"You said you trusted me!"
"I lied," he says. Then he takes a cautious bite of his own and immediately coughs.
We both wheeze for a minute straight, crying, coughing. He tries to get relieved by drinking more beer, almost spilling it, then he just laughs again.
"Jesus," he says, wiping his eyes, "Gio, this is disgusting."
"It’s amazing," I argue.
"It’s burning my soul."
"That’s flavor."
He laughs again, quieter this time.
We finish eating with sticky fingers and zero dignity, and then I drag him toward the booths.
"Time to win a prize," I say, pointing at one of those old-school games with metal cans stacked in pyramids.
Rava eyes them warily. "You really want to get scammed tonight?"
"Don’t disrespect the game."
He raises an eyebrow. "I don’t even know how to throw." "Exactly," I smirk. "Which is why I’m betting you miss every single shot."
"You’rebetting?"
"Yup. Loser buys dessert."
"Good." He turns.
I sit right behind him, fully ready to watch him get absolutely humbled by a bunch of tiny plastic bottles. His face is killing me. So serious. Painfully serious.
But at the same time not serious at all, because the tip of his tongue is sticking out just a little while he’s trying to concentrate.
He picks up the first ball, takes a second, squints, and knocks down the whole stack with one clean hit.
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. He looks over his shoulder, deadpan. "Still betting, Fontana?"
I blink. "What the f—okay, okay, okay. Fluke. Do it again." Second stack. Second ball. Another perfect knockdown.
He turns to me, smiling. "Dessert’s on you."
I stare at him. "That was hot."
He raises a brow. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No, I didn’t."
"You did."
"I didn’t."
"Youdid."
"Ididn’t."
