Chapter
Thirty-Two
OREN
The scent of wood smoke and cinnamon layering the crisp fall air nip at my nose. I hover just outside the festival gates, watching clusters of Littles and Middles run toward the hay bales, pumpkin-painting stations, and the sugar-dusted apple cider stand.
Part of me wants to turn back. Crowds aren’t my thing. Smiles sometimes feel like traps. But the Little community worked hard to pull this event together, and as much as I hate crowds, I love pumpkin patches. And corn mazes. And anything fall-related.
And my friends, of course.
Adiel spots me. He waves as though he’s been waiting all day for me, bounding over with a paper cup of cider in one hand.
“There you are,” he says, slipping the other hand around my shoulder. “I saved you from drinking the weak stuff. They always water down the first batch.”
It’s such a simple gesture, but it melts a little of the steel in my spine. Adiel’s warmth is grounding. And also a bit disturbing, in the squirmy way. His six-foot-four frame, packed with hard muscle, makes me look gnome-sized. Dark-as-sin hair, matchinggoatee, piercing green eyes—he’s the type of man who makes people turn their heads and then trip over their own feet.
Timmy may or may not have downloaded his picture from the club’s website, printed it out, and taped it to his bedroom wall.
“You don’t have to—” I start.
“Shh,” Adiel interrupts, pressing the cider into my palm. “Vince can’t hurt you now. You’re safe here.”
My throat tightens. I nod and sip. Sweet, tart, and hot enough to sting my tongue. He just grins.
“Where’s your Daddy?” he asks.
“I’m supposed to meet him by the ‘Mother-of-all-headaches’. His words, not mine.”
Adiel’s brows climb high.
“He’s volunteering to monitor the corn maze,” I explain.
“Well, he’s not wrong,” Adiel says with a chuckle, tugging me deeper into the heart of the festival.
I expect the noise and chatter to overwhelm me, but it’s… nice. The laughter is light. No one is watching me with suspicion.
Lane tugs me toward the pumpkin-carving contest. Theo insists I try the three-legged race. And when I hesitate, Keane calls out from across the field, “You’re on my team, Oren. No excuses.”
Thank God, my Daddy’s back.
Before I know it, I’m stumbling across a hayfield with my ankle lashed to Keane’s, both of us laughing like fools as we fall face-first into the grass. My stomach hurts from trying not to laugh, but it bursts out anyway, unrestrained, and everyone cheers like we actually won.
Later, Timmy and Lane drag me to the “Guess the Weight of the Giant Pumpkin” booth. I throw out the most random number I can think of—671 pounds—and somehow, I win.
The volunteer hands me a stuffed scarecrow almost as tall as me.
The whole group roars. Keane doubles over.
“What are you even gonna do with that?”
I clutch the scarecrow to my chest, pretending to look grave.
“His name is Gerald. He’s coming home with me.”
“Gerald,” Lane echoes, and then immediately pulls Gerald into the three-legged race, tripping over his straw legs and sending both of them crashing into the hay.
“Man down!” Lane shouts dramatically, flopping across the ground.
Theo snorts cider through his nose and has to bend in half to keep from choking.
Timmy, not to be outdone, grabs Gerald’s limp arm and solemnly declares, “Don’t you die on me, buddy!” before pretending to perform chest compressions.
The entire crowd howls. Even strangers stop to watch. I’m laughing so hard my sides ache, and for the first time in forever, the sound doesn’t feel foreign.
Gerald may not survive his first night out of the patch, but I think I just might. I hug Gerald tighter, straw scratching my cheek. I haven’t thought about Vince in hours, and I feel almost… normal again. Like the version of me that existed before loans and threats and sleepless nights. Maybe that version isn’t gone forever after all.
