“Look.” Ron leans into me and points to the game set up just a few feet from where we’re standing. “No one’s in line for the Pop-a-Balloon. What do you say we give it a whirl?”
“Sure. I can’t hit the broad side of a barn, but why not?”
“On that note, I’ll make sure to stand behind you.” He places his hand on the small of my back and steers me toward the wall of festively colored balloons.
“Wise decision,” I say.
The teenager working the game barely looks up from his phone. “It’s a buck a shot. If you pop a balloon, you get a prize.” He gestures to the narrow wall behind him, lined with various holiday-themed stuffed animals.
I point at a lone penguin wearing a snowflake-printed scarf. “That one’s cute.”
“We’ll take five.” Ron gives the boy the cash, who in turn places five darts into my hands.
“Fire away, Myra Jean,” Ron says.
I stand behind the marked line, though the boy probably wouldn’t notice if I walked right up to the wall and stabbed the balloon, as though I were a jilted mistress onSnapped.I pinch the dart between my thumb and forefinger, closing one eye to zero in on my target, before letting it fly.
“Whoops.” I wince as the dart bounces off the wall and skitters to the side. “See, I told you I have terrible aim. Maybe you should do the next one.”
Ron takes the dart from my hand, his skin brushing mine. Despite the chill in the air, my cheeks turn hot.
“We’ve got a winner here,” he says. “I can feel it.”
He steadies himself before throwing the dart with one swift movement, and it plows into the center of the board.
I clap my hands. “That was a warm-up shot.”
“I’m a little rusty,” he says with a chuckle. “You take the next one.”
“You sure?” I ask. “I don’t want to take anybody’s eye out.”
“Here,” he says, moving to stand behind me. “Let me help you.”
I take the dart between my fingers, and Ron covers my hand with his own. His cheek is so close to mine I can smell a hint of cinnamon on his breath, and it makes my pulse quicken. He guides me over a few steps.
“The trick is that you want to face your target head-on,” he explains. “Now, relax your shoulders.”
“Okay.” Admittedly, it’s hard to relax with the warmth of his breath tickling my ear, but I try to do as he says.
“You want to hold the dart with your thumb and first three fingers,” he continues, helping position my hand. “And when you throw it, you want to follow through, extending your whole arm.”
“I can do that,” I say, miming his directions, giving myself a little run-through. “I’ve got this.”
“I know you do.”
“Okay, here we go.” I take a deep breath, and when I release the dart, it at least makes it onto the board this time. “I did it!”
“Yeah, you did!” He smiles. “Look at you.”
“Your turn,” I say, beaming back at him as I hand him another dart.
He shoots again, narrowly missing one of the balloons. “Well, damn.”
“We still have one more.” My lips curl into a grin, and I give him the last dart. “And I think this is the winning shot.”
“You know, I believe you’re right.” He pauses a moment, sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No. What does it smell like?”
