He made sure to spoil me, made sure to covering all of my usual nit-pickings, made sure to clear it with the other alphas and then there we were, on the way up Highway 99 in search of overpriced ice cream.
Whistler is packed this time of year but it's a lovely drive all the same. He lets shotgun pick the music and he never complains much anymore as I cycle through my favorite songs of this summer.
He smiles, sunglasses in place, hair in place and enjoys my company, buying me a double-scoop, chocolate and coffee in a sugar cone, and we stroll around enjoying the village, enjoying the ice cream. He got butter pecan, also a sugar cone. We enjoy each other, but just a little, as absence makes the heart grow fonder or in Caleb's case, more desperate and he delights in telling me of his most recent cardiology workup, everything coming back perfect, or better than expected. He works hard at fixing his heart, as if he can, by remaining strong and exercising, eating right and living by the book. He is stronger than anyone I know and I am thrilled with his good news, and the fact that I get to hear it first. My joyfulness at his good news is contagious and he laughs, almost shy suddenly as he finishes his ice cream and takes my hand.
Or rather, a hand full of ice-cream-sticky napkins that I am using to negotiate my way, as the other hand is holding the cone itself, ice cream melting almost faster than I can finish it. There's a few drops on my shoes. Some on my dress. There is a smear of ice cream on my nose and yet, I'm loving every single lick of it. It's just maybe too big and my track record for being able to finish one is almost as amazing as my ability to finish a can of pop: nonexistent.
He swears and leans in to take a big bite, stealing my treat and earning a huge brain freeze at the same time. I turn away, spraying him with melted ice cream in the process.
Bridget! He cries out. Jesus! You've weaponized ice cream!
Sorry! sorry! My bad. I turn back, spraying some random couple walking up the opposite side of the road and they laugh (thank God) and Caleb wades back in, taking the ice cream from my hand, tossing it into a nearby garbage can and taking my sticky hand. We find the washrooms under the shops and both head to our separate ones to wash up. I think my outfit is beyond help and settle for washing my hands and wiping the visible ice cream off my face (and ear) and when I come out he offers to take me shopping tomorrow to replace my clothing.
My washing machine will work just fine.
True but it would be fun to spend another day.
Well, you do owe me.
How is that again? He is bemused, curious.
You threw out my ice cream and it wasn't even finished.
Next one will be a kids' cone.
Thought I had graduated to man-sized ice cream.
Yeah, I thought you had too. Guess we were both wrong.
Whistler is packed this time of year but it's a lovely drive all the same. He lets shotgun pick the music and he never complains much anymore as I cycle through my favorite songs of this summer.
He smiles, sunglasses in place, hair in place and enjoys my company, buying me a double-scoop, chocolate and coffee in a sugar cone, and we stroll around enjoying the village, enjoying the ice cream. He got butter pecan, also a sugar cone. We enjoy each other, but just a little, as absence makes the heart grow fonder or in Caleb's case, more desperate and he delights in telling me of his most recent cardiology workup, everything coming back perfect, or better than expected. He works hard at fixing his heart, as if he can, by remaining strong and exercising, eating right and living by the book. He is stronger than anyone I know and I am thrilled with his good news, and the fact that I get to hear it first. My joyfulness at his good news is contagious and he laughs, almost shy suddenly as he finishes his ice cream and takes my hand.
Or rather, a hand full of ice-cream-sticky napkins that I am using to negotiate my way, as the other hand is holding the cone itself, ice cream melting almost faster than I can finish it. There's a few drops on my shoes. Some on my dress. There is a smear of ice cream on my nose and yet, I'm loving every single lick of it. It's just maybe too big and my track record for being able to finish one is almost as amazing as my ability to finish a can of pop: nonexistent.
He swears and leans in to take a big bite, stealing my treat and earning a huge brain freeze at the same time. I turn away, spraying him with melted ice cream in the process.
Bridget! He cries out. Jesus! You've weaponized ice cream!
Sorry! sorry! My bad. I turn back, spraying some random couple walking up the opposite side of the road and they laugh (thank God) and Caleb wades back in, taking the ice cream from my hand, tossing it into a nearby garbage can and taking my sticky hand. We find the washrooms under the shops and both head to our separate ones to wash up. I think my outfit is beyond help and settle for washing my hands and wiping the visible ice cream off my face (and ear) and when I come out he offers to take me shopping tomorrow to replace my clothing.
My washing machine will work just fine.
True but it would be fun to spend another day.
Well, you do owe me.
How is that again? He is bemused, curious.
You threw out my ice cream and it wasn't even finished.
Next one will be a kids' cone.
Thought I had graduated to man-sized ice cream.
Yeah, I thought you had too. Guess we were both wrong.