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He doesn’t answer and the car keeps moving.
As I get low enough to see James, I throw my hands out. “What the hell, man?”
He shrugs sheepishly. “The lady pays.”
“What—” I start to ask what he means, but as I go a little lower, I can see for myself. Jayme is standing on a step near the operator’s area, her arms crossed over her chest as she shoots a hostile glare my way.
What the hell is she mad about? I’m the one who’s mad. She should be apologizing to me!
As I come even with the platform, she steps forward, and I realize she intends to get into the car with me. I stand in preparation to exit, but when James unlatches the door, he blocks my way, allowing Jayme to duck under his arm and climb in. He quickly slams the door shut again, latching it from the outside.
“James!” I shout.
“Sorry, man. I need my job, you know I do, but she promised me VIP passes for the festival tomorrow, and my wife is going to go crazy when I tell her. I’m looking forward to her ‘thank you, honey.’” He grins like a total hound dog, one who loves his wife.
He steps back and pushes the button to start the wheel spinning again. I lose my balance for a second at the sudden jolt but grab onto the railing to steady myself. Jayme doesn’t fare as well and stumbles in her heels.
“Whoooaah!” she yells. Tumbling to the floor, she hisses. “Shit! That hurt.”
I look down to see her legs askew and her head against the hard metal. I can’t leave her on the ground, no matter how furious I am.
“Dammit!” I carefully step forward and offer my hand. Jayme takes it gratefully and I help her stand. Once she gets to a low squat, she sits back onto the bench, rubbing her head. “You okay?”
She scowls at me like it’s my fault she bumped her head. “Fine.”
I fall back to the bench myself, sitting opposite Jayme. We sit in silence as the cart lifts higher into the air. James must hit the button because we stop at the top, still glaring at each other.
“Well?” I prompt finally.
“What do you mean, ‘well?’” Her brows drop down low in confusion.
A sour smile curls my lips. “Aren’t you going to apologize for that shitshow? That’s the play, right? Fuck things up, apologize with feigned regret so everyone forgives you, then move on as if it never happened?”
She recoils as if I’ve slapped her. “Is that what you think I do? What I was doing back there?” She snaps as she points toward the garden below. “I was doing that for you.”
Incredulous, I demand, “That’s what you consider help?”
“Yes!” She nods vehemently. “I was trying to get Ben to see that he’s not this perfect god who created this flawless park. I literally said that Americana Land is outdated, and he has you to thank for pulling it, kicking and screaming, into the Twenty-First Century.”
She did say that. And reluctantly, I have to admit she was right. But that’s not all she said.
“You’re conveniently forgetting the part where you forced him into begrudgingly admitting that he’s proud of me.” I huff out a sigh of disbelief. Dad isn’t proud of me, but he knows when he’s cornered. If a few simple words let him walk away with his pride, he’d sound off like an auctioneer. It doesn’t mean that he meant a bit of it.
“Or maybe he is!” she shouts loudly enough for James to hear.
“You two okay up there?” comes from below.
“No. Bring us down,” I answer.
At the same time, Jayme yells, “Yes, we’re fine.”
The car doesn’t move. Fucking James and this fucking Ferris Wheel.
Quieter, she repeats, “Maybe he is proud of you but is just shitty at communicating it. You two have this big thing in between you that neither of you knows how to get around. I’d say it’s your mom, or the divorce, but maybe your brother? I don’t know, but it seems like both of you are coming from a place of insecurity. You ever think of that?”
I don’t respond. After a moment, Jayme continues.
“I mean, for fuck’s sake, you’re a grown ass, functional, independent adult who handles his own shit, who went to extremes to help his own people. Who shows up to work every day to carry on the family legacy. Who also has balls big enough to go up against me, and to be clear, not many do. Did you think of any of that?”
I’m reminded of that first day, when we were arguing, when she was so passionate and fiery. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her breath fast enough to cause her breasts to rise and fall rapidly. Except then, she called me an arrogant asshole. Now, though she’s spitting fire, it’s . . . with compliments?
