Page 47 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Jeremiah buys me a corn dog from a cart manned by a guy in an apron that says GRILL SERGEANT, and hands it over like he’s presenting a trophy.

“For the birthday girl.”

The way he says it makes my stomach do a slow, embarrassing flip.

I take a bite of the corn dog. It is, objectively, terrible. Deep-fried, slightly burnt, tasting mostly of oil. It might be the best thing I’ve eaten all year.

“So,” he says, watching me chew like it’s the most riveting thing he’s seen all day. “Where’s your friend? The one from the parade.”

“Which one? I had six.”

“I only saw one. The one who looked like she stepped straight out of a K-drama.”

“Don’t tell her that.” I wince. “She’ll be insufferable.”

“Noted.”

“Her name is Zoe.” I lick mustard off my thumb, which he watches with an intensity that should be illegal in a public park. “My best friend, chief architect of this whole outfit, and constant source of terrible advice that somehow always works out.”

“Terrible advice like what?”

“Like these shorts.” I tug at the hem, which feels like it has ridden up where the sun don’t shine. There’s no delicate way to fix a wedgie.

His eyes drop. Snap back up like he’s been caught somewhere he wasn’t invited. “Here.” He’s already peeling his jersey out of his waistband.

“What are you doing?”

“Fixing terrible advice that…” He glances down once more and swallows hard. “Somehow worked out.”

He holds the jersey out, his name PRECIO stitched across the back. “Tuck it around your waist. Like a kilt.”

I take it. It’s warm, and it smells like something unfairly, specifically him. I knot it around my hips, let the length hang over my backside like a makeshift skirt.

“Better?”

“Better.” I glance around to my backside. PRECIO draped over my hips like I belong to him. I don’t belong to anyone. This is just fabric.

“So these friends. Would you rather be with them right now?” He asks it lightly, but there’s a real question underneath. “Instead of wandering around a carnival with a stranger?”

Stranger. Cute. As if the last month hasn’t been a slow-motion collision course of run-ins that were absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent accidental. Not.

“We’ve been celebrating my birthday for a week straight,” I say. “We’ll probably still be celebrating it next week. I love them. I do. But I cannot day-drink with those women. Give me two mimosas and I get a headache, then I get sleepy, then I fall asleep somewhere undignified, like a park bench, or once, memorably, a stranger’s inflatable pool.”

“That sounds like a story.”

“It is not a story I’m telling on my birthday.”

He laughs, and it’s a full laugh, not the polished press-conference version I’d bet money he uses on cameras. This one has an edge to it, surprised, like it snuck out before he approved it.

“Besides,” I go on, because apparently I’ve decided honesty is the theme of the day. “They’d rather be at a bar doing tequila shots off each other’s forearms. I want games. I want carnival food that I’ll regret eating. I want…”

I stop myself half a second too late.

“You want?” He’s not letting that go. Of course he’s not.

I want you. Obviously I want you. I have wanted you since you caught my wrist in May like it was nothing, like lightning speed reflexes is just a skill you keep in your back pocket, and I have been doing an outstanding job of not saying that out loud, so let’s keep that streak alive.

“I want to ride the Zipper until I throw up,” I say instead. “Is that so wrong?”