Chapter 1 #11
He doesn’t answer. The light turns green. I let them speed ahead. I don’t need to show off tonight.
Not to them, anyway. To him? Maybe.
I don’t know if it’s because I know how annoyingly critical he is, but yeah, I feel this insane urge to flex every skill I ever learned on two wheels.
I could do so many things right now. A tight lean through traffic. A sharp overtake. That stupid little trick where I lift the front wheel just an inch.
I could make him scream if I wanted. But… yeah.
Who’s gonna listen to the lecture afterward? "I trusted you," "You’re reckless," "You almost killed me," blah blah blah.
I can already hear it.
So I drive clean. Like a gentleman.
And it’s hilarious, because he’s still scared. I can feel it from the way he’s holding me.
Relax, baby. If I wanted to scare you? You’d know. But I won’t.
Unless you ask.
Finally, I turn off onto a dirt path and pull into a gravel lot lit by strings of flickering lights.
Music. Laughter. That smell of fried everything and beer. I park the bike, kick the stand down, turn my head slightly over my shoulder. "We’re here."
He doesn’t move right away. Just stares. "…This is a fair."
"Yup."
"You brought me to a fair."
"I brought you somewhere you wouldn’t be alone!"
I get off the bike. Hold out a hand.
"Come on, Weston. Let’s ruin your reputation."
12) That Was Hot
Gio
I should’ve filmed it. I swear to God, the look on Rava’s face when we walked up to that food stand was Oscar-worthy.
He looks at everything and nothing at once. The guy behind the counter is losing his mind. There are kids screaming, someone dropping coins, music playing five different tempos at once.
Rava is staring at the menu.
"Just pick something!" I shout over the chaos.
"I don’t know what any of this is!"
"Then close your eyes and point!"
He turns to me with that classic "I don’t trust anything about this" expression, so I point for him.
One fried thing. One meat thing. Two beers.
The guy shoves everything at us. I grab it.
Rava grabs napkins, and we flee to the nearest open bench.
I grab something that looks like a fried brick, bite into it… and immediately choke.
"Jesus flaming Christ, this thing’s hotter than Satan’s asshole on a summer day—"
Rava’s frozen face cracks. Literally shatters.
His dignity is on the floor now. He actually bends forward, clutching his stomach. He laughs loudly.
First time I have ever seen him look like something other than a marble statue carved by an angry god.
And honestly? It’s just as terrifying. But holy shit, it’s also the cutest thing I have ever seen, and I kind of want to burn my tongue again, just to replay it.
"You okay?" he wheezes.
I fan my mouth. "You’re enjoying this way too much."
"You look like you’re dying."
"I am. And it’s your fault."
"You’re the one who ordered mystery lava food!"
"You said you trusted me!"
"I lied," he says. Then he takes a cautious bite of his own and immediately coughs.
We both wheeze for a minute straight, crying, coughing. He tries to get relieved by drinking more beer, almost spilling it, then he just laughs again.
"Jesus," he says, wiping his eyes, "Gio, this is disgusting."
"It’s amazing," I argue.
"It’s burning my soul."
"That’s flavor."
He laughs again, quieter this time.
We finish eating with sticky fingers and zero dignity, and then I drag him toward the booths.
"Time to win a prize," I say, pointing at one of those old-school games with metal cans stacked in pyramids.
Rava eyes them warily. "You really want to get scammed tonight?"
"Don’t disrespect the game."
He raises an eyebrow. "I don’t even know how to throw." "Exactly," I smirk. "Which is why I’m betting you miss every single shot."
"You’re betting?"
"Yup. Loser buys dessert."
"Good." He turns.
I sit right behind him, fully ready to watch him get absolutely humbled by a bunch of tiny plastic bottles. His face is killing me. So serious. Painfully serious.
But at the same time not serious at all, because the tip of his tongue is sticking out just a little while he’s trying to concentrate.
He picks up the first ball, takes a second, squints, and knocks down the whole stack with one clean hit.
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. He looks over his shoulder, deadpan. "Still betting, Fontana?"
I blink. "What the f—okay, okay, okay. Fluke. Do it again." Second stack. Second ball. Another perfect knockdown.
He turns to me, smiling. "Dessert’s on you."
I stare at him. "That was hot."
He raises a brow. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No, I didn’t."
"You did."
"I didn’t."
"You did."
"I didn’t."
We lock eyes. Smiling. Not smiling. Both.
I look away first.
"Anyway," I say, clearing my throat. "Come on. Pick your stupid prize."
He steps up, points at a little black cat plush with red eyes. "That one."
"Of course. Creepy and judgmental. Just like you."
He throws it at me. I catch it. I turn my head to the right and I see the best worst idea I could possibly find.
That beautiful, awful machine towering in the distance like a death wish wrapped in neon.
The one with the flashing rainbow lights, the insane up-and-down drop. The one that makes you scream and slam your legs against the seat.
Perfect for shaking every ounce of stress out of him. Perfect for making him forget whatever crap that tiny girlfriend of his dumps on him.
Not because I care if he relaxes. Let’s get that straight.
Just because I’d like to survive the rest of the night without him murdering me with attitude.
I turn my head and look at him. He’s licking sugar off his thumb from some fried disaster I shoved at him earlier, smiling a little without even realizing it. Too peaceful.
I grin. "Hey, Ravioli."
He pauses. "What?"
I smile. He didn’t complain about me calling him Ravioli.
I point at the ride.
He looks terrified. "No."
"Oh, come on."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"You’re such a coward."
He crosses his arms. "That’s not fear. That’s common sense." "But you used to love this shit," I say, already walking toward it. "Didn’t you do your birthday party at a place like this, like, every damn year?"
He frowns. "How would you know? I never invited you."
I smirk. "I had my ways."
"Okay, stalker," he mutters.
I place a hand on the center of his back and give him a little shove. "Let’s go. No time for therapy tonight."
"I didn’t even finish my beer," he mutters.
"You’ll survive. Probably."
We make our way to the line, and right in front of us, a couple is making out aggressively. Rava immediately turns his back to them, facing me.
The girl keeps bumping into him without noticing. I just grab him by the waist and pull him a step back. Closer to me.
"Jesus. Get a room," he mutters under his breath, annoyed. "What??" I yell over the music, even though I heard him, because annoying him is a hobby.
He leans in, right to my ear. "GET. A. ROOM."
I grin instantly. "For us?" I shout back.
He shoves me with both hands. "OH my god—I’m leaving." "I brought you here," I say, laughing. "Shut up. I’m joking."
He leans against the railing while we wait, rubbing the back of his neck. Sweat clings to his skin.
I reach over without asking, and wipe his forehead with the edge of my sleeve.
He blinks at me. "Did you just—?"
"You look like you’re melting."
"Next time just let me die."
"Nah. That’s less fun."
We stand in the line, side by side, close enough that our arms brush sometimes. I don’t move. Neither does he.
"So," I say after a beat. "Still afraid of heights?"
"No. Just small spaces."
I look at him. "Still?"
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Gio. Still."
Before he can say anything else, the safety gate clicks and the next round opens. I shove him forward. He stumbles, catches himself, glares at me. "Do we seriously have to—?"
I don’t answer, just hand our tokens to the guy and nod. He doesn’t resist. Not really.
We take our seats. Side by side. Locked in. The safety bar slams down in front of us. Rava grabs it and takes a deep breath. I glance over.
"Relax. You look like you’re bracing for death."
"I am," he says through clenched teeth.
I grin. "What happened to ‘I used to love this shit’?"
"I grew up. My standards changed."
"You’re the one who used to scream to ride the biggest thing in the park."
"I was ten. I also ate glue."
"Not gonna lie… you look like someone who eats glue…"
He looks at me sideways. "I hate you."
"I bet you do."
A voice crackles over the speakers. The ride hisses and jolts. He goes pale. "Wait—" he says, "is this one of those rides where you literally feel your organs shift?"
I hold back a laugh. "No."
He narrows his eyes. "You’re lying."
"Probably." The machine rises slowly, the seats tilting back as it climbs. He tries so hard not to look terrified. The drop comes. Full speed. Upside down.
"I HOPE YOU CHOKE ON YOUR OWN FUCKING BLOOD, GIOVANNI!"
I’m crying from laughter. He’s gripping the seat like a man betrayed by God Himself, and I feel my stomach ache.
The wind smacks us so hard his perfectly styled hair explodes in every direction.
Mine too, obviously. I swear I can see his soul lifting out of his body and waving us goodbye.
I’m fucking howling. I’m laughing so loud I’m probably ruining the audio for the entire ride. This serious, judgey little prince lets go of the bar just to stick his middle finger in my face. Right in front of my eyes.
And then he grabs the bar again like the grim reaper taps his shoulder. I almost fall off from laughing.
"YOU LIAR—YOU SON OF A BITCH—"
Every time I look at him, he’s just trying to glare at me with whatever dignity he has left.
"Rava," I choke out mid-spin, "your face—"
"OH IF I DIE I’M HAUNTING YOU."
"Please do."
Another drop. Another scream.
I swear, I have never felt more alive. Or more lucky to drag him here. We stumble off the ride like survivors.
Best ride of my life.