Devon throws me a look over her shoulder. Despite the adorable protective vibe Syd’s got going for Devon and my genuine admiration for Sydney as an overall wonderful human being, I cannot wait to get the hell out of this car. Alive.
Not to mention I’m desperate to get Devon alone again. Volunteering today was rewarding as always, but was a special kind of torture every time our gazes met or our hands accidentally—or not so accidentally—brushed. It was impossible to focus with her in the room. It’s impossible to focus when she’s not in the room. Because no matter where I go, she’s dancing across my brain like it’s her stage.
“Syd, slow down,” Devon tells her again, hitting the imaginary brake in front of her and grabbing for a nonexistent oh-shit handle.
I need to put an end to this. I lean forward between them. “Alright, we’re here,” I lie. Better to walk the rest of the way along the waterfront than to die in a Volkswagen Beetle.
Syd screeches to a halt and finds what she thinks is a parking spot but is actually the right turn lane onto Market. I don’t correct her and neither does Devon.
“You two be careful tonight. Don’t drink and drive,” Syd tells us as I climb out over the back of the beetle.
“We don’t have a car,” Devon points out.
“And remember that the pull-out meth?—”
“Byeee, Syd. Text me when you’re home safe.” Devon shuts the door and points to the line of cars trying to make a right hand turn behind her, their drivers beeping and cursing out their windows. Syd just smiles and gives us a little wave before taking the turn onto Market Street on two wheels.
“Who the hell gave her a license?” I wonder aloud.
“She’s worse than Cher from Clueless,” Devon answers as the tiny blue bubble disappears from view.
A burst of freezing air rushes up from the river and crosses the busy street, sending Devon’s hair across her face. I step toward her, push the soft strands back in place behind her ear as she takes in the sight of the brightly lit Ferris wheel planted on the riverbanks in Penn’s Landing. At the base of the wheel, dozens of people slide and spin on ice skates, partaking in the music and laughter that surrounds the outdoor skating rink.
“This is amazing,” she says.
“You’ve never been here?”
I take her hand, lead her to the crosswalk.
“Nah. I’ve heard Kev and Mer talk about it. They came a lot the year it first opened, but I was in grad school that summer,” she explains. She adjusts her grip on my hand so that her fingers slip between mine. “I guess they lost interest.”
“Well, Mer does like to mix it up,” I point out. “Are you warm enough?”
“I’m fine. She keeps texting me dirty memes today. I don’t know what the hell is up with her,” she tells me as we dodge the people leaving the landing and make our way around those in line for the carousel. A kid is screaming at his dad that he needs cotton candy. Devon sticks out her lip a little like she’s commiserating with the kid—or maybe the dad—who’s trying his best to redirect the kid’s attention away from the hanging clouds of pink and blue sugar above him.
“Weird. Kevin has been texting me a lot today, too. Giving me unsolicited dating advice,” I tell her.
“Who are you dating?”
I blow out a breath, and we both watch it hang above us in the air.
“If I recall correctly, it was you who kept calling tonight a date” I say with a smile. “Kev also wanted to know how you are doing. I told him you’re fine.”
“Am I?” she asks, stopping in front of the carnival game where you have to fill the toilet with your water gun. Her hands are sunk into her kangaroo pocket. The neon lights dance across her eyes.
“I think so. Or I hope so,” I say.
She chews on her bottom lip and looks down at her shoes.
“I wouldn’t be, Jeff. If it weren’t for you,” she says softly. “Usually, I spend this weekend in fetal position every moment that my mom’s not around.”
My heart clenches in time with my fists.
“Your mom hides it almost as well as you, huh?”
She nods once. “I hear her at night sometimes—when she thinks I’m asleep?—”
I reach for her hand in her pocket—squeeze it as I imagine that gut crushing feeling of witnessing your own mother’s sorrow.
