“He’ll bebigger,” Mom clarifies. “Everyone will know who Beau Campbell is.”
“Don’t forget, you’re buying me a retirement place in Florida.” I wag a finger in Beau’s face, my other hand battling him for access to the kettle corn. He insisted he didn’t want any, and now he’s eaten half of mine.
“In one of those sexy communities with all the widowed GILFs looking to have some fun? Or are you going to work up the nerve to ask Whit to be your girlfriend before then?”
Mom chips in. “He’s taking it slow with her.”
“Bullshit.” Beau scoops another handful of popcorn. “From what I’ve heard, things are full steam ahead.”
Asshole.
I chuck a kernel at his temple. “How much do you think TMZ will pay for a story about you being into old women?”
His laugh is screechy like a fire alarm. “Fuck off, man.”
Mom leans past me to smack him on the arm. “Are you boys done here?”
I snatch the popcorn away from Beau, crumpling the opening and shoving the entire bag in the pocket of my hoodie. “Yeah, Betty’s waiting at the truck, so we should probably get back there before she tears a kid’s leg off to get their corn dog.”
“I gotta grab Keely a sweatshirt first.” Beau points his chin toward the merchandise trailer. “She’s a sucker for a touristy souvenir shirt, and she’s bummed she couldn’t come with us.”
I nod approvingly. “I like this girl.”
Once Mom’s gathered her things—she scattered her belongings on the bench as if we were setting up camp for the night, rather than popping by the fair to grab some snacks and leave—the three of us weave through the busy crowd and step into a stock trailer that’s been converted into a tiny store. Leaving Mom and Beau to shop a rack of Wells Canyon branded sweatshirts, I continue down the row of merchandise until I find the enamel pins.
Most of them are too plain. Too boring. My fingertips gingerly touch the glossy enamel, poking around and sorting through the haphazard display in a velvet-lined box.
My knuckle bumps against a pretty green landscape, then I see the striped tail of a winner. A raccoon holding a caramel apple.Wanted for Snack Theft.
I laugh under my breath, immediately picking it up to get a closer look. My callused thumb smooths over the raised design.
It might not be a penis inside a hotdog bun, like one of the ridiculous pins I saw in Whit’s bedroom. But it’s colorful, cute, the apple is green, and it has a raccoon like the shirt she gave me. She’ll love it.
“Hey, Ma,” I call over my shoulder, heading for the cash register. “I’m gonna go grab another caramel apple. Meet you guys in the parking lot.”
Once I’ve confirmed she heard me, I finish paying and slip the pin into my pocket on the way outside. And halfway back to the food truck my ears perk at a familiar voice.
Standing next to the dunk tank, Jonas has his back to me, but I’d recognize the blond hair poking out from under a Wells Ranch baseball hat anywhere. He’s talking with some kids about his age, and after I take a step in their direction to say hi, I realize they’re arguing.
These are the fuckers who have been bullying him.
Hot anger flares in my chest, and I stand a little taller, walking with a bit of extra swagger. I run my fingers over my mustache, looking at a loaded hot dog menu and pretending not to be eavesdropping while I wait for the right moment to step in.
“Is that yourboyfriend?” The shortest kid seems to be the loudest. Probably the one Jonas punched at the park. He looks punchable. Like a young Lord Farquaad.
Without flinching, Jonas clips, “Are you okay?”
Even without seeing his face, I know in the depths ofmy soul that the look Jonas is giving this kid is absolutelykiller. Honestly, he could’ve leveled him without using words, I bet.
“What do you mean?” Farquaad’s doppelgänger says.
“Just thinking…your friends must really fucking suck if you’re so obsessed with mine.” Jonas scratches his head thoughtfully, like something clicked in his brain. “So, like, are you okay, or…”
The trailing off is my cue to get him out of there before he digs himself into a hole. He hasn’t quite mastered the art of roasting and ghosting—he’s lingering long enough to let the kid fight back.
“Hey.” I slip into the tension-filled circle, putting a hand on Jonas’s shoulder. I do my best to intimidate the bully with an assessing scan of his short body. “How’s it going, man?”
His muscles relax under the weight of my palm, and a wide smile blossoms on his face. “About damn time. You owe me an ice cream for kicking your ass at video games.”
