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With an overly exaggerated eye roll, I take the golden-brown, deep-fried rod. Rule my ass, but two can play at his game.
Holding it steady, I tilt my mouth down to the stick. With slow movements, I lick the entire conical tip. Opening my mouth wide, I suck as much of it into my mouth as I can, then bite down. I’m not sure who moans louder, them or me.
As they both watch with hooded eyes, I close mine, leaning my head back as I chew my gigantic mouthful. It’s delicious. Forget the steamy mountain of cheesy, chili coated awesomeness, this is amazing. Smooth, flaky lobster coated in perfectly fried cornbread, why has this not become a thing?
When I swallow and open my eyes, they’re both still staring. Brendan adjusts himself, clearing his throat. “Breckin's turn. Think he can top your little tease?”
Shaking my head, I clutch the corndog close to my chest, protecting it with both hands. “Oh no, you can both go get your own. This is mine.” Before they can reply, I take another huge bite.
By the time we finish eating, I’m so stuffed, I think the zipper on the back of my dress might bust. Other than a little indigestion, my stomach is happy, though. As we step out from the canopy, I start to put my sunglasses on, but stop with them halfway to my face.
The sun hovers right above the water, a giant, orange sphere bathing the dusky sky and streaking the waves with rays of gold. It’s dark enough that I don’t need sunglasses. Smiling, I tuck them in my purse.
Each taking one of my hands, Brendan and Breckin lead me through the rest of the festivities. Over the chatter of the throng, a sultry woman sings. It’s too muffled to make out the words and too far off to tell where it’s coming from, but beautiful nonetheless.
“Do you like darts?” Brendan asks, our arms swinging gently as he points toward a booth with a wall of balloons behind it.
“I don't know,” I shrug, “I’ve never played it.”
“Wait,” he stops abruptly, turning to face me, “how old are you?”
“Um, twenty-six.”
“And how is it, in your twenty-six years of life, you’ve never thrown darts?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know . . . It’s a bar game. I don’t go to bars.”
He purses his lips, nodding slightly before practically dragging me to the booth. “We have to fix this. Right now.” He pulls a fifty out of his pocket and sets it on the long, narrow counter, then nods toward the young kid in a faded baseball cap running the booth. “Keep the darts coming.”
After the teenager grabs a handful of sharp, metal-tipped darts and sets them in front of us, Brendan holds one out for me. “Now, what you want to do is hold it gently, like so, with only your –”
I pick up one of the mini arrow looking things and chuck it as hard as I can straight at the balloons. It hits a red one and bounces off.
“Like I was saying,” Brendan continues, managing not to smile too much, “you want to hold the dart at the barrel,” he picks another one up and places it in my hand, maneuvering my fingers like he wants, “three fingers, held lightly. Don’t grip it too tight.” He adjusts my feet, then my arm. “Now, try throwing it straight, like this.”
I feel like a kid as he continues to explain his intricate process for throwing a stupid, feathered stick. Yet, when I finally toss the dart, it soars straight ahead. With a loud pop, it pierces a blue balloon. Squealing, I jump up and down as I clap my hands.
“Good job, Prude.” He kisses my cheek, then hands me another one.
Beside us, Breckin grabs a few, launching them in rapid-fire secession. Balloons pop like a mini machine gun. Eyeing him, Brendan helps me throw one more before he grabs a few for himself.
That somehow starts a war between them to see who can pop the most balloons. I throw a few more darts, but after the third one bounces off the board, I just stand back and watch.
As Breckin lines up his next shot, Brandon bumps into his arm, making him miss completely. “Oops, my bad. Didn’t see you there.”
“You better just give up now, Danny Boy, before you embarrass yourself too much.” He grabs another dart and throws it, popping a white balloon at the top of the board.
“That’s some awful big talk there, Ken Doll. Sure those plastic arms can back it up?” Barely taking the time to aim, he hits the only black balloon.
By the time they clear all the little, black darts, I’m laughing so hard I almost pee myself. Walking away with the largest teddy bear the teen had, I shake my head still laughing.
“Seventeen,” Brendan declares.
“You did not. You need glasses and to go back to school. You only hit fifteen. I got sixteen.”
“You’re the one that needs glasses, old man.”
“Does it really matter?” I interrupt, hugging my white, stuffed toy with both arms.
