone. “Why try something new, only to wind up disappointed?”
James started naming ice cream flavors, as if neither Beck nor I had set foot in a Baskin-Robbins. “Mississippi Mud, Bubble Gum, Toasted Coconut…”
I only half listened as they bantered, because I was hung up on what Beck had said: Why try something new, only to wind up disappointed?
Was he talking about…me?
A safe, measured choice?
Eventually James gave up and left for a party at one of his fraternity’s live-outs. Beck spent a couple minutes telling me about the quiz he’d had that afternoon. He was sure he’d kicked its ass—but the workout that followed had most definitely kicked his ass. Then he asked about my day.
Instead of answering, I blurted a question of my own. “Am I your Vanilla?”
He stuttered out a laugh. “My what?”
“Your Vanilla.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Beckett. Are you with me because you’re scared to try something new?”
He laughed again, though he sounded more annoyed than amused. I imagined him folded onto his bed, dragging a hand over his face as he said, “That’s gotta be the most deranged question you’ve ever asked.”
“You’re not denying it.”
“Because I refuse to dignify it with a response.” He huffed. “Are you my Vanilla? Jesus, Lia.”
Our conversation had gone from lighthearted to prickly in three ill-conceived seconds.
It was my fault—I knew it was. I’d sparked an argument for no intelligible reason. But it pissed me off that he wouldn’t indulge me. That he wouldn’t say, You’re the opposite of Vanilla. You’re fun and exciting. And so, I poked again, unable to keep the word vomit from spewing forth. “I’m a safe choice—admit it. You could find yourself a Mint Chocolate Chip girl. But instead of risking your heart, you’ve settled on me, a girl who doesn’t disappoint.”
He groaned. “Could you be any more insulting?”
“ You’re insulted?”
“Fuck yes. Is that who I am to you? A coward who settles for just okay because he’s too chickenshit to step out of the box?”
“Maybe I don’t know who you are,” I said combatively.
He gave a deep sigh. “I can’t do this tonight. I’ve got another quiz tomorrow morning and two hours in the gym after that.”
“Good to know where I fall on your list of priorities.”
“Damn, Lia. You couldn’t’ve waited until this weekend to pick a fight?”
“I’m not picking a fi—!”
The line went dead.
***
I was up all night, sick with regret.
I’d provoked him. Worse than that, I couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe I’d been feeling neglected, what with everything going on in his CVU bubble. Maybe I’d been lonely, seeking negative attention like a bratty kid. Maybe I’d turned my personal insecurities on him. It’s not as if I ever stepped out of the box. Instead of making big choices, hard choices, I relied on a fortune that was older than me.
Maybe I was testing Beck—testing fate.
Whatever the case, I felt terrible.
All morning, I was on edge, fidgety in the empty house. I was already out of school; Rosebell High had a whole week off for Thanksgiving. My dad was on a trip, ten days of TDY in Hawaii. My mom had been working overtime recording reading assessment scores. Macy was spending all sorts of time with Wyatt. Because the morning passed without so much as a text from Beck and I was too embarrassed to reach out, I took myself to lunch.
I left the café feeling full, but not better.
When I got home, a cardboard box was waiting on the porch. It was addressed to me and covered in stickers: Perishable! Keep frozen! I lugged it into the kitchen and plucked scissors from the junk drawer. Slicing the packing tape, I noticed the name on the return address, Scoop and Savor, an artisan ice cream shop in Richmond. Inside the box was an insulated cooler stocked with six pints of ice cream. I took them out one by one, stacking them in two towers on the countertop. My smile grew as I read each of the flavors. Lavender Honey, Gooey Chocolate Brownie, Guava Pear with Cashew Praline, Hazelnut Cookies and Cream, Caramel Marshmallow Ribbon with Sea Salt, and…Vanilla Bean.
At the bottom of the box was a piece of cardstock. In neat typeface was a note.
Amelia ~
So what if you’re Vanilla? Vanilla’s my favorite. I’ll always choose you.
~ Beck
I’d started our fight. I’d questioned his devotion. I’d let him go all night thinking I doubted his commitment. I’d made him walk into a quiz and shoulder a workout thinking I was unsure about him, about us.
He’d spent a small fortune overnighting ice cream to my house.
I called him.
The line rang several times before, finally, he picked up.
“Hey,” he answered, thick with sleep.
“Hi. I woke you, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but it’s okay. What’s up?”
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I’m such a pain in the ass, Beck. And you’re the best human I know. I love you. Just—so much.”
He laughed, groggy sounding. “You got your ice cream?”
“I got my ice cream. Will you share it with me this weekend?”
“Why do you think I got Vanilla Bean?”
I smiled. “You sound really tired. Are you okay?”
“Better, now that you called.”
“Go back to sleep. Call me later.”
“Okay. I love you, Amelia Graham.”
“Love you, too, Beckett Byrne.”