Chapter 17
Dustin took him to an ice cream parlor and Greg was a little overwhelmed, marveling upon rows and rows of colorful ice cream in metal tubs.
Chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, Pralines and Cream and something called Rocky Road…
There were so many flavors, how was he ever going to make a choice?
The teenager behind the counter already looked bored waiting for him to come to a decision.
“Don't stress so much.”
Greg blinked. Dustin was watching him with that half-smile that made Greg's stomach do strange things.
“Do you want ice cream or milkshake?” Dustin asked. “You can't really go wrong.”
Greg licked his lips.
He'd liked the milkshake. He'd liked it very much. But tasting ice cream in its pure form could also be good. What if he liked it more? What if he didn't? What if he made the wrong decision and regretted it for the rest of his existence?
Don't stress so much, Dustin had said.
“Ice cream,” Greg heard himself say.
Dustin nodded like this was the correct answer. “Good. Now you just have to pick a flavor.”
Greg looked back at the case. Thirty options, at least. Some of them had things in them—chunks and swirls and ribbons of unknown substances.
“I don't know how to choose,” Greg admitted.
“What did you like about the chocolate milkshake?”
“It was...” Greg searched for the right words. “Rich and sweet. It tasted like happiness, if happiness had a flavor.”
Dustin's smile widened. “Okay. So let’s stick to something in that lane.” He pointed at the case. “You could do regular chocolate. Or chocolate fudge. Or that Death by Chocolate one if you want to be dramatic about it.”
“Is that one actually dangerous?”
“Only to your waistline.”
Greg didn't know what that meant, but Dustin was already ordering for him—two scoops of Death by Chocolate in a waffle cone, whatever that was—and then getting his own: one scoop of something pale yellow.
“Lemon?” Greg asked.
“It's my favorite.”
Greg filed this information away. Dustin's favorite ice cream flavor was lemon. That felt important.
They found a small table near the window, settling into wire-backed chairs that put their knees dangerously close together under the table.
Greg held his waffle cone carefully, examining the two dark scoops perched on top.
The chocolate was already beginning to soften in the warm air, a small drip forming at the edge.
“You have to lick it,” Dustin said. “Before it melts everywhere.”
“Lick it?”
“That's how you eat a cone.” Dustin raised his own cone to his mouth, holding Greg's gaze, and dragged his tongue in a slow, deliberate stripe up the side of his lemon ice cream.
The gears in Greg's brain stuttered to a grinding halt.
Dustin's eyes glittered. “See?” He licked again, just as slowly. “Your turn.”
He knew what he was doing to Greg, didn't he?
This was like the fries at the diner all over again—Dustin testing, teasing, watching Greg's reactions like they were entertainment.
But why?
Was Greg's behavior that funny?
No, Dustin had said something about a kiss.
Greg's stomach fluttered.
“Greg,” Dustin said. “Your ice cream.”
Greg looked at his cone. A drop of cream was running down the side. He had to focus if he didn't want to embarrass himself even more.
Determined, he raised his cone to his mouth and gave it an experimental lick, trying very hard to act like a normal person who was not at all affected by anything.
Oh.
The chocolate was cold and creamy and impossibly rich, coating his tongue with sweetness. It was good. He licked again, chasing the drip that was threatening to escape down the side of the cone.
“How is it?” Dustin asked.
Greg made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
Dustin laughed.
They ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Or rather, Dustin ate in comfort while Greg battled his cone, trying to stay ahead of the melting ice cream. It was chaos. Delicious chaos. Every time he thought he had it under control, another drip would appear somewhere unexpected.
Across the table, Dustin was having no such difficulties. He ate his lemon ice cream with enviable ease, his tongue sweeping around the edges in slow, methodical strokes that Greg found increasingly difficult to look away from.
There was something hypnotic about it. The way Dustin's lips closed around the curve of the scoop. The flash of his tongue against the pale yellow cream. The small satisfied noise he made after a particularly good bite.
Greg licked his own cone and tried very hard to think about literally anything else.
He couldn't.
Because Dustin had said there might be a kiss at the end of this.
Nobody had ever kissed Greg.
Did Greg want to be kissed?
No. Yes. Maybe. Yes.
“You're dripping,” Dustin observed.
Greg looked down. Chocolate ice cream was running down the side of his cone, over his fingers, threatening to reach his sleeve.
“Oh no.”
“Just lick it off.”
“What?”
“Your hand.” Dustin gestured with his own cone. “Lick the ice cream off your hand before it gets everywhere.”
Greg raised his hand to his mouth and licked the chocolate from his fingers. It was clumsy and probably looked ridiculous, but it was either that or ruin his shirt.
When he looked up, Dustin was watching him with an expression Greg couldn't quite read. His lemon ice cream was temporarily forgotten, dripping unheeded down his own cone.
“What?” Greg asked.
Dustin blinked. Looked away. “Nothing.” He took a sudden interest in his ice cream again, tonguing up the drips he'd let form.
Something had shifted, though Greg couldn't identify what.
He focused on his cone, finally gaining the upper hand against the melt. The waffle cone itself was good too, sweet and crunchy. He bit into it and made another involuntary sound of pleasure.
“You're really into that,” Dustin said.
“It's the best thing I've ever eaten. Except for the milkshake. Except the milkshake was also the best thing I'd ever eaten when I had it. Can two things both be the best?”
“Just rank them in different categories.”
“Then the milkshake is the best drink and this is the best food.” Greg nodded, satisfied with this classification system.
Dustin finished his cone and leaned back in his chair, watching Greg with an unfamiliar sort of ease stretching between them.
And yet, Greg's chest felt tight.
“Can I ask you something?” he tried.
“Shoot.”
“After today… after what you saw with Marco.” Greg hesitated, but he needed to know. “Are you still planning to interfere with Jessica Torres?”
Dustin didn't answer right away. He looked out the window for a long moment, jaw working like he was chewing on something that wasn't food.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I am.”
Greg's heart sank. “Even though you saw what collection is like today?”
“I saw you do something beautiful.” Dustin's voice was quiet. “I saw death be kind. But… Marco was sixty-seven. He was already dying. There was nothing I could have done to change that.”
“And Jessica?”
“Jessica is nineteen.” Dustin's expression hardened. “And a highway accident isn't organ failure.” He shook his head. “Nothing about it is sacred. It's just chaos.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know she's a teenager. I know she deserves better than dying on a highway because some asshole wasn't paying attention.” Dustin leaned forward, forearms on the table. “If there's even a chance I can stop it, I have to try. You get that, right?”
Greg did get it. That was the problem.
He understood Dustin's logic. He even felt the pull of it—the desire to protect, to intervene, to rail against the randomness of death. He'd always loved that about humanity. Their stubborn, beautiful insistence that life was worth fighting for.
But Greg didn't make the rules.
And Dustin seemed determined to break them.
“I understand,” Greg said quietly. “I don't agree. But I understand.”
Dustin studied him for a moment. Then he nodded, something in his expression softening. “That's more than I expected.”
“I'm trying.”
“I know.” Dustin reached for a napkin, then paused. “You've got chocolate on your face.”
“I do?”
“Right here.” Dustin pointed to the corner of his own mouth.
Greg grabbed a napkin and scrubbed at his face. “Did I get it?”
“No, it's—here.”
Dustin reached across the table.
His thumb brushed the corner of Greg's mouth. Warm and slightly rough and right there, touching Greg's skin, touching close to his lips.
Greg stopped breathing.
Dustin didn't pull back immediately. His thumb lingered, supposedly wiping away chocolate, but the ice cream must have been gone by now. His eyes dropped to Greg's mouth… and stayed there.
The air between them went thick.
This was it. Greg knew it. This was the moment Dustin was going to—
An almost inaudible popping noise pulled Greg out of the moment.
Oh no.
Another reaper.
Somewhere nearby.
Greg whirled around to find Valerie behind him.
She looked exactly as she always did; sensible, efficient, mildly annoyed at the universe. Her arms were crossed and her mouth was set in a thin line.
“Grigoreth,” she said. “I've been sent to collect you. Morrith is... not happy.”
“Wow.” Dustin leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “They actually sent someone to fetch you?”
Valerie went rigid.
Her gaze snapped to Dustin. Then back to Greg. Then to Dustin again.
“He can see me,” she said.
“I can also hear you,” Dustin offered. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Valerie stared at Greg. The irritation in her expression changed into something closer to alarm. “What exactly have you been doing with your assignment, Grigoreth?”
“It's complicated.”
“Clearly.” Her voice was sharp. “Morrith wants you back at HQ. Now. Not later. Not after you've finished your...” She looked at the remains of Greg's ice cream cone with visible distaste. “...whatever this is.”
“We're on a date,” Dustin said helpfully.
Valerie's eye twitched.
Greg wanted to disappear into thin air.
Instead, he stood up, abandoning the last bite of his waffle cone. His fingers still tingled where ice cream had dripped. His face still burned where Dustin had touched him.
“I have to go,” he said.
“Yeah, I gathered,” Dustin said, but he caught Greg's wrist before he could step back. His grip was warm and firm.
“Come find me after,” he said. “Yeah?”
Greg nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
Dustin's thumb swept once across the inside of Greg's wrist—a barely-there touch—and then he let go.
Valerie watched this exchange with an expression of consternation.
“Let's go,” she said. “Now, Grigoreth.”
Greg followed her toward the door, mind racing.
“I can't believe this,” Valerie muttered as they reached the door. “How long has this been going on?”
Greg shrugged. Did it even matter what he said to Valerie now? Morrith was going to have his head either way.
“Well, come on.” Valeria grabbed him by the arm and dragged him through the door with her.
Greg went, knowing he could not escape his meeting with his boss.
But his thoughts still lingered on Dustin's thumb on his mouth. Dustin's eyes on his lips. The almost-kiss that hung between them like a promise.
Come find me after.
Whatever was waiting for him at HQ, he'd survive it.
He had to.
He had somewhere to be.