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Instantly, something deep down, something from my childhood, is invigorated within me. It feels fun and exciting and like this carnival is just as much for me as it is for Izzy.
I glance to Flynn, scanning the environment with a twin on each hip, and realize it’s not just me. He’s feeling it too.
It’s time to make this fall carnival our bitch.
Silent communication strikes true as we meet each other’s gaze and nod. The Winslow Brothers are ready for anything.
Fully engaged with our environment, Flynn and I walk down the aisles between the booths, looking for something to catch our eyes. Children shout and people laugh all around us.
And Izzy, Roman, and Ryder pick up on our vibe and, instantly, become our ride-or-dies. They calmly let us get the lay of the carnival land without a peep of resistance.
Yeah. These babies get it.
“Balloon pop,” I murmur, spotting a booth with brightly colored balloons and a patron throwing darts.
Flynn shakes his head in the negative, and the twins turn up their noses via annoyed whines.
Message received, fellas. That’s not the one.
Cruising a little farther, we hang a left to the main aisle of the carnival. Dead ahead, a huge, rectangular ring toss booth sports hundreds of goldfish in adorned fishbowls spinning and swirling in the center. A dad is there, bright-white Reebok sneakers on his feet and a baby on his chest, and immediately, a feeling washes over me.
And I’m not the only one. Flynn jerks up his chin, remarking simply, “This is the one.”
The twins perk up, their heads swinging in the direction of the booth and their sweet baby eyes going alert. Izzy nuzzles into my chest, playing it cool.
The dad makes a move to toss the ring at the center, missing completely and splashing it in the water. Frustrated, he tries again, landing it on the second to highest level of points.
Flynn and I glance to each other, and even with our sunglasses on, the mood is palpable.
It’s on.
Forward and then into a divide, the two of us split the booth and circle it like a couple of sharks. The dad notices fairly quickly, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle up with the intensity of his squint.
His baby is asleep in the carrier at his chest, but almost as if he senses the change in his dad’s intensity, he wakes up and scans the area for threats.
Ah, a worthy opponent. I lean down to whisper conspiratorially to Izzy. “We got a battle on our hands, Iz. But don’t you worry. Uncle Flynn and I are going to take them down in the end. I promise.”
Stalking and prowling around one another, the three of us move to different sides of the fish table and jerk our chins up at the attendant wearing a bright-red golf cap. It’s clear he’s a little intimidated by our friendly competition, so he does his best not to show favoritism, going to the other dad first simply because he’s a returning customer.
“I’ll take five more rings,” the Reebok-wearer declares, raising his voice in a way I just know is done for Flynn’s and my benefit.
When the attendee heads to Flynn, he jerks up his chin for the same, officially calling the other dad’s bet.
Five rings, it is. May the best man-baby duo win.
Both Flynn and our new rival wait impatiently for me to get my weapons, their rings on the counter surface in front of them, their fingers wiggling for a quick draw—at least, figuratively.
Flynn’s still got his arms full of babies, but I can tell by the way he’s standing, he’s ready to set one on the counter and rapid-fire toss when he needs to.
The attendant places my rings in front of me and scrambles out of the way, rushing to the end of the booth unoccupied by our standoff.
I glance from our opponent to Flynn and then down to Izzy, and then, after one last, final deep breath to prepare, I nod my okay.
A silent countdown commences, and as soon as three seconds are up, the three of us are tossing.
I hit with my first and miss with my second, and a bead of sweat builds on my brow at the fact that I’m now down by one. I grab the next ring and toss, cheering, “Yes!” in a burst of triumph that makes even Izzy throw up her arms when it lands on the most prized of targets in the center of them all.
Flynn points at me in that special way that says I’m the man and then scoops up his eight-month-old baby Roman before he can crawl right off the counter into the rocks.
The attendee works diligently to fill my bag with two fish while we toss the rest of our rings rather carelessly, and the other dad stares daggers into my soul.
