Luis looks personally attacked. “That was metaphorical, Amanda! So is my patience.”
Team Barbie’s World is locked in an embrace engineered for maximum photo ops. They sip from the same smoothie and loudly proclaim, “We always think the same. It’s just so magical!”
I glance skyward. Nothing but the barest hint of clouds and the overwhelming urge to bolt.
Then I catch sight of Maisie. She’s adjusting her ponytail, one curl slipping loose and catching in the collar of her sweatshirt. Her fingers brush it away with practiced ease. The color catches in the sun. It’s the color of honey brushedwith rose gold—soft and sunlit, straw spun with a hint of copper. There’s something mesmerizing about it—about her.
My pulse skitters, not from the noise or the crowd or the looming ridiculousness of couple-themed obstacle courses, but because she’s standing there as though she belongs to the morning, sure and confident as the sunrise. The rest of the festival feels like a joke I’m only half-smiling at. But Maisie? Even knowing we’re faking it, she doesn’t feel fake. That’s the unsettling part.
Her presence reads as authentic and alive, as though she’s tuned into something deeper than the spectacle around us. She’s part of the show, sure, but she’s not performing the way the others are. She’s just…her. And that contrast cuts through the commotion and finds me.
I’m suddenly aware of how much space there is between us, because I want to be closer. She’s laughing at something Dot from the quilt club says. The sound of it tugs a sharp breath from my lungs and stirs up a flutter I can’t name—the kind of shift that makes you miss a beat, following an unexpected chord change. She’s wearing a skirt printed with dancing potted plants and an orange sweatshirt that reads,Flower Power. Her hot pink apron is dusted with petals already.
“Beau Callahan,” Reenie calls, clipboard in hand. “You and Maisie will start at Obstacle Station One.”
I step toward the banner-marked “start here” where Maisie’s already waiting, hips angled slightly to one side, arms crossed in a pose that reads equal parts prepared and amused.
“Ready to make fools of ourselves again?” she asks.
Her dry but cheery wit catches me off-guard. “Wasn’t aware we ever stopped,” I succeed at responding.
The compatibility walk challenge kicks off with a frenzy. Each couple is handed a different laminated card but all titledRomantic Coordination Trial. My mind translates it toPublic Humiliation with Props. It’s printed in a swirly, vaguely romantic font I suspect is Allura, the kind that dares you to take it seriously while still making you wonder if you’re signing up for a couples’ retreat or a prank show.
First task: walk twenty feet while balancing a balloon between our backs without using our hands.
Maisie leans backwards to press against the balloon I’m gripping behind my back and instructs with confidence, “Just think of me as structurally sound with a questionable center of gravity.”
“Comforting.”
We manage two steps, shoulders awkwardly sloped and spines locked tighter than a busted wrench, before Maisie wheezes with laughter. The balloon is slick against my back, staticky and stretched with rubber-tight strain. Every time we shift even slightly out of sync, it threatens to pop free.
I try not to focus on how her warmth radiates in waves, even with the balloon between us, how her bright laugh jumps through me. It knocks me sideways in the smallest way, not in a lightning-bolt way, just a subtle jolt, but the sound sits there in my chest, pitapatting.
She’s much shorter than me, but somehow we manage to regain balance and continue forward. Her laughter bubbles up again, uncontrollably this time, and we lose our coordinated posture and stability. The balloon shoots skyward, a hostage escaping its confinement, and all I can do is watch it drift skyward. She dissolves into giggles that shake both of us from the inside out. Without the balloon, we end up awkwardly leaning back-to-back, slumped intoeach other in a Leaning Tower of Pisa situation, one misstep from toppling. Finally, Maisie slides to the ground.
Team Barbie’s World gives us a pity clap, though it’s hard to tell if she and Ken did much better, their balloon burst halfway through. And now they’re both wearing matching patches of static-flattened hair and strained smiles, trying to play it off like it was part of the plan.
Before we reach the next station, I spot a couple near the hedgerow, one in a fringed denim jacket and cowboy boots, the other with a headful of lilac purple hair. Team Jam Session, if I remember how Maisie described them.
The cowgirl’s stance is confident, one boot up on a raised planter box, as if she’s ready to lead a trail ride. The guy with the purple hair is half-dancing down the sidewalk, shoulders loose, head bobbing, following his own private beat. The scent of lavender sachets drift in as we near the contest station. Somehow, the connection between the bright hair and the soft lavender herbal notes feels seamless, the scent meant to follow that flash of color.
Our second competition of the day involves tossing lavender pouches into flower pots while blindfolded. I’ll be throwing. Maisie will be my eyes. I’m already holding the small bag and standing at the marked toss line. I won’t be able to see a thing once Maisie ties the scarf. It’s her job to direct me verbally.
Maisie ties the scarf around my eyes. “Trust me?”
“More than the balloon.”
“Start tossing,” Millie shouts.
Maisie guides me with exaggerated instructions. “Aim left! No, yourotherleft. That’s a birdbath, not aflower pot.”
A cheer goes up from somewhere nearby, followed by a gasp and someone shouting, “Duck!” I hear the unmistakable plop of something landing in liquid behind us. I’m guessing lemonade. I peek under the scarf to see Luis completely off course. Amanda is furious and spinning in circles, a malfunctioning compass come to life.
I turn my focus back to our team, and concentrate, tossing a second sachet. Maisie narrates as quickly as an auction caller, “It’s arcing. So graceful. We have a chance and…nope.”
I lift the scarf to watch the pouch land in the middle of a tray of mini scones, scattering them like cats startled by a loud noise. A dramatic sigh goes up from the snack table, followed by a slow clap from Dot Wallace, who’s apparently on judging duty right now.
Maisie chortles. “Bullseye.”
