15. Sawyer
Sawyer
Knox’s scent has made a home inside his Jeep. Salty but in a way that reminds me of the beach and breezy nights. Calm washes over me the moment I climb in and pull my seatbelt on. This feels right.
He pulls onto the road, turning the radio down low—some classic rock station that cuts in and out as we reach the edge of town.
We pass my motel, the boatyard, the gated entrance to The Point where the Aldriches home is.
I like sitting in the quiet, windows down and summer sun low, with Knox by my side.
The moment is almost peaceful. Nostalgic in a way I’ve craved for too long.
Then the trees break, and I realize where we are…what’s coming up ahead.
Wonder World is right there, lit up against the darkening sky.
The Ferris wheel rotates slow and bright, a wheel of glowing colors against navy.
Vivid lights, some strobing out of sync, others looking like electric smudges along the horizon.
And the sign—two W’s with that horrible damn clown standing tall like a beacon.
Even from here, I swear I can hear the muffled sound of carnival music carried on the wind.
My stomach drops and air gets caught in my throat. Pressure weighs on my sternum like a heavy hand.
Knox’s eyes flick toward me, then without saying a word, his hand finds mine. With a gentle squeeze, I know he feels it too. He doesn’t say, but his jaw tightens until the lights disappear around a bend in the road.
I watch them fade, hoping the suffocating edge will fade along with them, but I find myself staring out the side mirror, picturing the place where they used to be.
I still can’t shake the feeling when we get out of the car at Mickey’s.
It looks the same as always—rickety wooden benches, warm white string lights, chalkboard sign showing the same few items it’s always had.
Being here should bring comfort, draw happy memories to the surface. But I can’t shake the lingering panic.
I let Knox lead. We get a table near the back, away from the families with screeching toddlers and groups of teenagers crowded around one order of fries. Knox tells me he’ll be right back and he gets in line to order.
I take out my phone to pass the time. My hand’s trembling so hard, I struggle to unlock it. There’s another text from Mom, reminding me about dinner. I rub my temple with my free hand and click the message.
Me: Hey, so about dinner. I’m not up for it this year and I’m sorry. It’s nothing to do with you but I just want to be alone.
I hit send and somehow a small amount of pressure leaves my chest.
Gia messaged me also. I open it to find a photo of Miriam asleep sitting up, and a message that she hopes I’m having more fun than she is.
I can’t help but smile.
Knox comes back a few minutes later, carrying a plastic tray with two cheeseburgers wrapped in greasy paper, two orders of shoestring fries, and a large cup. He sits across from me, takes the lid off the cup, and sticks two straws in it. A chocolate milkshake.
He slides the shake to the center of the table, nudging it an inch closer to my side, and the last bit of tightness in my chest gives way.
Sugar helps.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he remembered. He’s Knox. I wrap my lips around the straw and take a long pull. The cold sweetness hits the back of my throat, and my hands stop shaking quite so hard around my phone.
“You good?” he asks, unwrapping his burger.
“Yup.” I set my phone down and pick up a fry.
He chews slowly, watching me with that knowing look. I shouldn’t feel self-conscious with his eyes on me but I do. He swallows and raises a brow. “You’re not good. Was it the park? Or something on your phone?”
“It’s nothing.” I dip the fry in the puddle of ketchup Knox squirted on the side of the cardboard.
His gaze strays to my phone. “Did someone—”
“I texted my mom. Told her I can’t do dinner tomorrow.”
“Oh. How’d she take it?”
I shake my head. “She didn’t respond, but I’m sure she won’t be happy. I just—I can’t sit across from her while she gets sloppy drunk, cooing about me turning twenty-five when I’ve barely processed the fact that we walked off that ride. I-I don’t know. I had to get out of there…I couldn’t—”
He takes my hand, sweeping his thumb across my knuckles. “You don’t owe her a reason. Or me. You don’t have to explain why you needed out of there.”
“I know,” I say, pulling my hand back before I get caught up in his comfort. We’re quiet for a moment, Knox’s expression very much looking like he’s holding back words. “Passing it was hard, before.”
He fiddles with the paper on the tray, his expression shifting from confusion to recognition. “Yeah, it was.”
I look up at him. “You felt it too? Like we were back there?”
He nods. “I haven’t driven past it like that. All lit up.” His jaw works, and a beat passes before he finishes the thought. “Like it was that night.”
“Me either.”
“This is the first time I’m back up here since.”
I twist my straw around my thumb and index finger. As hard as this is to talk about, I know he understands without explanation. He’s the only one who does.
“Tomorrow’s my birthday.” I look down at the shake.
“You know how we always did the lake the day before, and then woke up early and went to Wonder World?” He inclines his chin slightly, and I keep going.
“When I think about those times now, they’re tainted.
I can’t separate them from what happened, and I hate that.
I hate that some of the best memories of my life, in my favorite place, with my favorite people…
” I shake my head. “It’s all the same horror and grief.
I can’t remember the good parts without the bad coming with them. ”
He’s quiet, watching me with that steady unblinking attention that used to put me on edge, but not now. Now it makes me feel like I’m the center of his world, even if I’m still overthinking around him.
“So we go find them,” he says.
I look up. “What?”
“Tonight,” he says simply. “We go find the good parts again.”
My pulse kicks up. “I still don’t understand.”
“You said you can’t separate them. I feel the same way.” He lays his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “So we go make something new to put there instead.”
He pulls into the half empty parking lot slow enough to give us time to change our minds. I grip the edge of my dress and roll my bottom lip between my teeth. It’s just a stretch of asphalt, it can’t hurt me.
Knox parks and we sit there frozen in our thoughts, both of us looking through the windshield at the entrance gates, that hideous clown grinning down from the sign like he’s been waiting.
“We don’t have to,” Knox finally says.
I think about what my birthday would have been.
Lonely and heartbroken. I think about next year, and the year after, still avoiding the memories, flinching every time the past is mentioned.
I think about what he said at Mickey’s—so we go make something new to put there instead—and how badly I want that to be possible, how much I need to find out.
“I want to.”
Knox buys our tickets and we walk through the turnstiles. The smell hits me, popcorn and cinnamon, and I wait for panic to take over but it’s just the same tight chest, same roaring pulse. I can handle this. I’ve been living with it for months.
Knox reaches for my hand and I thread my fingers through his.
We drift past the game booths and the carousel and I take everything in like it’s there but with a fuzzy filter over it.
It feels like walking into a room after the furniture’s been moved around, everything’s recognizable but shifted, familiar but wrong.
I won’t look toward Velocity. I’m not ready for that. Even so, I can feel it there, a looming presence, like a barely healed wound.
“It’s still not running. Good.” He nudges his chin in that direction, like he’s reading my thoughts.
“I hope they demolish the whole goddamn thing,” I say.
“Yeah.” His grip on my hand tightens. “Me too.”
Knox leads us away from Velocity. The park is empty this late, the families with young kids mostly gone, leaving teenagers and couples and a few stragglers finishing their last ride of the night. The noise feels less oppressive than I expected, just background.
We end up in front of the Wonder Coaster, strung with colored bulbs, its cars shaped like old circus wagons. When I was young, it used to seem so intimidating, so grand, but now I see it for what it is…a ride that exists to make children feel brave.
And there it is. The height marker by the entrance, the cartoon ruler with Giggles’ face printed at the top. For some reason, it makes me smile. “I was always an inch short.”
He lets out a soft huff. “For years. You’d stand under that thing, fingers and toes crossed, begging under your breath.”
“It never worked.”
“No.” His eyes move to the empty line. Then he looks back at me, and there it is. That look. The one that’s driven me crazy my entire life, the one that has never once failed to get me to do something I swore I wouldn’t do. “You’re tall enough now, Thorne.”
I know what he’s thinking. “Don’t.”
“What? I’m just making an observation.”
“Knox. No.”
“About your height,” he continues, pulling us toward the entrance. “So there’s really nothing stopping you.”
I follow him, ignoring my damp hands and clenching gut. I follow him the way I always have, the way I suspect I always will. Some habits never die.