2. Skylar #2
Skylar’s breath hitched as the pieces clicked together.
There on his polo shirt sat the yellow logo she’d seen on billboards and bus benches all over New Haven: Carnell Automotive.
The orange McLaren was his. This was Charlie Carnell, born of wealth and privilege.
With her camera clutched against her ribs, her defenses snapped into place.
“Take me on the Ferris wheel?” Poppy traced the collar of Charlie’s polo shirt.
The grin widened. “Whatever my girl wants.”
The next hour blurred past. Carnival games. Fried food. Poppy leaning into Charlie’s side while his friends competed at the basketball toss. Skylar hung back, camera raised, letting the viewfinder create distance between herself and the group.
Charlie won a stuffed bear and gave the prize to a passing child without hesitation. He bought Poppy cotton candy without being asked. He laughed at his friends’ jokes with what appeared to be genuine amusement, but Skylar never saw that real smile her camera had captured.
She adjusted the aperture, focusing on a couple sharing a corn dog across the midway.
Warm breath grazed her ear. “Can I see? What you’ve captured?”
Skylar held the camera close as her gaze met Charlie’s. “No”
The bluntness didn’t seem to offend him. If anything, his mouth quirked with potential amusement. “Fair enough. Poppy says you’re studying journalism?”
“Guilty.” Skylar tore her gaze away from him, searching for her next portrait. “Poppy says you’re Thorndale’s star quarterback.”
“Guilty.” He stepped sideways to avoid a group of teenage boys shoving each other near the ring-toss booth. “At least for this one last season.”
“And then what? The NFL?”
A grimace flickered across his face, there and gone. “That’s the plan.”
He sounded like someone reciting a prison sentence, not discussing a plan.
Behind him, the shoving match tipped over.
One of the boys went sprawling backward into Charlie, and he pitched forward into Skylar.
The impact knocked her off balance. Her grip on the camera slipped and the world tilted.
Charlie’s hands shot out, one arm catching her around the waist, steadying her against his side, his warm palm pressed flat against the small of her back.
“Are you okay?” The words washed over her skin like warm honey. “Sorry.”
Pressed against him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating through his shirt and the scent of fresh-cut grass invading her senses, she couldn’t seem to form words. Her hand had landed on his chest to catch herself, and beneath her fingers, she could feel the steady drum of his heartbeat.
This close she could see the darker ring around his irises, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. His brow creased with concern and her stomach tightened against her will. Skylar tried to swallow but her mouth had gone dry.
What was wrong with her? She didn’t react to men like this. She didn’t lose her words or her balance or her sense of self just because some stranger’s arm was wrapped around her waist.
But her body hadn’t gotten that message. Her pulse hammered against her throat. A flush crept up her neck.
She managed a weak nod.
His grip on her loosened but didn’t release. A thumb shifted against her back, a small move, but it sent a shiver skating down her spine. “Who knew the fair was such a dangerous place.”
She tried to straighten and put space between her body and his hands and whatever temporary insanity had just short-circuited her brain.
Then her camera slipped. The strap, worn thin from years of use, snapped.
The lens hit first with a sharp crack, then the body struck asphalt with a dull crunch that stopped Skylar’s heart.
“No.” She pushed away from Charlie and dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she surveyed the damage. The lens had cracked. The body was split. The back panel had popped open, the SD card slot exposed. “No, no, no.”
She pulled out the SD card first, fingers trembling.
The card looked intact. The photos might be salvageable.
But the camera, her mother’s camera, was destroyed.
Her fingers curled around the mangled body, pressing the familiar weight against her stomach as if she could hold the pieces together by force of will.
“I’m so sorry.” Charlie crouched beside her, his face pale. “The crowd, I didn’t see, let me help—”
“Don’t.” The word fractured in her throat.
“I can fix this.” He reached for his phone. “It’s a Nikon right? I can have a replacement here tomorrow, just tell me—”
“Replace this?” Her eyes burned. Skylar stood cradling the broken camera in her shaking hands. “This was my mother’s. Before she died.”
Charlie went still. The polished charmer dropped away, and for a moment Skylar saw a genuine regret.
A wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “I’m so sorry,” he said again.
“I don’t need your apologies.” Skylar stepped back, clutching the camera, the last piece of her mother. “I don’t need anything from you.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “At least let me drive you home. Please. You’re shaking.”
She looked at the orange McLaren, gleaming in the distance. Thought about climbing into that obscene display of wealth. Thought about owing Charlie Carnell anything at all.
“I’ll find my own way.”
She turned and walked before he could respond, before Poppy could notice, before the tears building behind her eyes could fall. The broken camera pressed against her ribs with every step.
Three hours until her shift at the diner. Two buses and a twenty-minute walk.
Skylar kept moving. She was good at that. Keeping her head down, her walls up, her feet pointed toward the next thing that needed doing. Stopping meant feeling. Feeling meant remembering. Remembering meant drowning in a grief that had no bottom.