“You have a piece of glitter on your jaw,” I say.
Leo wipes a hand across his jawline. “Did I get it?”
“Now you’ve just relocated it to your chin. Here.” I reach forward to brush it away, and my fingertips graze the edge of his jaw.
His skin is warm. Slightly rough with stubble. I don’t know why I didn’t expect that, or why it causes my breath to hitch.
It turns out wiping glitter off someone’s face is a surprisingly intimate thing to do. Leo’s pupils dilate, and for a second, neither of us moves as we stare at each other.
The moment stretches. My hand is still on his face. His eyes are very dark this close.
I pull back like I’ve touched something hot.
“Glitter is an occupational hazard of being a children’s party entertainer,” I say lightly.
Leo leans back against the cushions, not taking his eyes off me. “How did you end up a children’s entertainer?”
I freeze.
The question is simple enough. The answer isn’t.
“I wanted to do a job that could make people happy,” I say finally.
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
I don’t like the way Leo’s looking at me, like he wants to scratch beneath the surface of my answer for what else might be lying below.
There’s an archaeological midden under there, a whole buried civilization, layers and layers of sediment that I’ve spent years carefully packing down.
Some sites shouldn’t be excavated. Some things are buried for a reason.
But under the scrutiny of Leo’s dark gaze, I find myself offering more.
“It’s like…fun should be effortless for kids. They shouldn’t have to earn it or deserve it or perform for it. It should just be there, like oxygen. And I want to give the kids childhood memories of just simple, pure fun. Because those memories can hopefully help them in the future, when things get hard.”
I don’t add that there is a growing body of research that demonstrates how children who have more positive experiences in childhood appear to have more emotional resilience during adversity as adults. That the good times provide a buffer against the bad times, so storing good memories is like casting a protective spell over your future, so you can handle any adversity ahead.
“I get it,” Leo says.
I blink at him. “You do?”
“Yes. Fun was a luxury in my childhood, but it shouldn’t be.”
Leo’s words land deeper than I expected.
Because I know exactly what it’s like when fun becomes a luxury, when it disappears from your life.
But I’m not opening that door. Not tonight.
So it’s time to turn the question around. And quickly.
“Why did you become a tech consultant?” I ask.
“I wanted something where I could make a lot of money,” he says.
I do an internal eye roll at that. Just when I was starting to like the guy.
“My family, we didn’t have much growing up,” he continues.
