Warren's eyes find mine over Beckett's head. "You still get motion sick?"
A jolt runs through me. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget you throwing up on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the church carnival when you were a kid." The corner of his mouth twitches up.
"I was ten!"
"Mommy, pleeeease?" Beckett's eyes, so like Warren's, pleaded up at me.
"You two go. I'll watch from safety."
I stand at the railing, watching Warren help buckle our son into the teacup. He's so gentle, so patient with each of Beckett's excited questions. My chest aches with what might have been if I'd made different choices.
After three rides that leave Beckett dizzy and giggling, Warren disappears into a crowd, returning moments later with a massive elephant ear covered in powdered sugar and?—
"Kettle corn?" I stare at the bag he extends toward me. "How did you?—"
"You used to steal mine at every movie night." He shrugs like it's nothing. Like remembering my favorite fair food after more than five years is casual.
The sweetness melts on my tongue, a perfect match to the ache in my chest.
"Look, Mom! The Ferris wheel!" Beckett points skyward.
The three of us squeeze into one swinging cart, Beckett between us. As we climb higher, the fair transforms into atwinkling sea beneath us. Beckett whirs at each new height, leaning first against Warren, then against me.
At the very top, the wheel stops.
Our cart sways gently in the night breeze. Over Beckett's head, I meet Warren's eyes. The carnival lights paint his face in shifting colors, highlighting the curve of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze. We're too close in this small space. Close enough that I remember exactly how his lips felt against mine.
The wheel jerks forward, breaking the moment.
Later, Warren crouches behind Beckett at the ring toss booth, guiding his arm.
"Elbow up. Now follow through."
The ring lands perfectly on a bottle neck. Beckett erupts in joyous screams while Warren lifts him in celebration.
"We did it! We won!"
The carnival worker hands Beckett a small, lopsided teddy bear. My son immediately pushes it into my hands.
“For you, Mommy!”
I clutch the cheap prize against my chest, throat tight with unexpected emotion. “Thank you, baby.”
The simplicity of this moment, this glimpse of what we could be, hurts more than any shouting match ever could. I torched this with one misguided decision when I was barely older than a kid, myself.
By the time we’ve made one last loop past the Ferris wheel and the food stands, Beckett is yawning so wide his eyes water. He stumbles against Warren’s side, still clutching my bear.
It's well past seven, but we've all been having so much fun together, it didn't matter.
“Alright, champ,” Warren murmurs, steadying him. “Time to head home.”
Minutes later, Beckett is buckled into the back seat, already slumped against the booster with the bear crushed to his chest. His mouth parts in sleep as Warren pulls onto the highway.
The cab goes quiet, only the low rumble of tires and the steady rhythm of Warren’s breath beside me. His hand rests on the console between us, fingers loose, close enough that my skin itches to reach across.
I almost do. Almost.