“This is the best festival,” he says. “A great one to start the year with. Excellent food, rich culture, beautiful flowers.” Sawyer bends over to smell one of the billions of hyacinths that adorn the booths. The whole square is painted with them, every shade of pink and purple, yellow and white. “What’s your favorite festival?”
“I really loved the fall festival in Indy,” I say. “Thepumpkins and turning leaves, the smell of spices, the chill in the air.”
He smiles. “I mean, what’s your favorite festival here?”
“In Blue Ridge?” I’m not sure why it takes me by surprise.
He nods and I look around, like maybe the answer will be written on the clock tower. This is the first time I’ve willingly come to a Blue Ridge festival, and only because Sawyer asked so sweetly. He was almost shy about it. I typically avoided public gatherings like the plague, hating the weight of people’s stares like a bright spotlight shining wherever I went, only ever going if Mara begged. And even then, only when we were at the age when roaming a festival without an adult wouldn’t have raised questions.
I lick my lips. “I don’t know.”
His head tilts. “Like, you can’t decide?”
Exhaling, I say, “I mean, I don’t know. I didn’t go to a lot, but Mara liked the Christmas market.”
His gaze is heavy, and I force mine to the booths we pass, giving the police station a wide berth out of habit. Each table has the same collection of items at one corner: hyacinths, vinegar, garlic, apple, coins, what looks like wheatgrass. It’s what I saw every year on Dev’s side table as spring approached, but the scale is magnified. Also, Mrs. Shah used to put Goldfish crackers on the table, which I always thought were for snacking, but every booth here has a fishbowl with one or two real goldfish swimming around.
“What do the goldfish mean?”
Sawyer whistles, and I look over to see he’s taken a seat at the bottom of the empty steps leading up to the station. Becauseof coursehe has. He didn’t spend his youth being called here by the police at odd hours. He never knew the humiliation of officers averting their eyes when he arrivedto retrieve his still-drunk dad with money that was supposed to go to bills.
With a jolt I realize it extends beyond the police station, this difference between Sawyer and me. It applies to the whole town. Sawyer’s childhood memories include him stomping around town, good times to balance the bad at home. Whereas the bad at my home followed wherever I went. I ventured out only when I had to. School, work, bailing out Dad. I have happy memories too, belly laughs with Dev, telling Mara I had enough saved for her to attend the eighth grade class trip, Gia spending her entire Saturday getting me ready for prom. But these all happened in private, behind closed doors.
What’s it like to have Sawyer’s confidence? To know you belong wherever you go, to not have this town mired by the past?
After a moment’s hesitation, I walk over and sit down next to him in front of the police station.
A SWAT team does not descend upon me.
He hands me a plate piled high with herbed rice, buttery fish, golden chicken kabobs, and two types of stew. “The goldfish are a symbol of life, movement, and the passage of time. Pretty much everything here signifies rebirth and renewal.”
I nod, remembering Mrs. Shah telling me something similar. “Why do you know so much about Persian New Year?”
“Ethan,” he answers simply. “His parents used to have a big Nowruz gathering on the first day of spring every year, whether it was a weekend or not, and insisted everyone wear brand new clothes.”
“Is that why I was recently compelled to buy new underwear?” I half-whisper.
He chokes on some rice. “Jesus.”
His eyes darken. They rove over me, as if he might be able to see my underwear through my clothes. It feels like warm honey dripping through my body. He braces a hand against the step behind us and leans over. His face is inches from mine, and I can’t help darting my eyes around, looking for onlookers.
His hoarse voice pulls my gaze back to him. “I want to kiss you.”
I expect alarm bells, but they don’t come.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Slowly, like I’m an easily-startled deer, he raises his hand to cup my neck. His eyes drop to my mouth before rising to meet mine again. He gives me plenty of time to stop him. When I don’t, he kisses me.
An illicit sort of giddiness jolts through me. Sawyer is kissing me. In public. He did it.Hekissedme.If anyone’s reputation is at stake from this, it’s his, and he doesn’t care because he’s kissing me, and I don’t care becausehe’s kissing me.The sensation travels through my body, landing in a puddle of molten liquid right between my thighs.
His lips are soft, his hand commanding, his tongue teasing.
We break apart, smiling. A woman on the sidewalk staggers, catching my attention. Even through the hazy high of our kiss, she looks vaguely familiar. The parent of one of my old classmates maybe. She openly stares, literally clutching the pearls around her neck. Definitely from the north side of town.
It sobers me right up, nearly causing me heart palpitations. I’m suddenly fourteen again, wanting to crawl under a car and hide from the glaring spotlight.
“Mrs. Beaufort,” Sawyer says by way of greeting because hedoesbelong here.
