My jaw slackens, and I look up at him with surprise. “No way!”
“Ugh, seriously?” Dylan complains, and to my surprise, Gareth doesn’t pull away.
Grinning down at me, he says, “Can’t wait to see which one you pick.”
The guy in charge of the booth steps in front of us. “Which fish do you want?” he asks, his voice flat.
Stepping closer so I can see the options, I look for the smallest, saddest-looking goldfish I can find and point at it. “That one, please.”
The guy rolls his eyes before picking up the plastic cup and handing it to me.
“You would pick the one that looks like it’ll be floating by morning.” Dylan scoffs as we walk away. He gave up on winning after missing an embarrassing amount of times.
“Whatever,” I mutter, holding the cup up so I can look at my new pet. Its little mouth opens and closes as if he or she has something to say.
“What’s next?” Gareth asks Dylan, and Dylan points at the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I shake my head as we approach the line queue. “I’ll sit this one out.”
I don’t do spinning rides like this—I don’t have the stomach for it. Plus, I can’t leave my fish unattended.
“Suit yourself!” Dylan calls over his shoulder as he and Gareth hop in line.
There’s a bench across from the ride's exit, so I go sit down while I wait for them. Pulling out my phone, I mindlessly scroll a bit, zoning out while I kill time.
About ten or fifteen minutes later, the guys rejoin me. My brother looks several shades paler than normal, his hand pressing to his stomach.
“Are you good?” I ask, trying to assess what’s happening.
Sweat lines his brow. “I think that hot dog was a mistake.”
“Shocker.” I scoff, but my eyes widen when Dylan’s cheeks inflate.
“Are you going to—” Gareth’s words are cut off when Dylan rushes past him and throws up in a nearby bush.
Sounds of his retching draw the attention of a few people passing by, whispering as they look over.
Handing Gareth my fish, I go rub my brother’s back while he upchucks everything in his system.
“You’re okay,” I coo. “Get it out, you’ll feel better.”
My words are an exact echo of what our mom has always said to us when we’ve gotten sick at home. Thankfully, I’m not one of those people who sympathy vomits, otherwise Gareth would have a real problem on his hands.
When my brother finally stops, he exhales a shaky breath and straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was fucking nasty.”
“Learn your lesson about eating fair hot dogs?” Gareth asks, smacking Dylan against the shoulder.
“For now. I’m going to head home, though. My stomach isn’t right.” He glances over at Gareth, then at me. “Can you make sure Indy makes it back?”
His question hangs between the three of us. I’m surprised he suggested I stay since we obviously came together.
“Of course,” Gareth responds without hesitation.
“Alright, cool.” Dylan looks between us, wiping his forehead. He’s looking a little queasy again. “I’ll see you.”
He glances at Gareth again with a look that’s impenetrable—half-trusting, half-suspicious, like what happens tonight will tip the scales on how he looks at us both.
Like it’s a test.
