The Thaw Experiment

By Kelly Murashige

The two arrive separately, both fuming at their friends. While hers at least had the courtesy to apologize profusely before ditching her for a date, his just never bothered showing up.

He blames himself, really. It was his friends’ big idea to get the boys back together and volunteer at their old high school’s annual carnival. Joke’s on him for being the only one to follow through.

She, meanwhile, is seething with envy. She hasn’t been on a date in years.

Because you never go outside, her best friend pointed out.

Well, I am now, she shot back, except you’re not coming with me.

I’m sorry, her best friend said, sounding genuinely contrite. But who knows? They might pair you with the love of your life.

Her best friend’s words jab her ribs like an errant elbow as she takes in her new shift partner. The two have been assigned to the frozen sweets booth. At the very least, she tells herself, tying a fluttering plastic apron around her waist, she doesn’t have to do any cooking.

“NutLate,” he says.

Her eyebrows pull together. “I’m sorry?”

He points to the fifth item on the hanging menu with one gloved hand. “Right here. ‘NutLate.’ What the heck is that?”

“Oh.” She eyes the brand name, pronounced nutlet and spelled in the most unfortunate way possible. “That hazelnut-and-chocolate spread everyone used to love back in the day. I didn’t know they make ice cream now.”

He peers into ice-cream freezer, his school-issued paper hat tilting dangerously to one side. “Think it’s good?”

Her mouth quirks. “I don’t think we’re supposed to eat on the job.”

“Why not? No one’s paying us. It feels like the least they can do.”

She shifts, discomfort pooling in her stomach. She knows she can’t exactly get fired from a volunteer position, but considering she never even attended this school—her best friend is the alumna here, and even she ditched—she doesn’t feel comfortable breaking the rules.

“I’m kidding,” he says. He leans against the freezer, then quickly straightens up. “Sorry. I get stupid when I’m nervous.”

Her laugh is shaky. “Me too.”

“At least we can be stupid and nervous together.”

“At least.”

Maybe, she thinks, this won’t be so bad.

***

It’s bad. God, it’s bad. Who knew people could get so aggressive over cups of ice cream?

As soon as the carnival opens, the booth is flooded with people. It takes two hours for the deluge to lessen to a trickle, but the shift is so sudden, he finds himself unnerved.

Perhaps that’s why he jumps when she says, “So.”

After clearing his throat and shuffling his feet, he forces himself to meet her gaze. “So.”

“Tell me about yourself,” she says.

He blinks. “What?”

“I mean, if we’re going to be stuck here for another two hours, we might as well get to know each other a little, right?” She sets her forearms on the counter. “All I’ve learned about you so far is that you have no clue what NutLate is.”

“Do you need to know anything else?” he asks, and though he keeps his tone light, he can feel his walls coming up. He sees no point in telling her about himself when, in a matter of hours, they’ll be strangers again.

“Well,” she says, evidently missing the joke, “what do you like to do?”

Not this, he wishes he could say. Not try to make myself look good so my booth partner doesn’t know I thought this would be the point in my life where I would reunite with my old friends and get my life back on track.

He opens his mouth. Pauses. It’s a wonder, he thinks, that someone who has as many interests as he does can forget every single one.

“Puzzles,” he blurts out.

She frowns. “Puzzles? Like… the jigsaw kind?”

“Sure,” he says, “or the sliding kind, or the logic kind, or…”

His mouth hangs partly open. He has no idea what he’s saying anymore.

“Told you,” he says, heat creeping up his neck. “I get stupid when I’m nervous.”

She smiles. “Why get nervous now?”

He doesn’t know how he can possibly answer that. Not without sounding like he’s trying to hit on her.

He’s just about to open his mouth and change the subject, maybe shoot her original question back to her, when a child’s head pops up on the other side of the counter.

“I WANT NUTLATE,” the child shouts.

They both jump, his paper hat finally tumbling off his head.

“Well,” she says as he scoops his hat off the ground, “then let’s get you some NutLate.”

***

The last two hours of their shift pass uneventfully, and though a part of him is disappointed they haven’t had a chance to continue their chat, he also realizes that might just be for the best. It wasn’t as if he had been a scintillating conversationalist anyhow.

As soon as they have finished their shift, their replacements reluctantly pulling on their paper hats and plastic aprons, she turns back to the counter and orders a NutLate ice-cream sandwich.

“Got that NutLate itch, huh?” he asks.

Sometimes, he wonders why he bothers talking at all.

She purses her lips, biting back a smile. Then, sobering, she says, “Do me a favor and turn around for a minute.”

He frowns but obeys, having learned, after years of living with two bossy sisters, it’s better not to argue.

Not even five seconds after he pivots away, she taps him on the shoulder and hands him the frozen treat, the ice cream still stiff beneath its paper wrapper. Then, before he can ask her what he’s doing, or even thank her, she swivels away and disappears into the crowd.

He stands there for a moment. Glances over at the people at the ice-cream booth, both of whom look as baffled as he feels. After a pause, he peels the label off the ice-cream sandwich. His fingernail catches on a second layer, something hidden just beneath the wrapper. Furrowing his brow, he pulls out a sunny yellow sticky note.

He studies it for a moment. Then, raising his head, he extracts his phone from his pocket and punches in the digits on the sticky note.

She answers on the second ring.

“Wow,” she says, mirth leaking into her tone. “You really are good at puzzles.”

His laugh is quiet, unfurling like the softest feather. “I don’t think it takes a hard-boiled detective to find a sticky note in a wrapper.”

“Then let me give you a slightly harder one.” She takes a breath. “Come find me. Bonus points if you do it before the ice cream melts.”

He grins. “You’re on. And don’t you worry. I won’t be nut… late.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Okay,” he says. “By the time I find you, I’ll have better jokes. I swear.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Laughing, he lets her hang up first. He then melts into the crowd, searching for t

hat sweetness, knowing better than to let it slip away again.

💕💕💕💕

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Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novel The Lost Souls of Benzaiten and Adam Silvera’s July 2025 Allstora Book Club Pick, The Yomigaeri Tunnel. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions.