Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
PHOENIX
I definitely did not have a group date to the Harmony Harbor Lobster Festival on my bingo card for this week.
Also, I’m now realizing just how much I was missing out by pretending to have a shellfish allergy for all these years.
“Oh my God,” I groan around a mouthful of lobster roll, butter dripping down my chin. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
The lobster is sweet and tender, dressed in just enough warm butter to make everything glisten without drowning the delicate flavor. The roll itself is toasted to golden perfection, crispy on the outside and soft in the middle.
I hold the roll out to Atticus, who’s walking beside me with his hands in his pockets. “Try this. You have to try this right now.”
He raises an eyebrow at the butter-smeared offering but leans in to take a bite. His eyes widen as he chews.
“Well,” he says after swallowing, “turns out our rideshare driver actually knew what he was talking about.”
“I know! I owe that man an apology for mentally tuning out his entire lobster monologue.” I snatch the roll back and take another bite, barely pausing to breathe. “I’m going to eat seventeen more of these before we leave.”
Dom nods in the direction of the food trucks. “There should be a lobster pizza on offer somewhere around here. It’s surprisingly awesome.”
The Lobster Festival spreads out around us in all its small-town Americana glory. Red, white, and blue bunting hangs from every lamppost and vendor booth. The smell of fried dough and melted butter saturates the air.
There are carnival games lining the main thoroughfare—ring toss, dart throwing, a strongman hammer thing that I’m absolutely going to make someone try later.
Food vendors hawk everything from clam chowder to lobster tacos to something called a “sea dog” that appears to be a hot dog but somehow involves crab meat.
Kids run past with cotton candy clouds bigger than their heads.
Couples stroll hand in hand, pointing at craft booths selling handmade jewelry and driftwood art.
It’s aggressively wholesome in a way that has me smiling hard enough to make my cheeks hurt.
Mabie broke off to join some friends almost as soon as we got here, leaving with a group that should feel awkward together. Except, it really doesn’t.
I glance behind me, automatically checking on Mason.
He walks a few paces back, close to Judah but not quite touching. The baseball cap is gone, though he still has the sunglasses. He surveys the crowd with an uncomfortable alertness, as if he can’t quite believe how well this is going.
I’m a little surprised, myself.
I’ve been braced for what inevitable comes when I’m recognized since we arrived.
The selfie requests. The whispered pointing.
The phone cameras held up at angles that pretend to be casual but aren’t.
It’s the background radiation of my existence, so constant I’ve stopped noticing until it’s suddenly absent.
But no one here seems to care all that much. We’ve had a few double-takes, sure, and a teenage girl casually asked Atticus to sign her t-shirt, but otherwise we’ve been left alone.
We’re just faces in the crowd.
It’s actually really nice.
But my attention stays on Mason and Judah as we walk through the festival grounds.
They keep gravitating toward each other.
Little things, maybe unconscious—the way Mason’s hand brushes Judah’s elbow when they navigate around a group of children.
The way Judah angles his body to create a buffer between Mason and the crowd.
The way they move together like two satellites caught in each other’s orbit, unable to escape the gravitational pull even if they wanted to.
Ten years apart, and their bodies still remember how to find each other.
Good, I think fiercely. Let them have this.
Whatever complicated feelings are still churning in my own chest—and there are many, tangled and thorny and not ready to be examined—I refuse to let them poison this moment.
Mason deserves to be happy. Judah clearly adores him.
And if watching them together makes something in me ache with a longing I can’t quite name…
Well. That’s my problem to deal with. Not theirs.
Dom falls into step beside me. He’s traded his leather jacket for a simple black t-shirt, and the tattoos on his forearms draw appreciative glances from more than a few passing festival-goers. He doesn’t seem to notice.
“There’s a game booth,” he says, jerking his chin toward a tent decorated with dangling stuffed animals. “If you want to try your hand.”
I follow his gaze. The booth features a wall of balloons and a bucket of darts. Classic carnival fare. The prizes hanging from the ceiling include an enormous stuffed lobster that’s bright red and vaguely terrifying, with googly eyes that seem to stare directly into my soul.
“I want that lobster,” I announce.
Atticus snorts. “You haven’t even finished eating the one in your hand.”
“Different kind of lobster. One is food. One is a friend.” I polish off the last bite of my roll, lick butter from my fingers with absolutely zero shame, and march toward the booth. “Gerald Jr. is coming home with me.”
“Gerald Jr.” Mason has caught up to us, Judah a steady presence at his shoulder. “You’ve already named it?”
“Obviously. He’ll need a little suit and maybe a top hat.”
The carnival game booth is run by a weathered man in a flannel shirt who looks like he’s been operating this exact attraction since the festival’s founding in 1947. He accepts my five dollars with a grunt and hands over three darts.
“Pop three, win a prize from the top row.” He gestures at the ceiling where Gerald Jr. hangs among other oversized plush creatures. “Good luck.”
I line up my first dart, squinting at the balloon wall with the intensity of an Olympic archer preparing for a gold medal shot.
The dart sails through the air.
It misses the balloons entirely and embeds itself in the wooden frame of the booth with a hollow thunk.
Dom coughs in a way that sounds suspiciously like smothered laughter.
“The wind,” I say with dignity. “There was wind.”
“We’re inside a tent,” Atticus points out entirely unhelpfully.
I heft my second dart. “Be quiet, Atticus.”
The second dart clips the edge of a balloon without actually popping it. The balloon wobbles mockingly.
“That was closer,” Mason offers, and I appreciate that he’s at least trying to be supportive.
My third and final dart launches toward the balloon wall with all the precision of a drunk pelican. It hits the canvas backdrop with a sad little fwap and drops to the floor.
“Well.” I turn away from the carnage with as much composure as I can muster. “Clearly this game is rigged.”
The booth operator doesn’t even blink. He’s probably heard that excuse ten thousand times.
Judah leans close to Mason, murmuring something in his ear. Mason’s face flushes slightly, but he steps forward, reaching into his pocket for his wallet.
“Let me try,” he says quietly.
“Mason.” I reach for his arm. “You don’t have to—”
But he’s already handed over his five dollars. The operator gives him three darts, and Mason weighs them in his palm.
His arm draws back. Releases.
Pop.
The first balloon explodes in a burst of bright blue rubber.
Dom catches my confused look and grins. “Mason’s always been a savant at carnival games. Something about spatial reasoning. Used to clean up at the county fair every summer when we were kids.”
“He won me a giant stuffed bear once,” Judah adds, his voice soft with memory. “It only took ten shots in a row at the basketball hoop toss game to do it. I still have that bear on my bed at home.”
Mason’s ears have gone pink, but he doesn’t look away from the balloon wall.
Pop.
The second follows a heartbeat later.
Mason adjusts his grip on the final dart, takes a breath, and lets fly.
Pop.
Three for three. Perfect accuracy.
The booth operator’s eyebrows rise as he reaches for a pole to retrieve a prize from the top row. “What’ll it be?”
“The lobster,” Mason says, and there’s a small, private smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he glances at me. “The big red one.”
Thirty seconds later, I’m clutching Gerald Jr. to my chest. He’s even more magnificent up close—nearly a foot long, plush and squishy, with felt claws and those glorious googly eyes that rattle when he moves.
“Thank you,” I tell Mason, and I’m surprised to find that my voice has gone a little thick. “He’s perfect.”
Mason ducks his head, but not before I catch the warmth in his expression. “You said you wanted him.”
“I did.” I cradle Gerald Jr. like he’s a newborn baby. “I’m going to buy him a little suit. A tuxedo, maybe. He looks like he’d appreciate formal wear.”
“Phoenix seems to think every lobster should be named Gerald,” Mason explains to the others, shaking his head with fond exasperation. “It’s a whole thing.”
Atticus holds up the last bite of his own lobster roll and regards it with mock solemnity.
“I’m so sorry, Gerald Sr.” he intones gravely. “You have served your country well.”
He pops it into his mouth.
Judah lets out a surprised bark of laughter. Dom snorts. Mason rolls his eyes but can’t quite suppress his own grin.
And standing there in the middle of the Harmony Harbor Lobster Festival, surrounded by people who are rapidly becoming something more than strangers, clutching a ridiculous stuffed crustacean to my chest…
I realize we have an inside joke now.
We have an inside joke. The five of us. Together.
The thought makes something bright and terrifying bloom in my chest.