I.C.B.

Marissa scanned the street, her eyes landing on a flashing neon sign - I.C.B. The flat roof and scuffed red door had all the trappings of a dive bar. 

“Perfect,” she muttered against her scarf. She readjusted her stocking cap as the cold Minneapolis wind blew. She was glad she had kept her cold weather accessories when she moved to southern California. For trips back home like this. Unplanned, last minute, life-altering trips back home. 

She waited on the corner, willing the crosswalk signal to change so she could get out of the bitter cold. I.C.B. I Crave Beer? She thought. That she did. IPA Centered Bar?  So many options on what it could stand for, she mused. She just needed to sit, drink, and get her mind off this terrible day. Terrible week. Terrible life.

The crosswalk signal changed and she crossed the street quickly, the thought of heat, a cold beer, and comfy bar stool propelling her along.

She shoved open the heavy door, stepping into the brightly lit space. Weird vibe for a dive bar, she thought, but she wasn’t going to be fussy. Anything was better than sitting around the kitchen table with her family in awkward, pained silence. 

She hoisted herself up on a stool at the end of the scarred wooden bar. She began the process of disrobing - fleece-lined mittens first, then stocking cap, finally unwinding her plaid scarf from her neck. She made no move to take off her jacket; her internal temperature still needed a bit of warming.

The bartender made her way down to Marissa, setting down a napkin and a spoon in front of her. “What’ll it be, hon?” she asked.

“Oh, do you have a tap list?” Marissa asked.

“Of sorts,” she replied. “Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry.”

Marissa’s eyes narrowed in confusion. The bartender’s lips curved upward into a small smile. She shifted and pointed at the sign on the far wall. 

Ice Cream Bar. 

I.C.B. 

Marissa sighed deeply, her eyes closing for a brief second. “Chocolate,” she whispered. Tears clogged her throat and threatened to form at the corner of her eyes. 

The bartender gave her a long look. “You got it,” she replied quietly. 

As the bartender retreated, Marissa took a couple of deep breaths, shoving the emotion down. An ice cream bar, she thought, bewildered. She had never heard of such a thing. Was this a trick? Of all places for her to stop in to, on this day. She refused to think of it as a sign. A message. A divine intervention. 

Intervention. She pressed her fingers to her eyes, physically stopping the tears from falling. She’d had enough tears. 

“If you really want a beer, I can go grab one from the actual bar down the street and smuggle it in. No need to cry about it,” a voice joked to her right. 

Marissa turned her head and her eyes landed on a man in his early 30s; he shifted on his stool so that he was facing her, halfway down the bar. His red stocking cap perched atop his head, not covering his ears. What was the point then? Marissa wondered. 

Registering the actual emotion on Marissa’s face, he quickly backtracked.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I was just making a joke, I - I - oh god, I’m sorry.” 

He swiveled back to face the bar, picking up his spoon and staring into his large bowl of vanilla ice cream. 

Marissa stared at him. Vanilla, she thought dully. The only other person she knew that would willingly eat a whole bowl of vanilla ice cream is her sister. Was her sister, she corrected. Her sister whose funeral she attended yesterday. The reason for this unplanned, last minute, life altering trip home.

“I was supposed to meet someone for a date here, but I got stood up,” the man said, staring into his bowl. 

“I’m sorry,” Marissa replied softly. How many times had she heard that in the past few days? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sorry it ended like this; we all thought she was doing better. I’m sorry she couldn’t beat it. 

It felt good to say “I'm sorry” to someone else. To deflect. To spread the sorry around. She’d had enough of it.

“It’s okay,” he replied, shifting his eyes towards her. “It was a first date, so sometimes that happens. I was really looking forward to it though.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say next. She hadn’t been on a date in years and even when she was dating, she couldn’t ever remember being excited for a first date. Nervous, terrified, unsure - yes. Looking forward to a first date? Couldn't be her. 

The bartender returned with her chocolate ice cream, a dollop of whipped cream on top. “I thought you could use some sprinkles,” the bartender said, as she dumped what seemed like a full cup of multi-colored sprinkles on top. 

Marissa met the bartender’s eyes and smiled. “I love sprinkles. Thank you.”

That was a lie. Her sister, Phoebe, was the sprinkle lover. Vanilla with sprinkles was her go-to order at any ice cream or frozen yogurt place. She had dubbed herself a “sprinkle purist” and would forcefully proclaim that if you really wanted to savor the sprinkles it had to be on vanilla only. Marissa hoped Phoebe would let her slide today, with her chocolate and sprinkles. 

“She must like you,” the man said as the bartender moved on to other customers. “I did not get any free sprinkles.” 

Marissa shifted and met his eyes; he smiled at her, his spoon suspended in midair halfway between his bowl and his mouth. He was clearly trying to improve her mood or hit on her. Probably a bit of both, she thought.

“It’s melting,” she said, gesturing at his ice cream dripping onto the bar. 

He reacted quickly, his spoon clattering back into his bowl. His face flushed a bit, embarrassed at her flat reaction to his attempt to keep the conversation going. Marissa considered him as she took a scoop of her ice cream; maybe a bit of distraction would do her good. 

“Why were you looking forward to this first date?” Marissa asked. “Aren’t first dates supposed to be awkward and nerve wracking?” 

 “Oh, yeah, most first dates are pretty nerve wracking,” he replied, surprised that she was continuing the conversation. “This girl just seemed really funny and genuine. We texted for a few weeks before I finally convinced her to meet me in person.” He paused. “Guess I must have weirded her out with my persistence.”

“I’m sure she just had a last minute thing pop up,” Marissa said. “Hopefully you’ll hear from her.”

He took out his phone from his pocket, opening it to a text thread. Marissa was too far away to see the actual words, but could tell that he had sent several texts, all which had gone unanswered for the last few days. He met her eyes and raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, hopefully.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Or she got hit by a bus and died,” he sighed.

Marissa reared back as if she had been slapped. 

“Oh my god, bad joke, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” the man said. “Jesus, I’m sorry,” he said again, blowing out a breath. “I’m an idiot.” He shoveled a bit of ice cream into his mouth with unnecessary force.

Marissa stared at her chocolate ice cream. More I’m sorry’s directed her way, she thought. “It’s okay,” said in a voice that masked her despair. “It just caught me off guard.” She lifted her head to meet his eyes again. 

He looked at her carefully, deciding if he should reply.

“I’m in town for a funeral,” she said evenly. 

“I’m - “

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” she said, just as he was about to. He stopped, giving her a curt nod. “It’s just,” she sighed, “I’ve heard a lot of that lately.”

He nodded again. They both shifted back to eating their ice cream, a comfortable silence stretching between them. 

Marissa wondered if Phoebe had ever been here. It wasn’t very close to Phoebe’s apartment and since Phoebe’s license had been suspended, Marissa wasn’t sure how much effort Phoebe would put into trekking across town on public transportation. I thought she was doing better, Marissa thought. She really thought the intervention they had last year had turned things around. That’s what she wanted you to think. 

“This girl was really beautiful.” The man was talking again. “That’s why I swiped right on her profile. But then when we got to talking she was super funny.” 

Marissa turned her attention back to him, grateful to be shaken out of her thoughts. 

“She had this way of asking silly questions to keep the conversation going,” he went on. “I know we were just texting for a few weeks, but it was so easy to open up to her.”

“That must have been nice.”

“It really was. She seemed a bit guarded, which now I’m realizing was a sign that she just wasn't interested,” he said with a wry smile. “Which was why I was hoping to meet her and, you know, have her feel more comfortable around me.”

“I’m sure she would have been,” Marissa said. “I’m pretty comfortable with you and we just met.” He nodded and shrugged his shoulders, his gaze back on his ice cream. “And that’s even after you made a joke about dying to someone in town for a funeral.”

He let out a bark of a laugh, his head tipping back to the ceiling. Marissa’s mouth flirted with a smile. It felt so nice to make someone laugh. So nice to illicit a response from someone other than I’m sorry.

“Yeah, I’m hoping she would have liked me. I thought we were really vibing.” He picked up his spoon and began to drag it through his bowl, which now resembled more of a vanilla soup. “She was even supportive when I suggested we meet here, instead of a normal bar for a drink.” He paused. “I’m 38 days sober.”

“That’s…,” Marissa whispered, “really great.” She had lost track of how many times Phoebe had been 38 days sober. Sometimes it got up to as high as 227, sometimes it was only 3. But she was always trying. “Congratulations.” 

“It’s been hard to know when to bring that up when you’re interested in someone and dating and all that, but she was super chill about it.” He shrugged. “Well, who knows, maybe her phone ran out of battery and I’ll hear from her later.”

“That’s the spirit,” Marissa said, trying to force an upbeat tone. “Maybe she just got cold feet because she was so into you.”

“Oh yeah, I bet that’s it,” he replied with a smile.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Phoebe.”