Apple juice and hard ice. What a line. He’d roll his eyes if he knew. Already he knows. He’ll know, too, that it’s more than just ice this time. Smell it on you. See it in your walk, your eyes. In how you chew your bottom lip, glance at the floor, then up again. Squinting against hot lights, under cheers and stamping feet. Then he looks at you and wants to cry and maybe wants to run but opens his arms anyway and holds you, lets you hold him, and he’s sixteen years old and he loves you after everything.