Chapter Nine #2
“A normal word,” I said, looking to Dex for support. He offered none. “And it’s true. You can’t eat before you ride that.”
I pointed to the terrifying ride composed of metal orbs slingshotting people around. My stomach soured just looking at it. If Phoebe rode that one, I’d have a panic attack, but I couldn’t ask her not to because then she would out of spite.
“I think you’d puke regardless,” Dex replied, eyeing the ride uneasily.
“You guys are so boring.” Phoebe lifted our dad’s Polaroid camera, hung securely around her neck, and snapped a photo of us. Dex swore loud enough for several nearby mothers to shoot him dirty looks. “Oh my god, Vi. I found your unphotogenic soulmate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s just go.”
We rode a roller coaster first, one Phoebe promised didn’t have a loop but did.
Then we rode something called the Coney Clipper that was sort of fun, if you’re into swinging back and forth with your stomach in your throat.
Dex made up excuses to pass on the first two and ordered a milkshake while we were gone to secure his inability to ride anything else.
I would’ve been annoyed if I wasn’t jealous he thought of it first.
The world was still spinning from the last ride as we approached a giant metal contraption sending its riders somersaulting overhead, the screams louder than anything we’d encountered.
My throat tightened, hands went clammy; as Phoebe darted for the end of the line, I had to pause to keep from toppling sideways.
“You look pale,” Dex said. “This is your limit?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “My limit for what, exactly?”
“Your desperate attempts to please her.”
“That’s not—What are you even—That is so—” The little smirk pulling at the corner of his lips pulled me up short, brain turning to static.
Danger. I couldn’t read this as flirty teasing just because the guy had a face Old Hollywood would fawn over; Dex was cold and abrasive and, most important, spoken for.
Any attraction could easily be ignored, so long as he kept up the asshole thing.
Smirking wasn’t allowed. Period.
“Shut up,” I said. The smirk twitched, as if an actual smile might be possible. I blinked away, overheating under the blazing sun, and continued over to Phoebe. “You want to ride this?”
“Yep,” she said, scraping her pink hair into a nubby ponytail. “Dying to.”
“Don’t say that out loud. The universe might take it seriously.”
“The universe owes me and it knows it. Come on.”
Anxiety roared in my chest. “You want to ride it right now?”
“Obviously.”
“No, yeah. But, you know, we could ride it later. Grand-finale-type deal.”
“You’re such a baby.” She turned to Dex. “You wanna ride it with me?”
The smirk officially left the building. “What? Why me?”
“Violet’s too chicken,” she said. Dex glanced at the ride, face ashen. “And you haven’t ridden anything yet.”
“I, uh.” He cleared his throat. “What’s this called?”
“Zenobia.”
“What does that mean?”
“Who cares?”
“I liked what Violet said about the grand finale. I think that’s a good idea.”
“Oh my god.” Phoebe removed the camera from around her neck, handing it off to me. “I can ride it alone. Didn’t realize I was road-tripping with a bunch of babies.”
“That thing is insane, Phoebe,” I said defensively. “Who’s to say it’s even safe?”
“Coney Island,” she replied. I faltered. “Dude, it’s fine. I don’t care. Plus, you can get a picture of me riding it.”
Relief swept through me. “Yes. I can do that.”
Dex and I veered off, taking a seat on a conveniently placed bench beside an even more conveniently placed trash can: perfect for anyone exiting Zenobia who needed to empty the contents of their stomachs.
“It’s safe, right?” I said, watching Phoebe inch closer to the head of the line. “Like, I know this place has been around forever and the ride wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t safe, but still. Phoebe’s small. What if the straps are loose and she slips through?”
“She won’t.” Dex rested his elbow on the back of the bench, glancing toward the game booths.
Sweat glistened along the tendons of his neck, shoulders pulling taut against the fabric of his white button-up.
He’d rolled the sleeves to his elbows, showcasing a gorgeous tattoo of winding piano keys down the base of his forearm, dangling his arms and hands in front of me like a desert mirage.
I dropped my gaze to my lap to shut down the inappropriate thoughts stampeding their way into my head.
“There hasn’t been an incident here since the seventies. She’ll be fine.”
I smiled, pushing down the odd burst of fondness I felt over his research.
“We didn’t get to do this much. The amusement park thing.
The closest we got was the local fair and even then I had to push myself to keep up with her.
She’s always been braver than I am. Zenobia, though, is a lot.
I’d never ride that.” I paused, watching giddy strangers pass by.
A group of teenagers. A couple with that obvious fresh love glow.
A father with his young daughter on his shoulders.
“Our dad would’ve been up there with her. ”
Dex remained quiet. This was too personal for his taste, but I needed to say it out loud, offer someone else this vision of my dad, like that would keep him here somehow.
Sidestepping the heaviness, I added, “But at least I can admit I’m afraid.”
Dex’s jaw clenched. “I’m not an amusement park guy.”
“Shocking. With the button-up and leather shoes, you fit in so well,” I said. He combed his fingers through his hair, ignoring this. “What kind of guy are you? Or is that too personal?”
“What does it matter?”
“You are currently chauffeuring my fourteen-year-old sister and me across the country,” I reminded him.
He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging my point.
I went on, “It’s fine if you don’t want to be friends.
But until we’re back in Boston, we’re gonna be civil.
Civility requires the bare minimum and the bare minimum here is a conversation. ”
“Look around,” he said. “We took a detour four hours into the trip. I am obviously at your mercy.”
My cheeks burned under the Brooklyn sun and Dex’s sharp gaze. I forced a smile and said, “If that were true, having a conversation with you wouldn’t feel like trying to talk down one of my third graders.”
The smirk briefly reappeared, sending a not-unpleasant buzz down my limbs. I cleared my throat and glanced toward the line, ensuring Phoebe was still there.
“Why third grade?” Dex asked. I looked at him, eyebrows raised. He’d yet to volunteer any information about himself, but information about me was fair game, apparently.
“It’s a good age. They’re old enough to read, too old for bathroom accidents and nose picking.”