Marigold smiled as she wiped away her tears. She widened her stance and he slipped forward into the empty space, pressing against the rails. Pressing against her. “It feels good to be able to pay you back,” she said. “You rescued me first, you know.”
North’s hands slid onto her bare legs, and his smile changed into a grin. “You know … this is the first time I’ve seen you in shorts, too.”
She laughed.
“Summer looks good on you.”
Marigold sighed, relishing his touch after such a long drought. Her slender arms wrapped around his strong shoulders. “It looks good on you, too.”
But as they stared at each other—up close, in wonder and amazement—North’s expression slowly collapsed into vulnerability. She tilted her head in silent question.
“Marigold,” he said. All traces of joking had disappeared. “Before this goes any further—before I move in with you—there’s something I need to say. Out loud.”
She nodded. Her heartbeat rushed into her ears.
“Just in case it wasn’t absolutely, unequivocally clear when I said good-bye to you on top of the mountain…”
She nodded. Once more.
“I’m in love with you.”
Her eyes widened.
“I’ve been in love with you for a long time. So if that’s too much for you, if that’s too far—”
Marigold pulled him into a kiss, and they sank into the embrace with a sense of openness and exposure and passion that they’d never experienced before. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him into place. His hands slid underneath the back of her shirt, hers underneath the back of his. They were hungry. They devoured each other. Their bodies were hot with sweat, but there was something both honest and revealing about sweating together.
She pushed away from him, panting. “North?”
“Yes?” He could barely get the word out.
“Before this goes any further, there’s something I need to say. Out loud.”
He nodded. Smiling.
“Just in case that wasn’t absolutely, unequivocally clear…”
He nodded. Once more.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
And then North was kissing her again. And when, at last, they pulled apart—minutes, hours, days, years, a lifetime later—it was clear. They were finally traveling in the same direction.
“Home,” Marigold said. She was filled with happiness and sunlight.
Between the evergreens, the first fireflies of the night materialized. They blinked in the dusk of the setting sun, a reminder that light was a recurring state.
North helped her off the fence. “Let’s go home.”
Maybe I’ve just been reading too much Charles Dickens recently, but today doesn’t seem dreary enough for a breakup, you know?
Yeah, about the Dickens thing: Not my choice. It’s on our AP summer reading list, and I want to get into a good college, and summer’s almost over. That said, the breakup thing wasn’t exactly my choice either. But today’s the day—breakup day—that Kieth and I agreed to, that we’ve been circling all summer like two gay buzzards. Unless, wait, maybe I mean vultures? Are those the same thing? Which one is the bird that waits until something’s dead before it swoops down?
If that sounds dramatic, blame Kieth. He’s kind of rubbed off on me this summer. He’s an actor. For God’s sake, he spells his name Kieth, even though he was born regular old Keith. Not that my Kieth is any kind of regular.
It was his idea, for example, to pick out our breakup day in the first place, the way some couples might look forward to an anniversary or a camping trip. I don’t really know. It’s all new to me. He’s my first boyfriend. (I’m his third, which he likes to remind me.)
Customers!
A mom in a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball hat approaches my booth, followed by two girls in identical teal tank tops. They’re local—but then, they’re all locals here. Nobody drives more than forty miles to come to Wish-a-World. We are as regional and rickety as it comes, one degree removed from a traveling carnival.
“Good afternoon,” I say, doing my best to act casual. “Can I help you?” I’ve been back here thumbing my copy of A Tale of Two Cities, pondering how a book so heavy could be considered so classic.
“We were just wondering,” this lady says to me (she’s about to ask where the bathroom is), “if you knew where the bathr—”
“Head past the log flume,” I say, “and duck under the sign for snow cones, and then make a hard right past the gazebo where everyone smokes, even though they’re not allowed to. Can’t miss it!”
Already, poof, they’re gone. At the beginning of the summer, I would’ve tried to upsell them on a key chain, a hat, an anything. That’s my job, and I like to do a good job. But one thing you learn when you man a souvenir stand at a regional amusement park is that mostly what people want is bathroom directions. What they rarely want is a twenty-dollar T-shirt, let alone a thirty-dollar sweatshirt, and who can blame them? The average temperature around here is hell with a chance of thunder.
I scan the sky for that cloudy, Dickensian day that doesn’t seem to be showing up. “The good news,” I mumble at a seagull, “is that I’ve gotten over love before.”
Yep, I love Kieth. Or I think I do. But, hey, I loved pizza once, too, before I became lactose intolerant—and now I barely even miss it. I barely even think about pizza, I mean.
A cluster of tweens screams past my booth without stopping, one of them holding a Mylar Wish-a-World balloon that flits behind her like a metallic kite. I crack open A Tale of Two Cities and attempt to read the same paragraph I’ve been attempting to read for about three days now. Maybe four.
But then: “Excuse me—sir?”
And against all odds, I’m smiling.
It’s Kieth, sneaking up on my booth. Who else would call me sir? Sirs don’t have zits. Sirs can grow respectable sideburns.
“Could you,” he continues, “direct me to the Tunnel of Love?”
I shut the book. My eyes are already watering. Basically, my eyes are Pavlov’s dogs, and Kieth’s voice is the bell.
“We don’t have a Tunnel of Love,” I say, just like I did on the day we met. He’s recreating the whole scene—the way he tiptoed up to my booth “looking for the Tunnel of Love” after a full week of us stealing quiet glances at each other in the moldy employee locker room. Even under those harsh fluorescents, he was adorable. And unlike guys in my PE class at school, Kieth actually looked back. I was smitten.
“What kind of an amusement park is this if you don’t have a Tunnel of Love?” he says, putting on a show here. Always putting on a show anywhere. “I’d like to speak to management.” Kieth places his hand on my book, but I jerk it away from him, for secret reasons.
“Ha-ha,” I say, “you can stop now.” He’s in his show costume. Against park regulations. This is my in. “You’re not allowed out here wearing that!” I only say it to change the subject, to get mad at him about something. When I’m mad at Kieth, I love him less.
I glance at the time on my phone. His next show starts in ten minutes. “You don’t even have your makeup on!”
Three times a day, Kieth performs in a spirited theme park revue. It’s a really cheesy show. Wish-a-World couldn’t get the rights to any good songs, so it’s this oddly generic mash-up of different knockoff styles. The fifties medley contains no hits from the fifties. The seventies medley sounds just like the eighties medley. Only the wigs offer a vague clue to the era.
“Eh.” Kieth rubs his chin like he’s checking for bruises on a peach. “It’s the last day. I’m gonna skip the makeup and give my skin a break.”