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His lips twitch upward at the corners. ‘That’ll be because of theram menote I stuck on your car.’
‘What!?’ I whirl around and, sure enough, there’s the note, now lying on the floor. I punch his arm. ‘Youdickhead.’
He bursts out laughing. His eyes light up when he laughs, and his dimples show, and although I really want to throw his slushie all over him, I can’t help but smile. Despite everything.
For a brief second, I completely forget about Archer.
For a brief second, I completely forget about the thoughts I’m trying to stave off.
I drag him onto Miami Trip, and he gets the rest of the riders doing the can-can. Someone’s shoe flings off and lands on the roof of the dodgems. My pointing and cackling was a little harsh, but I can’t find the shits I give.
Not in my bag.
Not in my purse.
Not hiding under my armpit.
I check each location, and Chase just shakes his head at me with a long, grieved sigh.
We have an hour to kill before the next band comes on, so I run across the bustling field of noise and light towards the Wipeout Challenge—a huge inflatable obstacle with two podiums on either side of the ring. A sweeping arm, padded with yellow rubber, rotates in an attempt to knock off the two opponents. A raised bucket of soap and sponges rests just beside each podium.
Chase doesn’t go easy on me. After each jump of the arm, he lobs a sponge at me with so much force it off-balances me. The podium turns slippery beneath my boots, but I focus on my balance—because that’s clearly the trick here. Chase looks gleeful, the expression of someone who thinks they’ve sussed the game, but he’s an idiot.
BecauseI’vesussed it.
I pick up the bucket beside me and root my boots to the podium, but as I swing the bucket around, my boots slip, and I gasp as cold, soapy water soaks me. I hear laughter, from Chase and our audience, but I can’t see anything because my eyes sting—
A sponge thumps into my stomach. My gut roils. All this exertion has made me dehydrated, and I haven’t had a drink in over half an hour.
I feel it surge up my throat just as the arm slams into me, knocking me into the rubber pit, but all that matters is holding myself upright as I vomit. On a festival game. As children spectate with their parents.
I hear shouting, no doubt from the ride operator, and then I’m lifted up and carried and sat down on a tree trunk, the tumult of the fair a dull drone to my right.
‘Are you alright?’ Chase asks. He presses some material to my face, drying it, dabbing my eyes—
Oh my God.
Is it his shirt?
I pry my eyes open and try to hide my disappointment.
It’s just his button-down—but it does leave his arms exposed. They’re corded muscle, with veins snaking up the undersides. I’ve fallen asleep in those arms. I know they’re warm and strong and safe—
My mouth goes dry because he’s staring right at me, his shirt half-raised to my face, as if he recalls that night, too.
Archer.
I’m withArcher.
Even though he has a lot to apologise for, I won’t do that to him.
Not after watching my mum betray my dad.
Keeping that secret is just as bad as doing the act itself. I’m no better than her. I’m sat here lusting after my boyfriend’s best friend.
‘I wanna get my face painted,’ I blurt out.
I need to fracture this moment. Break the spell.
