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“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “If you want me to wear blockers, you need to say so at the house. I don’t like to put them on in the car.”

He frowns. “We’ve talked about this.”

“No.”

The last time we used the spray in the car, the chemical scent clung to Kain’s clothes, erasing him. The wrongness of it had coiled in my gut for hours.

Kain sighs again, but he checks the time. “Okay, you have two minutes to get it under control.”

I stare at him. Two minutes is ridiculous. Sweet Stack is twenty feet away, and we still have to get to Blue Note.

“Ten seconds,” I counter.

He gives me a pointed look, and I slump back into my seat with a huff.

A satisfied rumble sounds in his chest as he sets the timer.

I cross my arms and stare out the window. The bright glass of Stackers reflects the empty parking lot. Menu posters for Double Stack and Double Regret don’t tempt me. I only want the Sweet Stack Kain promised.

By the time the two minutes are up, my pulse has slowed, and Kain takes a deep breath before he gives me a grunt of approval.

I bolt before he can change his mind, scrambling out into air thick with the smell of grease and salt. He comes around the nose of the car to walk beside me, his shoulder brushing mine as we cross the asphalt.

Kain steps up to the to-go window. “One Sweet Stack, hold the nuts, whipped cream, and cherries. Make the fries extra crispy, please, and put them in a separate cup on the side, not under the ice cream.”

The man behind the window blinks at him through tired eyes beneath the red Stackers visor. “The Sweet Stack is a sundae with all the fixings, served on top of the fries.”

“I know what it is,” Kain says. “I want the fries separate, on the side, well done. Hold the fixings.”

“So you want a medium fry and a hot fudge sundae?”

I lean around Kain’s shoulder. “No, we want the Sweet Stack, but with the fries on the side, hold the fixings.”

The man squints at us. “It’s cheaper to get a side of fries and a hot fudge sundae.”

“And we’re ordering a Sweet Stack, crispy fries on the side, hold the fixings,” Kain says.

He rolls his eyes. “We have to charge you ten cents for the extra cup.”

“That’s fine. We’ll also need a straw.”

“Okay…”

Kain orders a small fry for himself, and the man taps at the register. A paper slip prints out with our order number.

“It will be four to six minutes,” he says.

Kain takes the number, and we step aside to clear the window.

A metal railing separates us from the empty parking spaces. The only sounds are the hum of the restaurant’s ventilation and a lone car passing on the main road.

In the stillness, my anticipation is deafening.

I bounce on my toes, my fingers drumming on my thighs. “Crispy, creamy, salty, sweet…”

“No,” Kain cuts in as he props himself on the railing. “Don’t get that stupid jingle stuck in my head right before I go on stage.”

I skip over to him. “Stackers makes the perfect treat!”