I Scream Ice Cream

Luke has a crush.

Title: “I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream… Because Luke Has a Crush”

Luke Butterfield was the kind of boy who blended into wallpaper so well you’d think he was wallpaper. Tall, skinny, perpetually hunched like a question mark, and somehow always clutching a book on astrophysics that he tried to pass off as required reading for class. He worked at I Scream Ice Cream, a tiny pastel shop tucked between a yoga studio and a vape store, which meant it was mostly frequented by people trying to decide if they wanted sugar or regret later that they resisted temptation.

Julie Simmons, his best friend, coworker, and self-appointed social translator, was the opposite of Luke in every way. Where Luke mumbled, she sparkled. Where Luke shrank, she strutted. And where Luke panicked over eye contact, Julie once made direct eye contact with a raccoon in a dumpster and won.

They had a routine: Luke manned the back freezer, where social anxiety went to chill, and Julie took orders, flirted for tips, and kept her best friend from combusting like a Mentos in Diet Coke.

Julie also knew everything about Luke. His favorite color (moss green). His deepest insecurity (his elbows were too bony). His secret obsession (hand sanitizer). And the one thing she had never told a soul, not even the raccoon at the dumpster.

Luke had a crush.

On Weston Connor.

Yes, that Weston Connor—the quarterback, the golden retriever in cleats, the boy who looked like he’d been carved by a Greek god who majored in CrossFit. Luke had whispered the truth to her one night during a whipped cream fight in the walk-in freezer.

“If you tell anyone, Julie,” he said, his breath fogging the air between them, “I’ll put anchovies in your shampoo bottle.”

Julie had only nodded solemnly. “Your secret’s safe. But just so you know, anchovies are protein, and my hair could use the volume.”

She hadn’t told anyone. Not even when Weston Connor actually came into the shop.

Luke was working the register that day, purely by accident. Julie had stepped away to yell at the blender, which had started making noises like a haunted saxophone. And then it happened:

The bell above the door dinged.

And Weston Connor walked in.

Luke froze like a human popsicle.

Weston wore his practice jersey like it was tailored by Gucci. His hair was a sunbeam. His smile could’ve solved the energy crisis.

“Yo,” Weston said, leaning on the counter, “can I get a triple scoop of Rocky Road?”

Luke opened his mouth. No words came out. A soft wheeze emerged, like a balloon slowly deflating in shame.

Weston tilted his head. “You okay, man?”

Luke panicked and blurted, “Cows have best friends.”

“…what?”

“Cows,” Luke said again, unable to stop the train wreck that was his mouth, “they form deep social bonds. It’s… it’s scientifically proven. They get stressed when they’re separated.”

There was a pause.

Julie emerged from the back, took one look at the situation, and said cheerfully, “He means the Rocky Road has marshmallows, so it’s like… bumpy. Like a cow’s social life. Probably.”

Luke turned a shade of red so vibrant it could’ve been a new lipstick.

Weston laughed. “Dude, that’s hilarious. You’re, like, quirky.”

Julie beamed. “Oh, you have no idea.”

⸻

Later that night, Luke lay flat on the ice cream freezer, moaning.

“I told him cows have best friends. Who says that? Who does that?”

Julie sat cross-legged on the counter, eating cookie dough straight from the tub.

“You did. And honestly? It kind of worked.”

Luke sat up. “You’re just saying that because you feel bad for me.”

“Nope. I’m saying that because he smiled at you like you were a limited-edition Pokémon card.”

Luke groaned again. “Julie, I’m never asking him out. Never. I’m going to take this crush to my grave. I’ll die single and awkward and someone will write ‘He never asked Weston Connor out’ on my tombstone.”

Julie smirked. “Then it’s a good thing I have a plan.”

Luke narrowed his eyes. “What kind of plan?”

“A gentle push. Not a shove. Not a prank. Just… a social engineering moment.”

“…define ‘moment.’”

⸻

The next Friday was “Build Your Own Sundae Night.” The shop was packed. Julie had told Luke absolutely nothing except “wear the good shirt, the one that makes your collarbones look like they lift weights.”

Luke was behind the counter, scooping cautiously and trying not to sneeze into the sprinkles.

Then Weston walked in.

With two friends.

Julie greeted them, winking like she had a secret deal with fate. “Weston! Glad you made it.”

Luke blinked. “Wait—you invited him?”

Julie whispered, “Don’t worry. You’ll thank me. Or hate me. One of those.”

Weston walked up to the counter. “Hey, cow guy.”

Luke wanted to melt into the hot fudge bucket.

“I was hoping you’d be here,” Weston added.

Julie gave Luke a tiny, barely perceptible nod. Go on. Be bold. Be brave. Be… a lactose-based legend.

Luke swallowed. “Do… do you want to build a sundae together?”

Weston grinned. “Only if you tell me more cow facts.”

Luke blinked. “Cows have 32 teeth. They can’t see the color red. And, um… their tongues are 18 inches long.”

“Hot,” Weston said, grabbing a bowl. “Let’s do this.”

Julie watched from behind the milkshake machine, smiling so hard her face hurt.

Luke wasn’t cured. He was still shy, still awkward, still convinced his elbows were weird. But Luke leaned in closer to Weston and whispered, “You got whipped cream on your nose,” and then tapped it off with his finger, Julie knew two things for sure:
1. Luke was going to be okay.
2. He was never going to wash that finger.

Just kidding. He immediately wiped it on his apron.

Julie was happy because her best friend’s wish had come true.

The End.