you'd suggested a real restaurant.

van had made a face like you'd proposed something mildly offensive.

"there's a sheetz," she said, "two minutes away."

"van."

"great slushies. i'm serious."

so that's how you end up here.

fluorescent lighting. the faint smell of motor oil. van in her jacket looking unreasonably good leaning against the slushie machine comparing flavors with the focus of someone making a very important decision.

"cherry or blue raspberry," she says.

"what's the difference."

"one tastes like candy and one tastes like a chemical reaction that somehow works." she looks at you. "obviously get both."

you get both.

you sit on the hood of her car in the parking lot.

it's cold. van gives you her jacket without being asked and then looks immediately annoyed at herself for doing it.

"you didn't have to—"

"i run hot," van says. "don't make it a thing."

you make it a thing. internally. privately. your whole chest goes warm.

she's funny when she's relaxed.

that's the thing you're learning about van — she's guarded until she isn't and when she isn't she's the funniest person you've ever met, dry and quick and a little self deprecating, and she looks at you sometimes mid-sentence like she's surprised you're still listening.

you're always still listening.

"what," she says, catching you looking.

"nothing," you say. "you're just — i like you."

van looks at her slushie.

"yeah," she says, quietly. "i like you too."

like it costs her something. like it's true anyway.

your slushie turns your tongue blue.

van notices, says nothing for a full minute, then points at your mouth with her straw.

"you've got—"

"i know."

"very attractive," she says, straight faced.

"yours is red," you say. "you look like a vampire."

she grins. actually grins, unguarded, just for a second.

you think about fancy restaurants and candlelight and decide this is better.

fluorescent light and slushies and van palmer's jacket and her turning red whenever you catch her being sweet.

definitely better.