The Ren Faire was magical; of course it was. It was always going to be. But it felt like I was on the outside of that magic. Like everyone else was under some enchantment, but I’d succeeded on my saving throw. I wanted to be in it with them. I’d been looking forward to the festival for months, after all. But instead of feeling as immersed as I knew I should be, it all just felthollow.
Throughout the rest of the afternoon, my chain mail weighed heavy on me. Even with the plastic rings making up the bulk of it, I was still too warm, probably more from lugging it around than from the actual temperature. The afternoon sun was certainly heating things up, but a nice breeze cut through the trees, and there was enough shade that it never got too bad.
I tried my best to stay present as we took in some of the attractions, like archery, at which I was shockingly good, and axe throwing, at which I was shockingly bad; as I pulled my arms up overhead to throw, I ended up flinging the axe backwards and almost taking out a couple dressed as pirates.
“Watch it!” one of them yelled, though I didn’t even catch which one, given that I was too busy hiding behind Chloe, who was laughing so hard I thought she might cry.
Besides Jack, the biggest downside was that everything cost money, and we were burning through our cashfast. We all grumbled at having dropped two bucks on a “dungeon experience” which ended up just being a maze of dim, damp hallways with plaques about medieval torture methods and mannequins acting them out.
“Honestly,” Phil whispered to me as we wandered through, “that stretching rack would sort my backrightout.”
Jack came up behind us in the dark, startling me. “I can help with that,” he said, reaching out towards Phil teasingly, who waved him off. Phil jogged ahead to catch up with Fatima, who had sped through after realising what the subject matter was. That’s how I found myself walking alongside Jack. I turned back to look for Grey and Chloe, but they were far enough behind that I couldn’t see them; just a family with two young boys, who were gawking at each of the scenes.
“Woah, that’s so cool,” one of them said as they stopped in front of an iron maiden.
“Yeah, so cool,” echoed the other, clearly younger, standing on his tiptoes to get a better look.
The older one lost interest and darted past me. I dodged to the side to avoid a collision with the kid, creating one with Jack instead. I felt him tense behind me, but I couldn’t move; the little one was running after his brother, and the parents followed behind, gesturing apologetically. Only once they’d squeezed past could I step away from Jack, kicking myself internally for my body’s protest at losing contact. I realised that, for the first time since we’d broken up weeks ago, I was alone with Jack. In the dark. With his stubble and his awful yet charming outfit and that stupid crooked crown on top of his wig. He was looking down at the floor, as if he’d had the same realisation and was trying not to be too intense.
“Having fun?” he asked, his gaze fixed on his feet as he leaned against the wall.
“Yeah, definitely,” I said, as casually as possible. Why wasn’t I walking away? “You?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, it’s really cool. Just like you said.”
He offered me a smile, but if I’d learned anything over the last few months, it was what a real Jack Evans smile looked like. And this wasn’t one. My instant reaction was to ask him what was wrong, but I knew it would be pointless. We both knew this wasn’t okay. So I decided to be honest.
“I know this is hard,” I said, catching his eye when he looked up suddenly, clearly surprised.
“Yeah,” he said, sounding relieved. “Really fucking hard.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry. But it’s just two days. After that, we can, you know…”
Jack looked at me hopefully, and I paused, wondering what he wanted me to say. What else could possibly follow after what we’d said to each other that night we’d ended things.
“… get some distance.”
His face fell. Clearly he had been hoping for something else. But I had nothing else to give him.
“That’s not fair, Jack,” I muttered at my own feet, as if he’d spoken his hope out loud.
“What’s not?” He looked wounded.
“Making me feel like the bad guy.” I threw my hands up in resignation and fell back against the opposite wall, letting it hold me up. I could feel the hard pattern of the chain mail through my undershirt.
“I’m not trying to do that,” Jack said. “I know I’m the bad guy here.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “See, no, that’s not fair either,” I said. “You can’t make yourself the martyr. That’s the whole point.”
“How is that the point?”
“Because!” I said, my voice loud enough that it echoed around us. We both looked around to see if anyone would poke their head around a corner, but no one did.
“Because,” I said again, quieter this time, “your entire life revolves around this twisted sense of self-sacrifice. Like if you give up everything you want, if you make yourself less important, people will love you more.”
I looked up at him again to find his eyes fixed on the wall to my right, and I wondered why I was even bothering. He’d bedded in so deeply to that sense of martyrdom, and honestly, it had been working for him until I’d come along. Did I think it would make him happy in the long run? Of course not. But that was also no longer my problem.
“And here I was thinking maybe you wanted to be friends,” he said after a long moment, and my heart sank.
