We end up at a fast food place a bit far from the cliff—one of those 24-hour joints with plastic booths and flickering neon signs that hum like mosquitoes. Felix insists on going in instead of using the drive-thru. "You need to sit and sulk properly," he says, pushing the door open like he's some tragic antihero entering his lair.
He really buys me three portions of french fries. He sets them on a tray like they're priceless, then slides over a small cup of vanilla ice cream.
"Go on, your highness," he says. "The perfect cure for jealousy: salty and sweet. Like me."
I roll my eyes, but I take a fry, dip it in the ice cream, and bite. The contrast hits instantly—crispy, warm, cold, creamy. Ridiculous. Also ridiculously good.
"You're such a freak for knowing this works."
"Told you. I'm a man of taste."
