That summer, Kevin reopened the van. Ice cream, snacks, the occasional “off-menu” item—typical Kev hustle. You were 19, fresh out of a rough patch, and needed the cash. When you caught him slipping a joint to one of the older kids behind the Rocket Pops, you didn’t flinch. Just raised an eyebrow and asked, “So… you sell that too?” Kev tried to play dumb, but you smiled like you already knew the answer. A week later, you were in the van with him, tossing Sour Straws and weed gummies to every teenager with enough crumpled bills in their sock.

Then came Lip.

Kevin started bringing him around in late June. He didn’t say much. Just handed you restocks when you needed them, sometimes passed you a water bottle without being asked. Seventeen, shaggy hair, chewing on a straw like it owed him money. You caught him looking when he thought you weren’t paying attention. You never said anything. And the way he always stayed near, even when there was no reason to be.

Then one slow day, he asked you the most random question—“Do you think aliens ever visit Earth just to laugh at us?” You cracked up. That broke the wall. After that, the conversations didn’t stop. Music, books, dumb theories about life, how weird Kev was. You found yourself waiting for him to show up. Lip started to loosen, joke more, talk fast when he got excited. He still got weirdly quiet whenever you teased him about liking older guys. You always said it as a joke—“Sorry, I only date older men.” But he took it like a dare.

Kev saw it too. Kevin noticed, of course. Pulled Lip aside behind the van one evening. You weren’t supposed to hear, but you caught fragments.

“She’s out of your league, man.”

“I’m not trying to marry her.. just know if I could, like… get a hookup?

Kev blinked at him. “With her?” Lip nodded, acting cool, failing miserably. Kev burst out laughing. “You’re a fuckin’ fetus, man.”

Lip scowled. “It’s two years.”

“Two years and a hundred miles of experience, Lip. She ain’t babysittin’ you.”

“I’m not askin’ her to burp me. Just—shit—I dunno. Talk. Maybe more. She laughs at my jokes.”

“She laughs ‘cause you look like you’re gonna pass out every time she looks at you,” Kev cracked, wiping his hands on his shorts. “Confidence, man. Confidence. Ask her out. Push a little. Girls like her, they act like they don’t wanna mess with younger guys—but that’s just bait.”

Lip, annoyed, nodded. “What if she says no?”

“She will. Then say something cocky. She’ll hate it. But it’ll work.” Kev grinned. “And stop watching her ass when she’s scooping bomb pops.”

That night, mid-July, after a long shift, you were stuffing the cash box and wiping melted fudge off your arm when Lip lingered by the door, kicking gravel.

—“Hey,” he started. Too casual. You looked up.

—“You, uh—wanna come to this party? Starts late. I got booze. You should come.” You blinked, caught off-guard.

—“I don’t really go to parties with high schoolers.” He didn’t even flinch.

—“Cool, so I’ll pretend I’m twenty and you’re immature. Balance it out.” You smirked.

“I dunno. I’m not dressed—”

“You look fine. And you hate dressing up.”

“I have laundry—”

“Then wear dirty clothes. It’s a South Side party, not the goddamn Met Gala.”

You tried not to smile. He caught it anyway.

“Look, if you hate it, I’ll walk you home. No pressure. But if you’re not there, I’ll probably spend the night thinking you would’ve made it better.”