Page 26 of Sunshine

I almost snort at the thought of needing to be takencareof . . . like I’m a small child he has to babysit. But I know he’s only saying it to appease her, so I tamp down the urge to bite back with a retort.

“Oh, I know you will, sweetheart.” She waves a hand as if none of this matters anyway, not when Jason is the picture-perfect boyfriend. I might like him very much, but I still hate the way she’s ready to cement him into my life forever. “Just have her home by midnight, and not a minute later, okay?”

The smile he gives her is wide and toothy. “Yes, ma’am. I will.” He kisses my cheek before taking my hand and hauling me out the door.

Once we’ve made it into his car, I pull my seat belt over my lap and say, “The flowers were a nice touch.”

The smirk he throws my way is devilish, dripping in charm. “I figured it would help steer things our way.”

I laugh. “You’re terrible.”

He shoots me another glance, the smirk melting away into something tighter. “What do you mean?”

“The way you just played her to get what you wanted.”

A beat of silence passes. “I didn’tplayher, Layla. I was just being nice.”

“Yeah but . . . you did it so she’d let me stay out later.”

He shrugs. “Sure, that might’ve been part of it. But it’s hardly manipulation.”

That’sexactlywhat it is, but I choose to keep that argument to myself. We’re only five minutes into his elaborate anniversary surprise and here I am poking at him. Guilt ripples through me at that because my frustrations have everything to do with my mother and hardly anything to do with Jason. I try to get us back to safer grounds. “So, whereareyou taking me, exactly?”

Thankfully, it seems to work—the corners of his mouth rise with the secret he’s keeping. “Foxborough County.”

I scrunch my nose as I work to figure out what in god’s name could be waiting for us out there. Saddlebrook Falls isn’t all that big, but we’re still lucky to have the shops andbusinesses and general access that we do. None of it would rival the main drags of any big city, but we still have just about anything we might need placed comfortably within reach. Foxborough County is . . .nothingbut country. As far as I know, it’s predominantly made up of orchards and farmland and a few scattered homes occupied by the people who work them.

Jason chuckles at what I’m sure is the bright beacon of confusion shining from my face. I look down at my shoes—my trusty high-top Converse, because despite living in Texas I don’t actually own a pair of boots—and hope we aren’t doing anything too physical. Maybe we’re picking apples or . . . having a picnic? A sneaky glance into the back seat gives away nothing except the fact that Jason is a borderline slob.

It takes us just shy of an hour to cross county lines, and not long after that I notice a glossy banner hung across one of the highway’s overpasses. It takes a few seconds for the glare from the sun to shift so that I can make out the words, but when it does, I read FOXBOROUGH RODEO & FAIR – 2 MILES and I’m flooded with a heady mix of relief and joy. “A fair?” I exclaim. “You’re taking me to a fair?” I haven’t been to one since I was really little, when my grandparents still lived here. It’s one of my better memories from those days.

Jason’s smile sparkles in the sunlight shining through his window. “That all right with you?” he asks, a hint of a tease in his tone.

“Trust me, it’s more than all right.”

We both laugh, and I feel it again—that effervescent sense of awe that sometimes bubbles over and overwhelms me. The thrill of a new experience, and a reminder not to take any of it for granted. I’m not sure where it comes from, but it humbles me all the same.

Five minutes later, Jason pulls his Mustang into a wide dirt lot lined with what looks like hundreds of other cars. As soon as I throw open the door, the mouth-watering aroma of funnel cake and other fried treats curls around me, igniting an embarrassing growl from my stomach.

Of course, Jason hears it. His low chuckle snares my attention, and I find his blue eyes a perfect match to the sky above us. “Hungry?” he asks.

“Starved,” I admit.

“Let’s go eat.”

I’m notsure how it’s possible, how meandering through fairgrounds gets inexplicablybetterwith age. Or maybe it’s that it’s been so long since I’ve done it and I’m flooded with the memories from a much smaller Layla who explored row after row of concessions and game tents, hands gripped tight to her two favorite people. This isn’t even the same fair as before, but it still siphons out a sense of homesickness that aches beneath my ribs.

I don’t allow myself to fixate on it much anymore; I haven’t let myself open that mental trapdoor in years. But Idesperatelymiss my grandparents, and being here today is a reminder of that longing. They might have their issues with my mother and the decisions she’s made, but they’ve always been good to me.

Before they moved to Florida, I spent many nights at their house while my mom worked night shifts at the local diner, doing her best to keep the lights on in our one-bedroom rental. I’d tuck myself tightly between them on the couch, a blanket thrown over all six of our legs as if it might cement us togetherforever, and we’d watch movies until I grew tired enough to fall asleep. My grandpa taught me how to ride a bike when I was five, soothing my skinned knees later that day with gentle hands while my grandma warmed cornbread in the oven. She always had something warm to eat on a dime, her favorite way to comfort.

I’ve only seen them a handful of times since they moved away. For so long I held on to bitter resentment over their decision to leave, but as I’ve gotten older I think I understand why they did it. It had been too easy for my mother to fail back then, too easy for my grandparents to pick up the pieces of her life, as they’d always done—especially after I was born. When Mom came home from Vegas with a shiny new husband on her arm, they took it as an opportunity to break free. So, no. I don’t blame them for it. Not anymore.

I was just collateral damage.

“Okay,” Jason says around the fried Oreo in his mouth, pulling me out of my haze of memories. “I think we’ve eaten enough food.”

I look down at the orange-lacquered picnic table between us, at the paper cartons of fried Oreos, fried pickles,andthe plate-sized funnel cake I insisted on, dusted with copious amounts of powdered sugar. They’re all mostly empty now. Pulling the final piece of cake in half with my fingers, I shrug before tossing one side of it into my mouth. “There’s always room for more.” He laughs, and I feel a zing of pride that I can make him do that. “But,” I add mournfully, “I’m going to need a solid half hour of digestion before we can even think about getting on a ride.” My gaze moves to the Zipper in the distance, to the cages of people flipping as they orbit around the tall boom, and mystomach lurches.

---