“Nah. I doubt it. Worst case scenario, I get to hear you scream.”
They grin. “Ha! You’ll be the one screaming. Remember the roller coaster when we went to Lagoon?”
“Hey, that was an oldroller coaster,” I remind them. “Even my dad was scared.”
They laugh, bumping their shoulder into mine as we head toward the rides.
The Scrambler is the first thing we hit, mostly because the line is moving when we reach it. We pile into the cart, the bar comingdown across our laps, and the second it starts moving, they’re already laughing. Not just laughing—full, unrestrained, head thrown back laughter that hits me straight in the chest. Korie is always like this, so full of life, enjoying everything. It pours into everyone who knows them.
The ride picks up speed, spinning us in tight circles, and Korie slams into my side with a surprised yelp.
“Okay, maybe I forgot how fast this goes,” they admit, gripping the bar and trying to pull themselves upright. Centrifugal force brings them right back.
“You think?”
Every time we swing wide, they crash into me, their grip tightening, their laughter getting louder. And I don’t even try to move away. I let them lean into me, let them hold on, let myself memorize the way they feel pressed against my side.
By the time the ride slows to a stop, we’re both a little breathless. Korie stumbles slightly when we stand, grabbing onto my arm again to steady themselves.
“Okay,” they say, still laughing. “That was—”
“Worth it?” I cut in, hopeful.
They grin up at me. “Absolutely worth it.”
We wander from there, grabbing an overpriced soda from a food vendor and sharing a bag of cotton candy. We argue over which games are rigged and which ones are just skill.
“I could easily win that one,” Korie says, pointing to the one with moving targets.
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
They lift their brows, challenging me. I tug them away before the carnival worker can rob me of my hard-earned money.
When we pass the bathrooms, I slip away, and when I come back, Korie isn’t there. I look around in confusion before spotting them at the ticket booth, buying a fresh stack of tickets.They grin over at me, but I can’t read their expression. Biting their lip, they drag me after them.
We make our way over to the Ferris wheel, nearing the edge of the boardwalk.
Korie eyes me. “Want to go?”
It’s a loaded question, and my heart skips a beat.Are they thinking what I’m thinking?
I stand impossibly close to them in the queue, one hand on their hip. I can’t resist leaning in to smell their hair. Korie always smells good, like citrus and flowers and something uniquely them.
They turn, leaning back into me with a shy smile.
Finally, we climb into the cart, holding on tightly as it rocks slightly under our weight. The bar comes down, and then we’re moving—slow at first, pausing so more people can get on. The higher we get, the more my stomach swoops. Not because of the height—God, no. Something else.
How many times have we done this? As kids, as teenagers, and as adults. All those late nights when we didn’t want to go home yet. This beats any of those by a long shot.
I keep my arm around them as we rise, and we talk the entire time, laughing about old memories, pointing out things along the boardwalk, enjoying the view of the ocean. But there’s a soft, quiet layer to it all now, made heavy with something I’ve never felt before—not from them.
Anticipation.
I feel it the higher we go.
And I know Korie does too, because they keep glancing at me. Quick looks, like they can’t help themselves. I memorize all of it, the soft color to their cheeks, the shimmer of their eyelids. The nervous, almost shy twist of their pink lips.
My pulse pounds hard.
