“You said it was a recipe for vomiting,” Gerard points out. “You were right! That’s impressive foresight!”
“Gerard, I swear to—” Another heave cuts off the threat.
“Maybe we should get him some water,” Ryan suggests.
“And crackers,” Nathan adds. “To help settle the stomach.”
“I don’t want crackers,” Kyle moans. “I want to die.”
“That’s dramatic,” Drew says.
“I’M DRAMATIC?! YOU WANTED TO PLAY RING TOSS WITH YOUR?—”
“Water!” I interrupt loudly. “Great idea! I’ll get water!”
I grab Ryan’s hand without thinking and pull him toward the nearest refreshment stand. His fingers tighten around mine, and I realize what I’ve done, but I don’t let go. Neither does he.
Another hour later,Kyle’s face has returned to its normal color, and Gerard has scarred us all for life with a performance at the karaoke stage. If I never have to hear “Twist and Shout” again, it’ll be too soon.
“Oliver.” Ryan’s voice is quiet enough that I have to lean in to hear him over the noise level, which has grown louder as the night wears on. “Would you want to ride the Ferris wheel with me?”
My gaze drifts past him to the structure rising at the edge of the grounds. The Ferris wheel towers against the night sky, its lights tracing a perfect circle of gold and white against the darkness.
I understand immediately why he wants to ride it. At the top of that wheel, we’ll be closer to the sky than anywhere else in this county. Closer to the constellations Ryan knows by heart. Closer to the cosmos that he’s spent his whole life studying.
But above all that, we’ll be closer to his mom.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out more gravelly than I intend.
I take his hand. His fingers thread through mine, as if they belong there, and something clicks into place in my chest that I didn’t know was loose.
We walk, and my flip-flops kick up tiny clouds of dust with each step. A child darts past us, laughing, but all I hear is the soft plastic slap against my heels and the rush of blood inside my skull.
Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say that the silence isn’t already communicating.
The line for the Ferris wheel is short—most people have gravitated toward the flashier rides. The operator, a kid who can’t be older than seventeen, barely glances at us as he unlatches the gate to an empty gondola.
“Keep your hands inside the car,” he recites monotonously. “No rocking. No standing. Enjoy the ride.”
We climb in, the gondola swaying slightly, mostly due to my weight. The seat is narrow, forcing us to sit close, our thighs pressing together from hip to knee. I don’t mind. I don’t think Ryan does either.
The wheel lurches into motion, carrying us upward in a slow, steady arc. The fairground shrinks beneath us—the karaoke stage becoming a square of light, the game booths becoming colorful dots, the people becoming ants engaged in their tiny, purposeful wanderings.
“I used to imagine this,” he says quietly as we rise higher. “When I was a kid. Being up high enough to touch the stars.”
“Did you ever get close?”
“Once. Mom took me to an observatory in Arizona. They had this viewing platform, and we went at night, and…” He trails off, his eyes fixed on the sky above us. “I thought if I reached far enough, I could grab one. Bring it back for her.”
The gondola crests the first peak, and for a moment, we’re suspended at the top of the world. The fair sprawls beneath us, a galaxy of its own made of light and sound and human chaos. But above us—God, above us iseverything.
The Milky Way stretches across the sky like a river of light.Stars I couldn’t name if my life depended on it pulse and glitter in the darkness. The moon hangs fat and silver, no longer red from the eclipse but still impossibly beautiful.
“There,” Ryan whispers, pointing. “Cassiopeia. Mom’s favorite constellation.”
I follow his finger to a W-shaped pattern of stars near the horizon. “Why was it her favorite?”
“Because of the story. Cassiopeia was a queen who boasted she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs. Poseidon punished her by chaining her to a throne in the sky, forcing her to circle the North Star forever.” Ryan’s voice softens. “Mom used to say that even punishment can become a gift. Cassiopeia got to spend eternity among the stars.”
