We’re just faces in the crowd.
It’s actually really nice.
But my attention stays on Mason and Judah as we walk through the festival grounds.
They keep gravitating toward each other. Little things, maybe unconscious—the way Mason’s hand brushes Judah’s elbow when they navigate around a group of children. The way Judah angles his body to create a buffer between Mason and the crowd. The way they move together like two satellites caught in each other’s orbit, unable to escape the gravitational pull even if they wanted to.
Ten years apart, and their bodies still remember how to find each other.
Good, I think fiercely.Let them have this.
Whatever complicated feelings are still churning in my own chest—and there are many, tangled and thorny and not ready to be examined—I refuse to let them poison this moment. Mason deserves to be happy. Judah clearly adores him. And if watching them together makes something in me ache with a longing I can’t quite name…
Well. That’s my problem to deal with. Not theirs.
Dom falls into step beside me. He’s traded his leather jacket for a simple black t-shirt, and the tattoos on his forearms draw appreciative glances from more than a few passing festival-goers. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a game booth,” he says, jerking his chin toward a tent decorated with dangling stuffed animals. “If you want to try your hand.”
I follow his gaze. The booth features a wall of balloons and a bucket of darts. Classic carnival fare. The prizes hanging from the ceiling include an enormous stuffed lobster that’s bright red and vaguely terrifying, with googly eyes that seem to stare directly into my soul.
“I want that lobster,” I announce.
Atticus snorts. “You haven’t even finished eating the one in your hand.”
“Different kind of lobster. One is food. One is a friend.” I polish off the last bite of my roll, lick butter from my fingers with absolutely zero shame, and march toward the booth. “Gerald Jr. is coming home with me.”
“Gerald Jr.” Mason has caught up to us, Judah a steady presence at his shoulder. “You’ve already named it?”
“Obviously. He’ll need a little suit and maybe a top hat.”
The carnival game booth is run by a weathered man in a flannel shirt who looks like he’s been operating this exact attraction since the festival’s founding in 1947. He accepts my five dollars with a grunt and hands over three darts.
“Pop three, win a prize from the top row.” He gestures at the ceiling where Gerald Jr. hangs among other oversized plush creatures. “Good luck.”
I line up my first dart, squinting at the balloon wall with the intensity of an Olympic archer preparing for a gold medal shot.
The dart sails through the air.
It misses the balloons entirely and embeds itself in the wooden frame of the booth with a hollow thunk.
Dom coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like smothered laughter.
“The wind,” I say with dignity. “There was wind.”
“We’re inside a tent,” Atticus points out entirely unhelpfully.
I heft my second dart. “Be quiet, Atticus.”
The second dart clips the edge of a balloon without actually popping it. The balloon wobbles mockingly.
“That was closer,” Mason offers, and I appreciate that he’s at least trying to be supportive.
My third and final dart launches toward the balloon wall with all the precision of a drunk pelican. It hits the canvas backdrop with a sad littlefwapand drops to the floor.
“Well.” I turn away from the carnage with as much composure as I can muster. “Clearly this game is rigged.”
The booth operator doesn’t even blink. He’s probably heard that excuse ten thousand times.
