"What about Harper and Lizzie?"
"They already know we're here, and I think they understand two people at a carnival together are not inherently betrothed," I say, pausing a moment later. "Do you really get sick on rides?"
"Only the ones that look like literal death traps."
I chuckle and wave my arm toward one of the ticket booths. "Let's go buy wristbands, and then you can lead the way."
We do, and he does, and for a while, the two of us wander from one end of the carnival to the other. There's no hurry as we point out the things we'll return to soon, and there's no pressure to talk much either. We know how to be quiet. It's been true all along, and we walk with it now.
Our first ride together is the Tilt-A-Whirl, and it's almost unbearably sweet, this former hockey agitator and superstar opting to start with a simple carnival classic. It makes perfect sense somehow, and from there we go to the swings, our legs dangling in the air like we're better at fighting gravity than time. We trade a few silly shouts mid-ride, and the levity continues after we land, conversation morecomfortable as we adjust to the idea of having fun together.
A break for games comes next. First, we toss wiffle ball after wiffle ball into chalices, a stupid amount of concentration at war with our grins. It’s almost as though our respective skills could possibly come into play in this game of lucky bounces, and we tease each other endlessly about it. We shoot water into clowns' mouths after that, but both of us lose to a girl missing her two front teeth, and more laughter carries us to the next game.
It's one I know well. A favorite, actually. Sibling battles were fierce when I was a kid, but I could beat my sisters at this more than they beat me, even if there's probably luck involved here, too. We're going to roll balls into numbered holes, racing to move our horses from start to finish, and when Jamie rushes to sit down, I'm at his side quickly. I'm overwhelmed by the urge to tell him a hundred stories, but while we wait for more players to join—more people means bigger prizes!—I try to bite my tongue and look anywhere else.
I end up staring at his t-shirt.
Jamie's already acknowledged that he hadn't dressed for plans to get out of his car. He and Harper joked about it. And his jeans are great—I've admired them a couple of times today—but I'm not confident his shirtwon'tdisintegrate. It's worn so thin, and while I'm not complaining about seeing more of him, I reach for a small tear at his side. My finger slips through and grazes his skin, and it doesn't escape me that I've never touched him here before. When he trembles, I think it hasn’t escaped him either. I haven't looked up yet, but I don't think he's dared to look down, and I take another few seconds to find the weakest version of my voice.
"I could've looked in my trunk again. I could've found you something to wear."
"Will it make anything better if I have a closet full of your clothes?" he asks.
We're interrupted then, but it's probably for the best. I pull my hand away so I can play, and I swear the heavy beat of my heart is keeping time with childhood memories and nothing more recent than that. It slows me down though, and Jamie wins a stuffed penguin while I finish in the middle of the pack.
"Congrats," I say once we're a few steps away. "Are you going to give that to Harper?"
"I always have," he smiles, tilting his head when he lets it turn into a smirk. "You're not mad that I won, are you?"
"Why would I be mad?"
The smirk is slow to fade, but then he shakes his head. "I'm hungry."
With a stuffed animal in his hand and holes in his shirt, he leads us back toward the food court. We stop before we're anywhere near the tacos we abandoned, and I feel like I should've known where we'd end up long before we arrived. The funnel cake smells predictably incredible, but I pause incredulously when I catch Jamie studying the small menu.
"Really? Funnel cake and powdered sugar aren't enough on their own? You have to addtoppings?"
"Mmmm, pretty sure powdered sugar counts as a topping."
I roll my eyes. "Okay, yes, but you're adding extra toppings."
"And mango chipotle wings were going to be your big end-of-summer adventure," he points out.
"Tough talk from the guy who will vomit if we go on a big-kid ride."
Jamie bursts out laughing—a literal eruption of sound that turns a few heads—and I'm proud of myself for making it happen. When he quiets long enough to order, he ends up with strawberries, Nutella,andpowdered sugar. I'm content with my more traditional treat.
We look for a table nearby, but everything is taken, and I'm glad I know my way around. It's not much longer before we're sitting on the ground on the back side of several booths, a bunch of cardboard boxes and someone's golf cart keeping us company. I frown when Jamie stretches a leg in front of him, disappointed in myself for not thinking this through.
"It's fine," he says.
And I leave it at that.
Eating keeps us from talking for the next minute or two, neither of us making sounds more coherent than mumbled pleasure. We watch each other because it's easier when nobody's watching us, and I smile around a mouthful of sugar. Then I glance at the penguin in Jamie's lap and let myself feel too many things until I swallow comfort and reach for something else.
"So," I start, that single syllable dragged too far. "How's Melanie Bishop?"
He's sinful about the way he sucks the tips of his fingers clean, but I don't know whether it's aimed at me or just how he is. I wipe my fingers on a napkin and wait.