Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
FINN
You’d be shocked, positively shocked, to hear how much ice cream I’ve spilled.
And yes, I’ve cried over some of it, too. Although you’re right that I try to whistle on my way whenever I can.
Everything is full of possibility at the start. Jobs, relationships, hobbies, movies. I love that moment, horizons opening up in front of me. Even if it does lead to disappointment sometimes, the potential is so exciting, and that drives me to give it my all, strive for the absolute best.
And those times when everything actually does turn out for the best? Exactly what I hoped for, or something even better? Totally worth all the let-downs. That’s my philosophy, at least.
Anyway, you might be a cynic, but I also know that you’re an enthusiastic fan, willing to go all in when it matters. So I’d say you’ve got a very powerful streak of optimism hidden in there, too, whether you’ll admit it or not. Hard-assed, no-nonsense optimism.
You care. A lot. It’s why I like you so much.
Sitting in The Scoop, I look up from the note I’m composing on my phone, and my thoughts go straight back to Riley.
At the barbecue, I was intrigued despite his manner, but was I ever wrong about him. He’s not endearingly awkward and gruff. He’s rude and blunt to a fault. The man doesn’t seem to care one little bit about the impact his garage is having on the rest of the neighborhood.
“Snickerdoodles,” I mutter to myself and abruptly stand, irritation prickling up my neck.
There’s a little time before we open today, and I’m alone in the shop. Stewing over yesterday’s encounter, I poke around the kitchen.
Riley probably doesn’t know the first thing about ice cream or baking, let alone the subtleties of crafting a well-balanced flavor.
I’ve spent years thinking about texture, temperature, scoop-stability on a cone.
To create a perfect flavor, I pull on years of experience and training from culinary school, and I find it deeply satisfying when I share my creations with the rest of the gayborhood, offering something unique from my heart, a flavor you can only get here in Allentown.
I’ve dedicated my career to ice cream, and it burns me up that the biker across the street stomped in here and made a cookie declaration after only two licks.
Even worse is that he might be right.
I pull open a message to my mom and ask for her old snickerdoodle recipe.
She texts back immediately from her home in Albany, sharing the recipe and a joke about doodling her morning away in the garden that makes me laugh.
After I put the phone aside, I mix together the sugar, flour, fat, and cinnamon.
Once the cookies are out of the oven and cooled, I chop them up into deliciously crispy, tiny bits, then mix them in with some of the butter fudge ice cream.
Just one taste confirms it.
“Snickerdoodles,” I curse under my breath. It’s perfection.
When I hear the bell ring above the door, I walk to the front of the shop. Miranda’s arrived, and she’s looking at the thick reference book that I left on the counter.
“Zoning codes from the library,” she says.
“I picked it up this morning,” I say. “Haven’t had a chance to look through yet.”
I know Miranda through the bakery down the road, where she worked for many years.
She was considering retirement, but when she saw I was opening The Scoop, the siren song of frozen dairy lured her my way.
She’s here part-time for a fresh challenge in the kitchen, but she has been a big help with all the new-business surprises, too. I’m grateful to have her on the team.
We each take seats at a small table, and I flip through the book.
“There’s a section on filing an official complaint with the municipality,” she says. “I remember that from when they tried to shrink the sidewalk outside the bakery.”
“Thanks!” I find the section I’m looking for. “Hopefully, it won’t go that far. Riley is apparently a brick wall, but Chase was kind enough at the barbecue. I’ll draw his attention to the regulations that he’s violating, and with any luck, he’ll find a way to help.”
Miranda gestures to her face. “I just don’t get how a person has so many piercings. Seems like they’d always be in the corner of your vision, distracting you.”
“It’s probably like your nose. You can kind of see it, but your brain learns to ignore it.”
Miranda tries to look at her nose.
I scan through the pertinent regulations and drag my finger down the page.
“Here it is. Noise ordinance.” I read down the subclauses.
“Just like I thought. There are even specific decibel limits outlined in the business district. Not to mention a litany of rules about maintaining the pedestrian-friendly nature of the gayborhood.” I look up, satisfied like I just won an argument, because I did.
“Riley is going to be forced to take this seriously.”
“I thought Chase was the owner, and Riley was the rude guy?”
“Right. Chase,” I correct myself. I grab a scrap of paper and a pen and scribble down the regulation numbers.
“That Riley just really got on my nerves. Can you imagine moving to the gayborhood and not treasuring our—” I look to the book for their phrasing, “charming atmosphere and community-oriented activities?”
“You tell him,” Miranda encourages me. “You give him hell with those regulations.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Am I behaving like an out-of-control HOA member?”
“Only in a very surface sort of way. Significantly, though, you’re in the right, and you’re talking to your neighbor directly first, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”
I nod. “Talking to your neighbors is always the right step.” After emboldening myself with one more careful read through, I close the book and head straight over to the garage, eager to get this all behind me.
As usual, the building is clattering, clanking, and roaring, its presence dominating the street. There’s a man sitting on a bike outside and yelling into his phone, and the scent of gasoline hangs heavy in the air.
Refusing to be intimidated anymore, I walk in with a friendly smile. When I turn, though, I see Riley behind a big window. He’s standing in what looks like the office with Chase and staring directly at me.
He scowls, his broad features scrunching up.
I tighten my brow, but then I hesitate. How is it possible he makes me so flustered and… mad with just one look? I’m giving this man way too much mental real estate.
I walk over to the office, and through the open door, both of the mechanics look to me. I manage another smile, professional and unbothered.
“Hello, hi! Sorry to interrupt. Do you have a minute?”
Chase gestures for me to come in. “Sure, anytime. What can I help you with, Finn?”
Inside the office, I only glance briefly at Riley. He’s wearing another shirt with a fantasy creature on it, this time Shrek. He seems to tense when I look his way.
It’s annoying to me that he likes one of my favorite childhood movies, but I’m not here for a pop culture discussion.
“As I mentioned to Riley yesterday, the noise from the garage has been causing some headaches around the block. Namely, the headache where all the foot traffic disappeared. Since you’ve opened, the nature of the entire street has changed.
” Now, I do look at Riley. “I had asked Riley if there’s anything you could do about it,” I say, keeping my voice friendly, and turn back to Chase.
“He wasn’t able to help, but I thought you might? ”
Chase bites down on one of his lip rings, thinking. “The noise, huh?” he asks.
I nod as the garage rattles behind me. “It’s quite loud.”
“It is. But Riley was right to say we’re unfortunately going to be loud neighbors. There’s a certain level of noise that comes with working on bikes, and we can only do so much to keep it from spilling out onto the street.”
Riley scratches the tattoo on his neck, some kind of demonic wing that rises up from his torso.
I expected to be shut down, which is why I came prepared.
“About that. There are actually regulations in the gayborhood regarding how much your volume can affect the rest of us.” I pull the scrap of paper out of my pocket.
“I copied down the numbers in case you want to look them up yourself, but the code is fairly strict.”
I shoot Riley a smile. Infuriatingly, he smiles back. It’s possibly the first smile I’ve seen from him, and it’s like a finger in the eye.
“The code,” Riley says flatly, “doesn’t apply to us.”
I scoff out a laugh. “You might not want it to, but the code applies to every business in the gayborhood. That’s the beauty of living and working somewhere like Allentown.
We all collaborate to maintain a lovely and profitable environment.
And while I certainly don’t mean to be a meddling neighbor—”
“It doesn’t apply to us,” Riley cuts me off, “because our lot is zoned differently.”
“Afraid so,” Chase confirms with a nod.
I hesitate, thrown for a loop. “Excuse me?”
“This old stack of bricks is zoned as a special category mixed-use business and social establishment,” Chase says.
“Has to do with the owner of the lot nearly a century ago, when the zones were set. All I know for sure is I had to pay a premium because of it, but I’m exempt from the hassle of noise regulations, among other things. ”
I realize my mouth hangs slightly open and close it.
This can’t be right. They can’t have special permission to do whatever they want. But when I glance to Riley, the unblinking look on his face confirms that Chase is telling the truth.
Chase’s face softens. “I feel for you,” he says like he’s letting me down lightly.
“And I’m going to take your concerns into consideration.
See what’s possible as far as noise mitigation.
But the way for me to maintain a profitable environment is to do good work, and that means you’ll be seeing a lot more motorcycles in front of your shop as we get rolling. ”
“And heads-up,” Riley adds. “We’re going to host metal shows some evenings.”
“Of course you are!” I say brightly and shove the paper back in my pocket, working to contain a wrath I never knew I had inside me.
“I suppose we’ll all just carry on with another day.
” I use all my willpower to unclench my fist and stick my hand out to Chase.
Surprised, he accepts it with a shake. “Nothing like a metal show to introduce yourself to the block, let us know exactly what kind of neighbors you’ll be!
” When I shake Riley’s hand, too, I pump it extra hard, and don’t give him a chance to respond before I’m out the door.
Back on the street, I want to scream. I’m going to have to find a way to confirm that their deed truly gives them permission. But if there’s no answer for me from the bureaucracy, then what are my options?
When I return, a couple customers occupy seats at The Scoop, and Kenneth and Miranda are each working on a cone of their own.
“Finn!” Kenneth says. “We found the new batch you whipped up in the back. This is amazing!”
“Snickerdoodles!” Miranda declares, impressed. “The exact right cookie to compliment that delicious butter fudge ice cream you created. Truly, I didn’t notice until today how exquisite that creamy texture is.”
When I glance around, I see that the customers are working on butter fudge snickerdoodle, too. Exasperated, I throw my arms in the air with a groan.
“No luck at the garage?”
“None at all,” I answer, and grab an apron from the wall as I rally my spirits. “But that just means we’re going to have to go big.”
“Go big?” Kenneth asks.
“That’s right,” I say, back straight and voice determined as I tie the apron. “The time has come for an ice cream social.”