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Nervousness zings through me. “I haven’t ridden a roller coaster since my high school swimming team trip to Disney,” I confess. “What if I throw up cookie and sugar syrup all over you?”
Carson shrugs. “Let’s hope you don’t. But if so, I’ll grab a new shirt at one of our conveniently located souvenir shops,” he answers, sounding like a two A.M. infomercial as he points out the three within viewing distance.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I caution, but I smile. His light sarcasm feels good, another lens into him and a sign of just how deep we’re getting. It’s one thing to work together, another to give into sexual chemistry, but to actually enjoy each other’s company and have fun doing silly activities and making jokes is a whole different thing. Especially for me. I’m not used to letting people in. In fact, I usually keep my walls solidly fortified, but Carson’s burst through them, not like Taya did with a battering ram, but rather, with brutal honesty, an open heart, and hard work.
Carson flashes the same pass he’s shown at every ride, and we walk onto the platform for the next ride. The people already loaded are chattering in excitement as they fasten their seatbelts. And then the floor drops out, literally. I reflexively take a step back, but it’s only the section under the riders. And with their feet dangling, they disappear through the opening into the sunlight.
Another car shows up and it’s our turn.
“You sure? You don’t have to do this, Jayme.” Carson says, suddenly serious.
This is about more than a ride. It’s about trust . . . in him, in me. Hell, in the people who made this crazy-ass ride. If nothing else, Carson has shown me that I can trust him, and I don’t do that easily. I’m maybe even more untrusting than Taya, and that’s saying something. But where she’s loud about it, I’m quiet, just keeping my distance and not letting anyone truly into my heart. But Carson worked his way in there anyway, and this is one way for me to show him that trust.
“I want to. With you.” He knows I’m talking about more than this roller coaster too and takes my hand as we step onto the seemingly secure platform.
We sit in the seats, shifting around until the hard plastic is relatively comfortable, and then pull down the shoulder harness. The chest bar locks in place and then fastens between my thighs. Carson holds my hand while the workers do the safety checks. Suddenly, the floor drops out from beneath us. “Oh, fuck!” I instantly feel bad for cursing when there are kids in line and try to cover my mouth, but the harness prevents me from doing so. Thankfully, the kids closest to us seem to have not heard me and the parents are grinning at my surprised outburst.
“We’ll be fine,” he promises. “Hang on to the handles on the harness.” He shows me what he means, and I copy him. The hard metal doesn’t give me nearly as much comfort as holding his hand did, though.
But as soon as the car jerks forward, I grip them with all my might.
Carson told me The American Revolution isn’t the tallest or the fastest hanging coaster in this part of the country, but it’s fast enough for me as it winds around and then jerks to a stop with our feet dangling over a man-made pond area. The track above us clicks and clangs as it pulls us up to the top of a seventeen-story hill, letting the anticipation grow.
“Three, two, one . . .” Carson counts down, obviously having memorized the ride.
“Ahhhhh!” I scream as we drop and my heart jumps up into my throat. It’s a steep drop as we accelerate to what I hope is our top speed before whipping into the first and largest loop. There’s no chance to recover because it’s a double loop, so we continue straight into the second one, and I feel myself lift out of my seat slightly. I grip the handles even tighter. We slide through a section with a few turns and then through a corkscrew.
Next to me, Carson is yelling and laughing in delight, enjoying every second, and his happiness sparks my own, turning my nerves into bubbles as I laugh along with him.
The ride is somehow both an eternity and over in a blip, and as we return to the platform and unload, my balance is completely shot. Staggering with my arm wrapped around Carson’s waist for support, I gasp out, “That . . . was . . . amazing!”
His arm around my shoulder tightens. “I know. Let’s look at the picture.”
“There’s a picture?” I ask.
He stops at a kiosk outside the ride’s line and points at the television screen there. It’s flashing through each car, showing the riders’ faces. Some are terrified, some screaming in joy, and even a few look as though they could be chilling on the couch at home. And then our picture pops up.
