The drop is immediate—stomach-lurching, breathless. Water rushes past, wind roars, he squeals and laughs at the same time. I tighten my hold, keep him steady as we whip around curves, plunge through tunnels, shoot out into the splash pool at the bottom.
“Yahoooooooo!” Landon squeals in delight. “Weeeeeeeee-haaaaaaa!”
We hit the water hard. The tube flips. We both go under for a second, then pop up sputtering and laughing.
He turns to me in the shallow end, hair plastered to his face, eyes bright.
Before I can think, he surges forward and presses his mouth to mine.
It’s quick. Salt and chlorine and surprise.
But it’s electric.
Every nerve in my body and mind lights up.
I cup the back of his neck, kiss his back—deeper, slower—until someone nearby wolf-whistles and he pulls away, cheeks flaming.
“We’ve got half an hour left,” I say. “Four more slides?”
He giggles—actual, joyful giggles. “Make it one hundred!”
“I’ll try,” I laugh. “But no promises. Let’s move!”
We race back to the stairs.
I feel alive.
More alive than I have in years.
But underneath it all, the guilt is still there, heavy and cold.
Because I know—deep down, where the truth lives—that I’ve only made everything more complicated with that kiss.
The waterpark closes at eight, but we leave earlier—damp hair still dripping onto our shoulders, towels slung over our arms, flip-flops slapping against the wet tile as we head back to the changing rooms.
I might be a mobster and Landon a legal eagle in the making, but right now we look like two ordinary people taking it easy. It’s bliss. And it’s something I’ve never truly experienced before.
Landon’s cheeks are flushed from the cold plunge pool we hit on the last run, and he keeps laughing under his breath every time he remembers the way I nearly lost my grip on the double tube during the final drop. I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that before but I know I want to hear it again.
We change back into street clothes and step out into the cool evening. The sky is already bruising purple at the edges, streetlights flickering on one by one. The parking lot is still busy with families piling dripping kids into SUVs, but the energy has shifted from frantic excitement to tired contentment and the occasional tantrum too.
I check my watch. Just past seven-thirty. Too early to hole up in the motel. Too risky to sit still somewhere exposed. But Landon is still smiling, still buoyant from the slides and the wave pool, and I find myself reluctant to snuff that out just yet.
“There’s a bookstore about ten minutes from here,” I say as we reach the Accord. “Big one. Open late. We could pick up a couple of things… books, maybe a board game, some coloring pencils and paper. Kill a little more time before we settle in.”
He turns to me, surprised. “You want to go to a bookstore?”
I shrug and unlock the car. “Figured you might like it. And it’s public. Crowded. Suburban. Safe enough for another hour.”
His expression softens. “I’d like that.”
We drive in companionable quiet. Neither of us seems to need background noise tonight. Landon rests his head against thewindow again, watching the strip malls and fast-food signs slide past, but this time there’s no tension in his shoulders. Just a gentle, tired ease.
The bookstore is one of those sprawling chain places that somehow still feels cozy—warm wood shelves, soft overhead lighting, the smell of paper and fresh coffee drifting from the attached café. It’s busy but not overwhelming: college students sprawled in armchairs with textbooks, parents steering toddlers away from the display of glittery journals, a few older couples browsing the mystery section.
I’m not a huge reader but that’s only because I never feel like I have the time. So I decide that I’m going to pick up something for myself too. After all, I don’t know how long we’re going to be living like this and I need something to take my mind off the situation for at least some of the time.
I keep my movements casual, scanning exits and sightlines out of habit, but no one pays us any attention. We look like everyone else. It’s perfect.
