Challenge: Binge late night ice cream eating. I don't know why though. Heartbreak, exams idk!
A man and his seven-year-old son stepped into their house. The boy was pressing a crumpled napkin over a drying nosebleed, his eyes downcast. The father was stiff and stone-jawed.
"I'm disappointed," he said at last. "Everyone was counting on that Triple Tiger Sashay. Everyone!"
Cole said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the floor.
"You had every opportunity to practice!" continued Lou. "And yet this. You've failed your quartet, son. And you've failed me."
" . . . I'm sorry, Dad."
Lou let out a long, irritated breath. There was a painful silence as they continued to stand in the front hall, Lou looking at Cole, Cole looking at the floor.
"Never mind," said Lou at last, his voice softening. "Get cleaned up, son. Get some rest. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Yes Dad."
Cole willingly went to bed. He tried to fall asleep quickly to escape the still-recent memory of his failed Triple Tiger Sashay, but he couldn't get it out of his head. The brief whirlwind of panic as he lost control and crashed to the floor. The bloody nose, the entire crowd laughing at him. Knowing he would hear about this at school tomorrow, and for weeks afterwards. It was a lot for a seven-year-old to handle.
Sniffling, he fished his old teddy bear out of the covers, buried his face in the worn fuzzy stomach, and let himself cry.
It took him half an hour to wind down. Eventually he ran out of tears, but he still lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling, numb with hopelessness. He was so tired of everything. His father hounding him daily, demanding that he practice music and dance every hour that he wasn't at school, always finding flaws, always expecting more than Cole could give. Never enough. Never a rest. Never any love.
Cole rolled onto his side, his stomach growling. He had gone to bed without any dinner, after all.
At last the combination of hunger and despondency drove him out of bed. He slipped out of his room and padded barefoot to the kitchen, where the refrigerator hummed comfortingly. Cole stood in his pajamas in the darkened room, wondering what he could eat. A sandwich? Some cereal?
A sudden urge struck him, and he reached for the freezer handle. Ice cream! He knew it wasn't an acceptable dinner food, and he knew that he wasn't supposed to eat it without permission. But that was just what he needed right now: something sweet, rich, and forbidden.
Plunking a tub of Rocky Road on the table and fetching a spoon, he hesitated for one final moment, wondering if he dared step this far out of line. Then he set his jaw. Yes. Rebellion. Ice cream.
He dug in vindictively, letting each cold spoonful draw him further away from his anger, from the demands, from the Triple Tiger Sashay. His father could say what he wanted next morning; right now, the disobedience tasted even better than the ice cream itself. He scraped the tub clean.
o.o.o.o.o
A whole eleven years later, Cole felt an oddly similar numb hopelessness. He tilted back a chair in the little apartment he rented with his lumberjack money, rubbing his eyes. Zane was dead. The team was gone. He and Jay weren't even speaking. Everything had fallen apart so fast . . .
When he was little, he'd thought the Triple Tiger Sashay was the worst thing that would ever happen to him. That seemed almost petty now, though. Grownups had real heartaches to deal with.
Sighing, he stumbled to his feet and went to open the freezer.