Page 58 of Racing Hearts

My chest lightens as we forge back toward the games.

In the shooting gallery, Adrian’s aim is much steadier—probably from his superior patience. Predictably, I slaughter him at Whac-A-Mole, which is mostly about reflexes and brute force. Adrian bests me in the batting cages. I realize this is not technically a competition, but I can tell who’s winning based on how loudly our bats crack against our balls. Adrian’s next high five is electric, sending a crackle down to my toes.

When my watch buzzes, alerting me to my snacking hour, he disappears and reemerges with two golden brown corn dogs.

I study the red-and-white checkered paper boat tray he’s holding out.

He must have caught my hesitation because he pulls it back. “No pressure. If you don’t want one, I’ll gladly eat both.”

“Is this part of the ‘fun’ protocol?” I ask, thinking of the pre-portioned snacks in my bag. “Because if I eat that, I probably won’t be hungry for one of the other meals I planned.”

“Sure, but I’m not going to tell you what to eat.” Adrian tucks one of the boat trays into an elbow so he can lift a corn dog off the other. “Have the corn dog. Have your special ratioed meal. Have both. It’s all valid and they all have benefits.”

“Yeah? What’s the benefit of a corn dog?” I ask, skeptically.

“It gives you joy,” Adrian says. “And joy has to be a part of rowing. And life. Otherwise what’s the point?”

I consider that for a long moment, listening to the ambient chiming of bells, mechanical clanking of gears, and the shouts from a carnival barker. Then I grab for the other stick. As I sink my teeth into the fried dough, my tongue springs alive.

“Holy shit, this is good,” I say around a second bite. Weirdly sweet? Why is it sweet?

Adrian offers me a paper bowl smeared with mustard. It doesn’t seem like it should, but somehow, that makes the next bite even better. “Mini golf next?” he asks.

I stuff the half-eaten corn dog in my mouth and sling my bag over a shoulder, already taking off toward the clubs. “Race you there!”

By the time we’ve started our second round, a deep, resonating stillness fills my bones. Mini golf is another one of those sort-of sports that I enjoy, probably because it involves precision, repetition, and deep focus. I love the smooth feel of the club in my hands, the tiny crack of the club, and the absolute exhilaration I get when everything lines up perfectly and that little ball sinks into its cup.

“So,” Adrian says, almost like he’s reading my mind, “best day off or very best day off?”

I settle my purple ball into its tiny divot. “I have to admit, it’s the best I can remember.”

“Ah.” Adrian sounds borderline triumphant. “I thought I was at least playing second fiddle to Mimi’s yoga class.”

I square my shoulders, eyes zeroed in on my target. “That was not a good day off.”

“Why not?”

“That damn shirt.”

“Which damn shirt?”

With a thwack of my club, the ball skitters forward, plunking definitively into my hole. Heck yes. I pump my fist as I raise my eyes to Adrian. “The one you wore to class.”

“What was wrong with it?”

I don’t know whether it’s the hole in one or the way I’m still zinging from the corn dog, but I’m suddenly feeling bold. I drop my miniature club and step toward Adrian, close enough that I’m practically pressed against his body. He inhales sharply. I circle an arm around his back, and pull his shirt tight until it’s stretched across the hard planes of his abdomen.

“This is what was wrong.”

His chin drops so that his mouth is nearly brushing my ear. Lightning skitters down my spine as his breath warms my cheek. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, but I absolutely like it.”

“You did it on purpose, though, didn’t you?” I whisper, still holding the back of his shirt, still so close to him I can practically feel his heartbeat through it.

“Wear a shirt?”

“Show up to my mom’s yoga studio.”

He chuckles and the sound skitters over my skin. “It crossed my mind that you might be there.”