Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Adrian kills his engine in front of a neon red sign promising FUN, FUN, FUN!
I lean out of the open window. “I didn’t know we were being so literal.”
“I am a man of my word.” He runs his hands in an arc against the steering wheel. “So, you promised you’d commit to this?”
“Commit to having fun?”
He nods gravely, like we’re talking about rehabbing a serious injury, not an amusement park.
I put up my right hand as the video of Camila’s final resurfaces in my mind. “I commit to having fun.”
Adrian grins and yanks open his door.
We drift toward the bright primary colors splashed across the entrance like boats tugged downstream.
Beyond the gates, the air is filled with a discordant song made up of whacking baseball bats, heavy clanks from roller coasters powering uphill, and the errant dings from a shooting gallery.
Couples in damp T-shirts sprint toward the entrance for the bumper boats and throngs of kids tear at clouds of cotton candy with sticky fingers and pink-stained teeth.
“Wait,” I say, grabbing Adrian’s elbow as my eyes roam over signs for the Fun-O-Lympics and Aim, Shoot, and Fun! “Is this really about helping me? Or are you secretly looking to redeem your string of Skee-Ball defeats?”
Adrian lays a hand on his heart, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you mean, Parker. I promised fun, which is the primary offering of this establishment. Besides, if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you enjoy competition.”
“And winning,” I say.
“That’s too bad,” Adrian says.
“Why?”
“Because”—he fights a grin—“I intend to crush you at everything we play.”
My lips twitch. “It’s cute that you think you stand a chance.”
Over the next few hours, we trade breathless victories.
Milk bottles explode off their stand, clattering in the wake of my projectile like they were hit with a hand grenade. An amply pierced college student throws a petrified glance in my direction. Adrian looks impressed. My heart swoops like I’ve just hit the drop on a roller coaster.
Then Adrian convinces me to get on an actual roller coaster and the experience is far less pleasant.
Much more high-pitched clanging and terror than I’d expected.
When the safety restraints lift off my chest, I guzzle my first breath of free air and stagger toward the neon exit sign, clutching a handrail for balance.
“Again?” I ask, still panting as we spill back onto the park’s brick walkway.
Adrian studies me with a tilt of his head. “Do you want to go again?”
“I promised to commit to your method.”
He offers me an elbow. “The method is fun, Kath. Whatever that means to you.”
My chest lightens as we forge back toward the games.
In the shooting gallery, Adrian’s aim is much steadier—probably from his superior patience.
Predictably, I slaughter him at Whac-A-Mole, which is mostly about reflexes and brute force.
Adrian bests me in the batting cages. I realize this is not technically a competition, but I can tell who’s winning based on how loudly our bats crack against our balls.
Adrian’s next high five is electric, sending a crackle down to my toes.
When my watch buzzes, alerting me to my snacking hour, he disappears and reemerges with two golden brown corn dogs.
I study the red-and-white checkered paper boat tray he’s holding out.
He must have caught my hesitation because he pulls it back. “No pressure. If you don’t want one, I’ll gladly eat both.”
“Is this part of the ‘fun’ protocol?” I ask, thinking of the pre-portioned snacks in my bag. “Because if I eat that, I probably won’t be hungry for one of the other meals I planned.”
“Sure, but I’m not going to tell you what to eat.” Adrian tucks one of the boat trays into an elbow so he can lift a corn dog off the other. “Have the corn dog. Have your special ratioed meal. Have both. It’s all valid and they all have benefits.”
“Yeah? What’s the benefit of a corn dog?” I ask, skeptically.
“It gives you joy,” Adrian says. “And joy has to be a part of rowing. And life. Otherwise what’s the point?”
I consider that for a long moment, listening to the ambient chiming of bells, mechanical clanking of gears, and the shouts from a carnival barker. Then I grab for the other stick. As I sink my teeth into the fried dough, my tongue springs alive.
“Holy shit, this is good,” I say around a second bite. Weirdly sweet? Why is it sweet?
Adrian offers me a paper bowl smeared with mustard. It doesn’t seem like it should, but somehow, that makes the next bite even better. “Mini golf next?” he asks.
I stuff the half-eaten corn dog in my mouth and sling my bag over a shoulder, already taking off toward the clubs. “Race you there!”
By the time we’ve started our second round, a deep, resonating stillness fills my bones.
Mini golf is another one of those sort-of sports that I enjoy, probably because it involves precision, repetition, and deep focus.
I love the smooth feel of the club in my hands, the tiny crack of the club, and the absolute exhilaration I get when everything lines up perfectly and that little ball sinks into its cup.
“So,” Adrian says, almost like he’s reading my mind, “best day off or very best day off?”
I settle my purple ball into its tiny divot. “I have to admit, it’s the best I can remember.”
“Ah.” Adrian sounds borderline triumphant. “I thought I was at least playing second fiddle to Mimi’s yoga class.”
I square my shoulders, eyes zeroed in on my target. “That was not a good day off.”
“Why not?”
“That damn shirt.”
“Which damn shirt?”
With a thwack of my club, the ball skitters forward, plunking definitively into my hole. Heck yes. I pump my fist as I raise my eyes to Adrian. “The one you wore to class.”
“What was wrong with it?”
I don’t know whether it’s the hole in one or the way I’m still zinging from the corn dog, but I’m suddenly feeling bold.
I drop my miniature club and step toward Adrian, close enough that I’m practically pressed against his body.
He inhales sharply. I circle an arm around his back, and pull his shirt tight until it’s stretched across the hard planes of his abdomen.
“This is what was wrong.”
His chin drops so that his mouth is nearly brushing my ear. Lightning skitters down my spine as his breath warms my cheek. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, but I absolutely like it.”
“You did it on purpose, though, didn’t you?” I whisper, still holding the back of his shirt, still so close to him I can practically feel his heartbeat through it.
“Wear a shirt?”
“Show up to my mom’s yoga studio.”
He chuckles and the sound skitters over my skin. “It crossed my mind that you might be there.”
I shake my head and step back, letting cool air between our bodies again. “I still can’t believe you already knew my mom before we met. Your turn.”
Adrian sets his ball. “And I still can’t believe Mimi Parker of Enchanted Asana fame is your mom. If I’d known, I would have asked for your autograph.”
“More impressive than ‘national team rower’?”
“Nearly.”
I clear my throat. “I should thank you, by the way, for pushing me to go to her studio. I probably wouldn’t have otherwise.
But it was great to see how well she’s doing.
I mean, I knew it’s been good for her. But I wasn’t expecting her students to be so doting or—if we’re being honest—the studio to be so well organized. ”
Adrian shifts his weight and pulls back his club. The ball flies forward, slightly overshooting the target. “So, your love of spreadsheets doesn’t come from your mom?”
I laugh, thinking about the frozen-deer look Mom gets when confronted with a checkbook. “No. She’s always been more interested in having dance parties in our living room than signing permission slips. I’m blown away that she’s running a successful small business.”
I tip my chin toward the cobalt sky, thinking about that morning in the yoga studio and her surprisingly well-stocked fridge.
I haven’t seen her cry once since I got home, either.
It can’t be a coincidence that this stability and happiness has coincided with a noticeable absence of the “latest guy.”
“She’s finally found purpose and success again,” I say. “Probably because she’s finally abstaining from love.”
Adrian squints at me with more skepticism than I’d prefer. “Well, she might be abstaining from love, but she’s certainly giving it some glances, if you know what I mean.”
“Ew. No, I don’t.”
Adrian puts up a hand in mock surrender before striding after his ball. “I’ve seen the way she looks at Rob, that’s all I’m saying.”
Rob? An image flashes to my mind of the tall man with salt-and-pepper hair and glasses that nearly melt into his thick eyebrows.
“Wait.” I hurry after him. “You mean her business partner?”
Adrian taps his ball into the hole and lifts a shoulder. “You can ignore it all you want. Doesn’t make it less real.”
I’m about to retort something very convincing about how Mom has finally gotten serious about her career and isn’t going to mess it up by getting involved with Rob, her business partner, when my watch buzzes again. Time for my late afternoon self-massage session.
I click it to silent, pluck my ball from its cup, and forge toward the next hole.
A few hours later, the sun begins to set, basking the hot pavement in an orangish glow. My stomach grumbles and I ask Adrian if we should get more corn dogs.
“I have something better,” he says.
“Funnel cake?” I ask.
“Better than that, too.”
“Really? My best friend says funnel cake is the root of all happiness. I sort of want to find out what the fuss is about.”
He laughs. “I’ll make you dinner.”
I meet his eyes with a seductive jolt of possibility. Although he’s offered this meal so casually, I know what it means. Saying yes here isn’t just about his approach to training and recovery. It’s about abandoning my plan to keep things professional. It’s about us.
“I’d like that,” I say.
. . .