Carson goes down the track next to me and arrives at the bottom the same time as me. We’re both cackling so hard, we almost can’t get out of our tubes to take the carpet lift back up.
“Oh my God, that was amazing!”
“Let’s go again.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be overseeing things back at the pavilion.”
“Oh, come on. You deserve to have fun, too.”
I tilt my head. “You’re right. I do.” And so does he.
Our eyes meet. “Attagirl.”
16
CARSON
This bash is wild. So much family. Kids running and screaming. Parents trying to control them. Back inside the pavilion, Ayla has quiet activities arranged and the kids make slime out of glitter glue and borax, and bouncy moon rocks. Some folks disappear to do their own thing.
I help Ayla whenever I can. Nobody else is. I don’t think her family is that callous; I just think they’re used to her taking charge.
I’m helping clean up the glitter slime when her cousin Emilio approaches us.
“Hey, Carson,” he says, extending a hand to shake.
I eye him. I don’t know him well, but he appears to be well lubricated. “Hi, Emilio. Good to see you.”
“I’m kinda confused.” His forehead pinches between his brows. “I thought I heard you two were divorced.”
Ayla and I freeze.
Ayla recovers. “What?” She laughs. “Why would you think that?”
Emilio shakes his head, wobbles, and sets a steadying hand on the table. “It wush a while back. I thought someone said shomething. Can’t remember who.”
“Weird.” Ayla grins. I see the tightness at the corners of her mouth and eyes.
Emilio shrugs, too wasted to care much. “Well, it’s good to see you, man,” he says to me. “I think the lasht time the whole family was together like this was at your wedding.”
“That’s true,” Ayla says with a laugh.
Our wedding was big and boisterous and fun, with all her family, all my friends and teammates, and my family of course, although they were outnumbered. Ayla was so beautiful, like a sexy princess in layers of white, her shoulders bare, her blonde hair glowing beneath a veil like a halo. She looked like an angel. I’ve always thought she looks like an angel, from the first time I saw her at Uncle Ernie’s, behind the bar, the lights making her blonde hair glow.
“That’smyslime!” A boy about five years old shouts at another boy who’s maybe three, distracting me from my memories. I think they might be Emilio’s kids. I remember Ayla talking about what terrors they are.
“Mine!” He grabs the slime back.
The five-year-old punches him.
“Knox!” Emilio tries to intervene. “Stop that. You can’t hit your brother.”
“He took my slime! I made blue slime. His was pink.”
“No!” The three-year-old’s face is red. He shoves his brother. “Mine is blue!”
Ayla is wide-eyed and blinking. “Tripp, we can make more blue slime if you want.”
Just as we’re trying to clean up.
