“Damn, that’s pretty good. Run any marathons?”
“I did a half last year,” I tell him.
“I did one a few years ago, and I’ve been meaning to start training again, but you know how life gets in the way sometimes.”
Noah starts moving ahead as the line begins to fill the ride. My stomach flops around a bit as the ride attendant waves us through. Up close, it looks a little more daunting than it did from the beach.
“I won’t ask you to hold my hand. Don’t worry,” Noah says.
“Good because that’s against friendship rules,” I tell him.
We’re locked and loaded on the ride. The only thing separating the seats is the rubber padding around our necks and torsos. God, I hope this thing is safe.
It’s the last thought I have before we’re sling-shot into what feels like space. My stomach is sitting pretty in my throat right now as I try to scream, but air won’t come out.
A wave of nausea rolls through me, and my only fear becomes the thought of yacking up the salad I had for lunch.
We drop down the open zipper, and gravity has its way with me. Sound finally rips from my lungs in the form of a shriek. Instinct kicks in, and I reach for Noah’s hand as we’re swooping our way back up toward the sky. He holds on tight, and the teeny bit of comfort he offers me is nice.
It sucks to think that I’m going to have to knock on every damn door of the development tonight to find out whether Noah lives in one of the villas. I don’t recall seeing him within the lineup of men standing in my living room last night, but I also blurred over them all.
The ride ends, and my legs feel like Jell-O as we step away from the constraints. I realize I’m still holding Noah’s hand, needing it for support now, so I don’t flop to the ground.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Starving.”
“I figured it was best to eat after the ride.”
“Smart man.”
“Hot dog, corn dog, pizza, nachos, or a massive helping of fried dough?”
“Is this a pre-planned date?” I question. If it’s not, I look like an asshole—probably a fired asshole.
“No, ma’am. We’re not on a date, remember? This is what friends do. They eat shitty carnival food and enjoy the hell out of it.”
“Fried dough and a beer then,” I tell him.
Noah seems surprised. “I was just kidding. We can go down the street to a small Italian restaurant that I had in mind.”
“I don’t want Italian,” I tell him. “I want shitty carnival food and beer.”
“God, you’re making this hard,” he says, slipping his hand away from mine and placing it on my back.
“How so?”
“As I said, prissy girls aren’t my thing,” he reminds me.
“Sure, but someday, you might need a woman who knows how to dress-up to be by your side when you have to act the part you play, right?” I don’t know if that sounds totally rude or not, but I haven’t forgotten the mention of his extraordinary entrepreneurial success.
“All I care about is finding a woman who can be herself. I don’t dress to impress, Miss Ashley. Life’s too short to kiss ass, you know?”
“Trust me, I know.” Hence the reason I couldn’t find a job up north.
As we’re walking over to the concessions, there’s a little girl, maybe four or five, walking toward us with a giant blue balloon in one hand and an overfilled ice cream cone in the other. She’s alone, and I look around to see where she’s heading, focusing so intently on the balloon’s string and the cone. I see a mother placing napkins down on a small picnic table behind us, glancing up to check on who I assume to be her daughter.
An older boy runs by the little girl, brushing his arm into her side. The rest happens in slow motion. The little girl loses her grip on the ice cream, which causes her to release the string from the balloon.
