23. 2
“Don’t start,” I warn her, taking a too-large bite of the sugary treat to hide my face.
Aubrey smirks, but thankfully, she doesn’t say anything more.
I’m sure she’s got a million things to say, but she’s smart enough not to push it.
She knows I’m not exactly into whatever game Sylvester is playing.
Not like that, anyway.
I’m not sure I could ever look at him that way—he’s fun, sure, but he’s not the kind of guy I’m interested in.
As we watch him approach his parents, I can’t help but notice Bishop lingering nearby, chatting with his mother.
I feel the weight of someone’s stare before I see it—sharp and unsettling, like standing in sunlight too long and only realizing it after your skin starts to burn.
I expect to find Bishop watching me—and maybe he is—but it’s not his gaze I catch first. It’s hers.
His mother’s eyes are on me.
She’s watching—calm, curious—like she knows something I don’t.
Then she shifts her attention to her son.
She says something low to him, something I can’t hear, and it pulls his focus immediately—snapping his attention away from whatever, or whoever, had him distracted.
Could’ve been me, but I glance away before I can confirm it.
Mrs. Oliveri’s face contorts in a mix of horror and shock when her son presents her with the cotton candy.
She takes it gingerly, holding it as though it might spontaneously combust, while Mr. Oliveri bursts into hearty laughter, clearly enjoying the scene.
“It’s just sugar, Mom.” Sylvester laughs.
“It won’t bite.”
Mrs. Oliveri squints at the cotton candy as if it’s some sort of foreign object, clearly unsure how to handle it.
“Well, it’s certainly…fluffy,” she says slowly, like she’s trying to figure out how it works, before cautiously taking a small bite.
Her face scrunches up as if she’s trying to decide whether she likes it or not.
Meanwhile, Sutton beams with gratitude as her twin hands her her own cotton candy.
But when her eyes meet her mother’s, her smile falters slightly, and I notice a tiny wrinkle form on her nose.
She hands the treat to Camden, who eagerly grabs it and starts nibbling at the sugary goodness as if it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.
Aubrey’s still beside me, but I know she’s got responsibilities.
So after a quick hug and promise to catch up later, she rushes off, leaving me on my own for a bit.
The Ferris wheel stands tall and colorful in the distance, its bright lights flickering against the evening sky, a perfect mix of excitement and nostalgia.
The thought of being up high, overlooking everything, feels like just what I need—a brief escape from the chaos below.
Plus, with Aubrey’s stage set up nearby, I might even catch a glimpse of her improv show while I’m up here.
It’s a win-win.
Without hesitation, I head in that direction, cotton candy still in hand, savoring the last few bites of sweetness.
I’m just settling into my seat, already feeling the slight sway of the pod, when Bishop appears next to me, sliding into the other open seat without a word.
I shoot him a sharp glare, the familiar irritation rising in my chest—so much for my moment of peace.
He doesn’t even acknowledge me, just stretches out and leans back as though he owns the entire Ferris wheel.
Like I’m not even there.
“Really?” I bite out, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice.
“You’re just going to invade my space like this?”
Bishop turns his head, eyes glinting with that arrogant gleam I’ve come to expect.
A lazy smirk curves his lips.
“You should be used to it by now, troublemaker,” he says, his voice smooth and mocking.
Before I can respond, a student appears at the entrance of the pod, ready to close the door.
Bishop doesn’t even hesitate.
With one fluid motion, he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, and tosses it in the kid’s direction like it’s pocket change.
The worker fumbles to catch it, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Th-thank you! This’ll really help out with the debate club’s resources!” he stammers, his grin nearly splitting his face in two.
“Don’t open this door until I signal,” Bishop says, his tone dangerously cool, like this is just another one of his little games.
His confidence practically oozes from him.
There’s no hesitation, no second thoughts.
He’s in control.
The student, now holding the cash, nods eagerly, practically worshipping the ground Bishop walks on.
“We really appreciate it!” he says, but Bishop interrupts with a casual flick of his wrist and without missing a beat, he slams the door shut with a force that makes the entire pod rock.
The student on the other side stands there, momentarily frozen, the bribe still clutched in his hand as he watches us pull away.
I stare at Bishop, my jaw practically dropping.
“You’re such an asshole,” I mutter under my breath, half-shocked and half-impressed by how easily he does this.
He meets my gaze, a smug look stretching across his face.
“What can I say? He gets the donation, and I get what I want,” he says, his voice dripping with amusement.
“Pretty simple transaction.”
I scoff in dismissal, unable to stop myself from shaking my head at how effortlessly he gets away with it.
The guy has no boundaries, and he knows it.
The Ferris wheel jolts to life, the creaky metal groaning as it slowly starts to rise.
I lean back in my seat, trying to distance myself from Bishop as much as possible.
The seats are small, and there’s no escaping the fact that he’s sitting right next to me, but I do my best to ignore his presence.
I focus on the view instead—the carnival lights twinkling below, the buzz of laughter from the students scattered around, the distant music playing.
But despite all of that, I can feel his eyes on me, like a weight I can’t shake.
I try to slide away a little, shifting toward the edge of the pod, but it’s cramped, and he doesn’t seem to care about the personal space I’m desperately trying to create.
He chuckles beside me, the sound low and amused.
I refuse to acknowledge him directly, instead watching the trees spread out beneath us as we rise higher.
The night air is colder up here, the breeze brushing my face, and for a second, I start to feel the isolation I was hoping for.
But then, as I glance out of the corner of my eye, I see Bishop pull something out of his pocket.
It’s my botany notebook.
I freeze for a split second, my stomach tightening.
I haven’t seen that thing in weeks—not since he’d taken it from me during my first week here at Altair.
He catches me staring and without hesitation, flips open to one of the pages.
His fingers skim over the diagrams of the plants I’ve drawn, the notes I spent tireless hours perfecting, and I can’t help but feel irritated.
There’s no acknowledgment, no apology—just his usual cocky attitude, completely unfazed by the fact that this is mine .
I glance down at my notebook, noticing a few pages are missing, showing the telltale jagged edges where they’ve been torn out.
“You really are into this stuff, huh?” Bishop says, his tone casual, as though he’s asking about the weather.
My eyes thin to slits, trying to figure out what game he’s playing now.
His sudden nonchalance doesn’t fool me.
Then, without missing a beat, he gets to the point.
“You owe me a favor.”
His voice is confident—too confident—as if he’s sure I’ll just roll over and do whatever he wants.
The way he leans back in his seat, his posture relaxed but deliberate, makes it clear he knows I’m not going to refuse.
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the Ferris wheel creaks as it moves.
The pod sways slightly, a subtle lurch that makes the whole thing feel just a bit less steady.
I watch Bishop carefully, and for a brief second, his posture stiffens.
He quickly adjusts, but there’s something there—a tension in his shoulders, something that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“I owe you a favor?” I ask with a scoff, trying to match his confidence but not fully buying into it.
“I didn’t realize I was trapped in this pod with a comedian.”
“When have I ever made it seem like I’m joking?” His voice is smooth, sure, like he’s already got the upper hand.
I roll my eyes, brushing off his comment with a casual wave of my hand.
“Whatever you’re offering, I don’t want it,” I say dismissively.
“I’m not in the market to do any more of your favors.”
Bishop’s expression stays unfazed.
“Tomorrow they pick the teams for the games. I want you there. Front row.”
I blink, completely caught off guard.
Wait, what? Why would he want me to be there?
He’s been trying to get me to leave Altair since I arrived.
Why the sudden interest in having me around?
“Pass.”
Bishop shrugs, clearly expecting this response.
“Figured you’d say that,” he says.
Then, in that same casual tone, he adds, “I’ll make it easy for you. How about you babysit my sister for a few hours instead?”
The suggestion leaves me completely stunned.
“Your sister?” I stare at him, my mind trying to catch up.
“You have a sister?” I hadn’t even known.
He’s always so independent, so focused on himself.
The idea of him having a sibling seems almost impossible to wrap my head around.
“Since when?”
“Since my mother had her,” he says nonchalantly.
“She’s a handful, and I’m busy. You owe me. Watch her for a bit tomorrow. No one will even know you’re doing me a favor. Simple.”
I blink, still processing his words.
Babysit his sister? This was the same guy who made it clear he didn’t want me around, and now he’s asking me to help him with something that seems so personal.
It’s all too much, too sudden.
I don’t know if he’s serious, or just messing with me, but either way, I don’t buy it.
“You want your book back, right?” he says, waving my notebook between us like it’s a bargaining chip and not something he outright stole from me.
“Forget it,” I say, my voice firm.
“I’m not helping you. I don’t know why you’re even asking, but I’m not interested. I’ve got better things to do.”
As I speak, I notice that the Ferris wheel is starting to lower, the ground coming closer.
Without thinking, I abruptly rise from my seat, ready to make a quick exit.
But as soon as I stand, the pod moves and Bishop tenses beside me.
I can practically feel the shift in his energy, his gaze flicking over to me with something like…
panic?
Before I can even process what’s happening, he reaches out and yanks me back down, pulling me into his lap with a roughness that takes me by surprise, but it does nothing to stop me.
“Hey!” I snap, glancing over to the student running the Ferris wheel.
“Can you open—”
But the guy’s eyes flick to Bishop, and suddenly he doesn’t even acknowledge me.
His gaze shifts back to the controls, and he continues without missing a beat, clearly deciding not to get involved with whatever’s going on between us.
“Coward,” I complain under my breath.
Bishop leans back in his seat, pulling me closer against him.
The Ferris wheel starts up again, taking us higher, as if we’re going for another lap.
I feel the change in the air, the subtle tension in his shoulders, but I’m not sure what to make of it.
I force myself to breathe, focusing instead on the fact that I’m once again wedged in his lap—and if I wasn’t so angry, I wouldn’t outright hate it.
He meets my gaze again, his smirk still in place, but there’s something about his grip, something off about the way he’s holding me, like he’s trying to keep me anchored in place.
It’s almost as if he’s trying to steady himself, but I’m too annoyed to bother to figure out why.
“Let go of me!” I snap, trying to wiggle free, but he’s not exactly making it easy.
“So is that a no to the babysitting job?” he asks, voice teasing, but the usual playful glint is missing from his eyes.
“Spending an entire afternoon stuck in a room with nothing but a pile of paperwork and a broken pencil sharpener sounds more appealing.”
“That so?” Bishop lets out a low chuckle, but there’s something in his eyes that makes me swallow, knowing he could and would make that happen if I wasn’t careful.
“I’ll take my chances,” I say, trying to wriggle out of his grip again, but he doesn’t budge.
The Ferris wheel continues its slow, deliberate lap.
The air feels heavier now, the ground far below us.
Bishop sighs dramatically, making it sound like he’s about to make the greatest sacrifice of his life.
Then, in one smooth motion, he shifts, letting me slide off his lap and back onto my seat.
“I’ll settle for a kiss, then,” Bishop says, his tone smooth, almost casual, as if he’s offering a simple trade.
Like it’s the most reasonable request in the world.
My chin jerks up in surprise, caught off guard.
“Really? That’s all? After all of this, you just want a kiss?”
A sly, almost mischievous grin tugs at his lips.
He leans in slightly, as if the whole thing is some inside joke I’m not privy to, and his voice drops to a quiet, conspiratorial whisper.
“You want your notebook back, don’t you? Go on, distract me. Show me how much you want it.”
I scoff, but part of me can’t help the way my body moves forward in spite of myself.
It’s like I’ve lost control over this ridiculous situation.
For some stupid reason, I’m actually starting to lean into the absurdity of it all.
I’m closer now, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath on my skin, the faint hint of something like amusement in the air around us.
My lips part slightly, my heartbeats thudding in my chest. This is just our version of foreplay, right?
A stupid game. That’s all it is.
But just as I lean in—just as my eyes flutter shut and I brace for whatever nonsense this is going to turn into—his hand shifts toward the door handle.
Before I can react, he yanks the door open, a sharp, cold rush of air sweeping in as the Ferris wheel lurches to a stop.
Bishop steps out smoothly and flashes me a cocky grin over his shoulder.
“I knew you wanted me,” he says, his voice dripping with playful arrogance.
And with that, he walks off, leaving me sitting there, mouth slightly open, completely thrown off balance.
I feel my pulse spike with sudden irritation.
Without even thinking, I jump to my feet and charge after him, pushing past the stunned worker.
But as I rush toward the exit, something catches my attention.
The unmistakable sound of Aubrey’s voice rings out, amplified through the speakers.
She’s up on stage now, getting ready for the next round of volunteers for the improv show.
Without thinking, I call out, “Bishop!” It’s a sharp, instinctive shout, fueled by pure annoyance, but it’s loud enough that the entire crowd seems to freeze for a moment.
I blink in disbelief as I watch the entire audience go quiet, the sudden hush making the air feel heavier.
My eyes flicker back to Bishop, who’s somewhat buried in the crowd.
I watch as the muscles in his back flex—his posture tense and rigid, just for a second.
I smirk to myself, thinking I’ve won, but deep down, I should’ve known better.
I should’ve realized that when it comes to my shadow, nothing ever goes as expected.
Aubrey’s voice rings out again, louder this time, calling his name to join her on stage.
And just like that, I can feel the shift in the atmosphere.
A cold wave of realization crashes over me too slow, as the tension in his back suddenly melts, replaced by a cocky confidence.
There’s no sign of the hesitation or discomfort I noticed earlier, just that grin, the one that always makes me want to punch him.
Before I can even think to protest, he raises his hand, his voice cutting through the crowd like a blade.
“I’ll join,” he says, and the smug self-assurance in his tone is like a punch to the gut.
I’m about to open my mouth and tell him off when he looks in my direction, and I swear, it’s like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
The look that tells me, once again, I’m out of my league.
“Actually,” he calls to the crowd, his grin spreading wider as he takes his victory lap, “I’ll be volunteering Prescott here as well.”
I feel my stomach drop.
He’s messing with me.
Again.
His eyes flick back to me, and his voice, dripping with that same smugness, lands like a final blow: “What’s a comedian without his joke and an audience, right?”
The audacity.
He’s won. Again.
And I’m left being stuck as the punchline to his joke.