“But they’re so pretty!” Mads calls back, trying to save a string of lights that’s whipping around. “Maybe if we just?—“
“Pretty doesn’t matter if they kill someone when they go flying!” I snap, frustration bleeding through. We’ve been at this for three hours, and every task takes twice as long as it should because she keeps trying to save decorations instead of focusing on safety.
Her face falls, and immediately I know I’ve been too harsh. But before I can apologize, the wind picks up again and a whole section of booth framework starts to topple.
Crisis mode kicks in. I’m moving, shouting orders, getting people clear of the danger zone. This is firefighter territory—assess, prioritize, execute. No time for hurt feelings or gentle explanations.
“Everyone back! Move away from the structures!”
But Mads isn’t listening. She’s still trying to save Christmas decorations as if they’re more important than basic safety protocols.
“Mads! Get away from there!”
“I can save the lights! Give me two more seconds!”
“Two seconds is how long it takes for that booth to crush you!”
I grab her arm, pulling her away from the failing structure just as it collapses exactly where she was standing. The lights she was trying to save get buried under a pile of wood and metal.
“Are you insane?” The words come out harder than I intend, but adrenaline and fear make everything sharp. “You could have been killed!”
“I was fine! I had it under control!”
“Under control?” I stare at her, disbelieving. “You were standing under a structure that was clearly failing, trying to save Christmas lights!”
“Because they matter! Because this festival matters to people!”
“Not more than your life!”
We’re both soaked, both shouting, both reverting to our worst selves under pressure. Her sunshine optimism clashing head-on with my pessimistic crisis management.
“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” I continue, the stress of the past week boiling over. “You don’t think aboutconsequences. You just see what you want and assume everything will work out fine.”
“And you see disaster everywhere! You can’t let anyone try anything because you’re too busy waiting for everything to go wrong!”
The wind whips between us, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing in this conversation.
“Better safe than sorry,” I snap.
“Better sorry than never trying anything!” she fires back. “Sometimes I wonder if Spencer was right about?—”
“Spencer?” The name comes out sharp as a blade. “What does Spencer have to do with anything?”
I see the exact moment she realizes what she’s said. How her face goes white. But it’s too late—the words are out there, and they hit harder than the wind.
“Nothing. I didn’t mean?—”
“No, go ahead. What was Spencer right about?” My voice has gone deadly quiet, which is never a good sign. “What insights did your ex share about our relationship?”
“He just... he said maybe you were too pessimistic. Too negative.”
“And you agreed with him.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You didn’t have to.” The fight goes out of me all at once, replaced by something worse. Certainty. “Maybe Spencer was right about realistic expectations. Maybe this was a mistake.”
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and cold and destructive.
