“So, it’s a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if’?” I ask.
“Exactly.” He smiles as he tears into his pizza again.
I ponder his words as I eat another bite, letting the salty cheese melt in my mouth.
We finish eating and gather our trash, hastily getting out of the way of the growing crowd. Graham reaches for me, holding his hand out.
“Come on,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”
I slip my hand into his and my breath catches in my throat at the contact. Our fingers lace together perfectly, as if we had done this a million times.
He leads me away from the food trucks and toward the vendor fair. We walk along at a slow pace, taking in the sights of homemade jewelry, painted canvases, handmade pottery, and so much more. The sweltering sun fades away as I walk with him.
We stop at a vendor booth where a woman with Graham’s easy smile is selling homemade canned salsa.
“Mom,” he says, motioning at me, “this is my good friend, Thea. Thea, this is my mother, Michele.”
I smile as I extend a hand to her. “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Gordon.”
“Oh, please, call me Michele. Mrs. Gordon reminds me of my ex-husband.”
I freeze for a moment, thinking of the day in the kitchen when Graham recounted the tale of his parents’ divorce.
Michele laughs, a smile spreading across her face. Her kind, dark brown eyes sparkle as she chuckles. “It’s fine,” she says as she runs a hand through her spiky dark brown hair. It reminds me of Beth’s, but shorter and with less gray around the face.
“Graham has told me so much about you,” she says, putting her hand on her hip. “I think he might even be a little sweet on you.”
“Mom,” Graham says under his breath, a touch embarrassed. His cheeks start to turn pink. He grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “We’re leaving now.”
Michele chuckles as Graham pulls me away from her salsa stand and we continue walking.
“Sorry about that,” he says after he lets go of me. He wrings his hands together nervously.
“So,” I say. “Not a date, but I just met your mom?” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Again,” he says, “when it’s a date, you’ll know.” We walk out of the vendor fair and Graham steers us toward the carnival. The sun blazes down on us as we come to a stop at the cornhole station.
“Want to play?” he asks as he stops. “I’m a master at cornhole, if I do say so myself.”
I laugh. “Sure.”
Graham steps up to the boards and starts grabbing the bean bags from the ground. He hands me the yellow set while he takes the green, and walks over to his board. I take a step up to mine and get into place. I let him throw first, since he is the master, after all.
He tosses his first bean bag and it makes a loud thud as it lands on the board and slides through the hole. He cheers, pumping his fist in the air, and I laugh before tossing mine out. It falls short of the board, skidding across the grass.
“Told you,” I say, “no athletic ability.”
Graham focuses on tossing his next bean bag, another winner that sinks through the hole in the board. He comes over to me and stands behind me, and reaches for my throwing arm.
“Here,” he says, lightly gripping my arm. We move in tandem as he gently pulls my arm back. The contact makes my skin tingle.
“Just…like…this.” He guides me through the motion of throwing the bean bag and we watch as it slides through the hole in my board.
“See?” Graham asks. “Not too bad.”
“Thanks,” I say. I meet his eyes and for a moment, I think thatnowhe’s going to kiss me.
My concentration is broken when something behind him shifts and comes into focus. I freeze, the smile fading from my face.
