Chapter 27
LEAH
The last thing I see before I get on the Gravitron is Hudson’s surprised expression. Then the world turns upside down.
Obviously, I was joking about us getting married here at the fair, but is it the craziest idea?
Yes, yes, it is. But not too much worse than eating that s’mores on a stick and now going on a spinning ride.
I summon my figure skating skills and, by sheer force of will, beg myself not to be sick because anyone downwind of me will not be happy.
In my defense, the generally festive atmosphere, featuring lots of pumpkins and gourds, cider-flavored everything, the doughnut on a string contest, creepy clowns to go with the carnival theme, and black cats, reminds me of Margo’s idea for our wedding theme.
She officially dubbed it: Black Cats, Top Hats, and Golden Hour.
I gather that I’m the black cat. Plus, it fits with the proximity to Halloween since it’ll be the day before on October thirtieth.
The top hats indicate that it’s a formal event and guests shouldn’t come in costume.
There’s no telling since half the hockey team is invited.
The golden hour part makes me think of Hudson as a golden retriever and that the ceremony is scheduled to commence at sunset.
Which is preposterous. What is everyone thinking?
That big lump of everyone includes me.
I’ll admit, though, that I like that Hudson came to my rescue. I saw another side of him—fierce and protective. The side I’ve only ever seen on the ice.
Along with our conversations about hockey, this season, and the silliest things, not limited to Crew’s excessive use of the word bro, a debate over what animal would be the rudest if it could talk—he claims cats, I say seagulls—we also discussed music, high school Halloween parties, and whether we believe in ghosts. Adamantly no, so we agree on something.
As we spin round and round, my thoughts follow suit. Do I want to be with Hudson? Like for real? Does he like me? Before I thought he was giving me the side eye, but maybe he was checking me out. This is kind of what I’ve always wanted … But from him? My alleged adversary?
Although he is handsome. As well as thoughtful, sweet and a force to be reckoned with on the ice, complete with pads and all.
What if I gave in and said yes? First, he’d have to ask me an important question …
It goes like this: Leah, I would like to be your husband. Will you please marry me?
But we’ve leap-frogged over several crucial steps that would ordinarily lead to such an inquiry.
I’m not sure it’s truly something he wants.
My grandmother and parents do. My girlfriends, it would seem so.
But Hudson is so agreeable, I don’t imagine him saying no to anything.
Also, he set me up on all of those bad dates, so I’m not sure where he stands.
The obvious thing would be to ask him, but my pride and the Gravitron’s bars are in the way.
We spin around enough times that I start to question whether I’ll survive the ride so I shout, “Hudson, do you really want to marry me?”
Whatever he says is lost in the loud clanking and grinding of gears as we come to a stop and then start spinning in the opposite direction.
This is the moment for me to say, I want off this ride, but if I open my mouth again, I’m afraid of what will come out.
Finally, when we’re on solid ground, we both stumble as we shuffle away from the Gravitron. Hudson is a bit green. I feel queasy. Not nervous queasy. Yep, I just realized the distinction.
Gulping the fresh air, he says, “That is a much different experience than when I was twelve.”
We travel down memory lane, reminded of the time we came here with his brother, learned how hard bobbing for apples is, and I won a goldfish by guessing the correct number of candy corn pieces in a jar.
Hudson’s eyes light up. “I may be known for being a goalie, but I’m also a pretty good shot. The prize at the ping pong fish bowl booth is one of those betta fish.”
“I’m not in the market for a pet.” But I keep the part about a guy never winning me a teddy bear to myself because I don’t want to seem pathetic.
“Not even a bunny?” he asks.
“Those aren’t game prizes. But they were so cute and soft. Maybe someday.” I could cuddle with that Angora all day.
He waggles his eyebrows. “Like someday when we get married?”
Did he hear my question right before the ride reversed directions?
“I did say we could get married here, didn’t I?” Though I’m not sure that’s lawful.
He asks, “Should I be getting my hopes up?”
I laugh because obviously, we’re not getting married at a carnival. “This isn’t like Las Vegas, where we can just roll up to a stall that offers a quick and painless marriage package.”
Hudson points at a makeshift building built out of rough-sawn lumber. “But we could get dressed like an old-timey couple on their wedding day.”
Taking my hand, he drags me toward the booth called Sawtooth Portraits and More.
A woman in a frilly frock and a ringlet wig greets us with a parasol. Keeping in character, she says, “My name is Bonnie. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. What can I do you for? We have whiskey, rooms upstairs, and all the trouble you can get into.” She winks and giggles.
Hudson replies, “I’m not sure that’s what we’re looking for.”
She playfully slaps him on the shoulder and glancing at me, says, “Well, sure you are, darlin’. Looks like you and your bride want to do some role-play.” She leads us deeper into the room with a folding screen in the back.
We exchange a long, searching look. Before we can convince each other to back out, Bonnie shoves a gown into my hands.
“Honey, you’re a tall glass of water, but I think you’ll fit into this just fine.” Then to Hudson, she adds, “You’re even taller and too good-looking not to have a beard. Or maybe an eyepatch.”
He says, “I was thinking more of an old prospector in the Wild West, not a pirate.”
“Definitely not a swashbuckler,” I say, referring to the Miami team and Crew.
Hudson chuckles as she shuffles us behind a screen with hardly enough room for both of us.
It’s awkward for a minute, as if neither one of us has ever been in a changing area before.
I certainly haven’t, at least not with a boy—no, a man.
Chuck and I supposedly took baths together when we were babies because we were closest in age, but I’ve blocked that from my memory.
Hudson says, “I’ll just turn around.”
“Right. I’ll just get into this dress somehow.” It’s ivory satin with lots of lace and poofs and tassels. The skirt contains a hoop, laces run up the sides, and the sleeve ruffles make me glad humanity as a whole no longer uses candles for illumination, otherwise, I’d probably catch on fire.
I take off my sweater and hold it around myself for privacy and then realize I need to unzip my boots.
It’s an awkward sixty seconds of trying to discreetly undress while knowing that there is a large and very attractive man behind me doing the same.
It’s not as if I’ve never had to use changing rooms or locker rooms, but I was always surrounded by girls and we were all trying to get into teeny tiny figure skating costumes.
This is different. Hudson’s evergreen scent filters my way and a draft lets in cool air, underscoring the warmth he radiates and making me want to nestle closer to him.
If I were stranded in the Arctic, I would want to be with him.
Wait a minute …
What does that mean? Want to be with him. Do I want it to be with him?
Before I can let myself answer that question, I realize I have a problem. I cannot twist my arm to zip up the back of the dress. I hold it together and wonder how women in the olden days ever did things like this. Maybe they had a sister or maid to help them. All I have is Hudson.
Put another way, I have Hudson.
Do I?
Do I want to?
The little bounce in my belly suggests the answer.