Day 1: 10:45 PM

I'm starting this journal differently. Hence the "Day 1" title. Summer is casually cruel. I wasn't expecting a blast from my past. Never, did I think I would be questioning the decisions I've made. Or wishing summer will never end. 

It all began with work.

They could eat their ice cream cones however they wanted. They could lick them, bite them, suck on them—I didn't care. What I didn't understand was the fascination the teenage population has with posing with ice cream cones. It's wasteful. All the ice cream does is melt and drip down the sides of the cone. Melted ice cream makes an ugly, sticky mess.

Their careless photos were disrespectful to my sore arm. After eight consecutive hours, it wasn't easy to scoop hard ice cream from cold buckets and then stuff it into an expensive waffle cone. I wanted to speak with my manager. I wanted to inform the customers I didn't need their pity, despite being the only one spiralling between making waffle cones, gathering new buckets of ice cream, scooping it, distributing samples, and attending the cash register.

The funny thing is, I'm not good at speaking up.

Which is why I put up with profane situations I become stuck in. I'd rather not anger the customers or annoy my manager. I prefer to sweat and deal as opposed to falling into a sinkhole of confrontation.

After I finished dealing with a customer who paid for a medium-sized black cherry waffle cone, I turned to the next customers.

"Welcome to 32 Below," I said in a monotonous voice. My cheeks hurt from displaying fake smiles all day. I can't wait until summer is over and college starts. Working here as an inpatient twenty-year-old isn't something I'd recommend. "What can I get?"

Two teenage girls stood in front of me and eyed the chalkboard menu.

"Can I try the peaches ands cream flavour?" the blonde-haired girl asked.

I suppressed an eye roll. Peaches and cream isn't a unique flavour. Hearing her ask for a taste test irked me. Peaches and cream is an iconic flavour. So damn common.

They tasted several flavours before deciding. Once they left, my shift came to a close. I switched the sign on the door from "OPEN" to "CLOSED."

I sighed, stretching out my sore arm before removing my baseball cap. Call me crazy, but clean-up is my favourite part. It makes me feel like I can breathe again. It signals the end of the day. 

Ten minutes into the clean-up procedure, the bell rang. When I looked up, I saw my manager Mr. Davidson enter. He mentioned stopping by earlier today. There was someting important that needed to be discussed.

Wiping my hands on my apron, I walked over to him. "Hey Mr. Davidson," I said. "What's up?"

"Alina," he said. He pushed his thick-framed glasses further up his nose. A wisp of his peppered grey hair fell to his forehead. "Busy shift?"

I rolled my eyes. "Busy, sir. But I managed. Though, my arm feels like it will fall off."

He smiled. "Well, in that case, you'll love the news I have. You don't have plans tonight, do you?"

My plans included watching the newest season of Lucifer. However, I didn't think binge-watching a TV show counted as plans. I shook my head.

"Great," he continued. "I've hired another employee to help cover your double shifts."

I almost cried.

No more handling the double shifts!

"That," I said, "is wonderful news. Thank you, sir." I paused. "Why do you need me to stay?"

He leaned against the freezer. "He needs to be trained as soon as possible. I was wondering if you'd train him after hours. Just run the basics by him and give him some knowledge. I'll pay you double overtime. I know this is last-minute, Alina. For that, I apologize."

"For sure," I shrugged. "No big deal."

"Great," Mr. Davidson said. He looked down at his phone. "My daughter has soccer practice tonight, so I need to get going. I trust I can leave this mission in your hands?"

I gave him the two-finger salute from beneath my 32 Below baseball cap. "Yes, sir."

"Great," he replied, flashing a beaming smile. His teeth were so white I wondered if he usesd bleach as mouthwash instead of Scope. "He'll arrive any minute. If you hear a knock on the door, just answer it."

Mr. Davidson exited the shop, leaving me alone to deal with the remaining buckets of ice cream. My arm cried out in achy protests as I scooped out the ice cream that wasn't used into individual pint containers. It's something that makes our Kelownian shop so unique compared to others: What hasn't been used, we sell the next day in pint-sized containers for half price. It works considerably well for our local customers.

The only downfall is that we have thirty-two different flavours of ice cream—hence the name 32 Below. By the time I'd scooped the contents from the bucket of salted caramel, I was positive my arm was going to be permanently damaged.

I leaned against the wall and sighed. Having a shift partner will be good, I thought to myself. All I have to do is teach him how the system works.

Ten more minutes of me trying to talk my arm into cooperating with me passed before there was a knock on the glass of the window. Setting the ice cream scoop down and closing the freezer, I smoothed my bubble gum-pink striped apron out and headed to the door.

Because I was having some inner confrontation with myself, I kept my eyes averted to the tile flooring as I pushed the door open.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, I said, "Hey. You must be the new employee Mr. David—"

"Well, well," interrupted a familiar voice. "If it isn't Alina Heinen. How long has it been? Twelve years?"

My eyes were drawn to the figure standing in front of me. At first, I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe that bite of matcha ice cream I snuck was laced with something.

Then I was overwhelmed with a rush of emotions. I wanted to scream out in pure joy. Throw my arms around him. I wanted to punch him for not telling me he was coming—I've never enjoyed surprises. My brain wasn't working properly. I couldn't believe I was staring at the boy I suffered swimmer's itch with the summer after grade three; that I shared my first kiss with during a Kelowna Rockets game; the one I cried over because he was moving away from Kelowna. My best friend and my crush.

Hudson Jensen was—is home. He was standing before me with a baseball cap that matched mine. A bubble-gum striped apron in his hand.

Even now, as I write this journal, my mind spins for a moment.  He's changed a lot. He's taller, built, and his hair is a mess of curls. The baby fat is gone from his face, displaying sharp cheekbones and a defined jawbone. If there's one thing that's the same, it's his deep brown eyes.

"H-Hudson?" I suttered, still stuck in a sinkhole of disbelief.

He grinned at me. "The one and only."

Eventually, reality checked in. I was able to extract myself from the sinkhole. I closed the space between Hudson and I. Throwing my arms around him, I pulled him into an aggressive hug.

"What are you doing here?" My voice was muffled because I was pressing my face so hard into his shoulder.

"Needed a job for the summer," he replied.

Our hug lasted longer than the average hug. Neither of us seemed to mind. Years had passed since we saw each other. I think it's safe to say this hug was long overdue.

"God, I've missed you," Hudson said when the hug was over.

"I've missed you, too," I replied.

And that's nothing but the truth—I have missed him. So much. Even as I write, my heart aches. The memories pile up, perfectly imbalanced and ready to tip. The summer ahead of us will be epic. We'll spend every day together, catching up and getting to know each other again. 

However, doubt lingers in the corners of my mind.

But years have passed without us seeing each other.

Who knows what has changed besides our appearances?  

And why has he returned?