Page 66 of Texting the Wrong Bikers

When we get to the fair, the whole place is loud and bright and buzzing with the kind of energy that makes it impossible to stand still. Music blares from somewhere near the food stalls, children scream happily on the rides, and the Ferris wheel turns slowly above everything else like a lit-up clock face.

Owen sees the bumper cars and nearly launches himself out of his shoes. “Can we do that one?”

“Later. I was gonna ask if you wanted something to eat, but you hate all that sugary stuff, so I’ll eat your share. Maybe we’ll find you a carrot.”

The look of horror that flashes on Owen’s face is worth its weight in gold.

“Only joking, kiddo,” I say, and hope I haven’t broken one of Sadie’s parenting rules about sugary snacks before dinner.

Sadie tries to bite back a smile. She looks more relaxed already, which is good, because I was beginning to worry that staying at the clubhouse was making her anxiety even worse.

“So what’s it gonna be, donuts or fries?” I ask.

Owen’s brow creases in deep concentration as he weighs up the options. “Donuts.”

“Good choice. Start with dessert,” I tell him.

Owen ends up with a powdered sugar beard and both hands wrapped around a paper tray of French fries by the time I finish getting our food. Sadie claims she’s not hungry, which I know for a fact is a lie, so I order double. Good job I did, because she steals half of mine when she thinks I’m not looking. I see her do it, of course, and I let her, because the small act of her taking something from me without hesitation feels weirdly satisfying.

“Are you going to keep staring at me while I eat?” she asks eventually, catching me.

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“Because you look pretty when you are covered in sugar.” I lean over and wipe a bit from her cheek, lingering just enough to make it more than just a simple gesture.

Her cheeks go pink, and I feel annoyingly pleased with myself. She hides a smile behind her cup of lemonade, but I see it anyway.

Owen drags us onto the bumper cars before we can settle into any kind of rhythm. I let him choose the one with the sticky steering wheel and the cracked vinyl seat, which turns out to be a mistake, because he spends the entire ride shrieking with delighted fury every time he collides with someone else. Sadie laughs so hard she has to brace one hand against the side of the car. It’s good seeing her so relaxed and able to forget about everything. Even if it’s only for a couple of hours.

I look over at her while she is still laughing, head tipped back, hair catching the light from the ride, and something in me settles and tightens at the same time. It’s a strange feeling, wanting to be the reason somebody feels lighter. Sadie laughs as if she’s almost forgotten how, and every time it happens, it feels like I’ve managed to pry open a window in a room that has been shut too long.

We end up in the arcade after that. The place is a riot of flashing lights and electronic beeping. Owen immediately starts losing his mind over skee-ball, and Sadie stands beside the machine with one hand over her mouth, laughing every time he misses the highest point lane by a mile, and still acts like he has been robbed.

I stand behind him and help, mostly by pretending I’m not helping. He gets more animated with every roll, and Sadie keeps glancing at me, as if she can’t decide whether to be amused or suspicious. I decide to lean in and make matters worse. “See,” I tell Owen, sliding a ball into his hand, “You have to aim like you mean it. Throw it really hard.”

He squints at the lane with the gravity of a man trying to launch a missile. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

He throws. The ball ricochets straight into a side rail and bounces off somewhere humiliating. Owen gasps. “You made me miss on purpose!” he says, pointing his finger at me and gaping at Sadie indignantly.

Sadie makes a choking sound of laughter that has me grinning before I can stop it. “He’s four, you shouldn’t be sabotaging him to win,” she says, but there’s no malice in her tone.

“I’ve never sabotaged anything in my life.”

She looks at me, completely unconvinced. “You’ve got a face that says otherwise.”

I shrug. “What can I say, I’m competitive.”

That makes her laugh again, and this time it’s so open and genuine that a couple of people nearby glance over. I don’t care because I’m too busy staring at her. Her shoulders have lowered. Her mouth is no longer drawn tight. The worry’s still there, of course. But for this one evening, it’s loosened its grip enough to let something brighter through.

When Owen gets distracted by a claw machine full of cheap stuffed toys, Sadie and I end up standing a little apart from the noise. The arcade lights throw colors across her face, making her look younger and softer at the same time. She leans one shoulder against the side of the game cabinet and takes a slow sip of her drink before looking up at me.

“You’re good at this,” she says.

“At making bad decisions?”