8 from the notebook of Elijah Iverson
I can’t stop thinking about ice cream.
There was a night with him at some pretentious pop-up gallery I’d dragged him to, where despite being the pro-sports-watching, millionaire fish out of water, he’d managed to charm all of my arty friends into falling in love with him. It was something about his smile, I think, which was slightly too wide and punctuated with dimples pressed into his cheeks by a surely smitten god. Or maybe it was those eyes—a bright bottle-green, perpetually alight with playfulness or intensity or both.
Or maybe it was that Aiden Bell could always make you feel like you were his new best friend. Like he’d been waiting for you all night, and now that you were there with him, the party could really get started.
With all the cri
