We lock eyes. Smiling. Not smiling. Both.
I look away first.
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat. "Come on. Pick your stupid prize."
He steps up, points at a little black cat plush with red eyes. "That one."
"Of course. Creepy and judgmental. Just like you."
He throws it at me. I catch it. I turn my head to the right and I see the best worst idea I could possibly find.
That beautiful, awful machine towering in the distance like a death wish wrapped in neon.
The one with the flashing rainbow lights, the insane up-and-down drop. The one that makes you scream and slam your legs against the seat.
Perfect for shaking every ounce of stress out of him. Perfect for making him forget whatever crap that tiny girlfriend of his dumps on him.
Not because I care if he relaxes. Let’s get that straight.
Just because I’d like to survive the rest of the night without him murdering me with attitude.
I turn my head and look at him. He’s licking sugar off his thumb from some fried disaster I shoved at him earlier, smiling a little without even realizing it. Too peaceful.
I grin. "Hey, Ravioli."
He pauses. "What?"
I smile. He didn’t complain about me calling him Ravioli.
I point at the ride.
He looks terrified. "No."
"Oh, come on."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"You’re such a coward."
He crosses his arms. "That’s not fear. That’s common sense." "But you used to love this shit," I say, already walking toward it. "Didn’t you do your birthday party at a place like this, like, every damn year?"
He frowns. "How wouldyouknow? I never invited you."
I smirk. "I had my ways."
"Okay, stalker," he mutters.
I place a hand on the center of his back and give him a little shove. "Let’s go. No time for therapy tonight."
"I didn’t even finish my beer," he mutters.
"You’ll survive. Probably."
We make our way to the line, and right in front of us, a couple is making out aggressively. Rava immediately turns his back to them, facing me.
