Page 94 of Fairies Never Fall

I check out the decor. “They did a pretty good job.”

Lysander nods weakly. “Uhuh.”

A row of pink floats trail from either side of the bow, which are definitely gonna get in the way of the oars. The kids have put an umbrella in the middle and hung charms made out of paper and glitter glue all the way around the edge. The glitter glue is a surprise, but I guess kids everywhere are basically the same. Three big plastic wings are attached to the back end of the boat to represent Lysander’s wings, which is also cute as hell — and I suspect adult interference, because there’s no way little handsdidthaton their own. But it’s in good fun, and I would’ve loved to see monster kings trying to do this challenge in the old days, all dressed up in their best clothes.

A quick glimpse of Lysander’s grimace as he looks over the edge of the boat says he doesn’t feel the same, and no amount of lemon bars will change his mind.

“All swimmers out!” Mara shouts. “All competitors, lifejackets on!”

Nymphs, sirens, and fauns clamber out of the water and rush between the boats. Lysander grabs the sides, the color in his cheeks washing away as the chaos makes the boat rock wildly from side to side.

Too late, I clock his problem — it’s not the audience he’s afraid of, it’s the water.

“Sweets.” I lean in. “We can sit this out, y’know. It’s not gonna bother me.”

He tears his gaze away from the surface of the lake just as Mara’s whistle sounds.

Reeeeeet!

“Go!” the faun next to us shouts, and her partner takes a running leap into their craft. The boat bucks under my hand. Lysander’s jaw clenches.

“I said I’d do it.”

When he gets that look, every instinct I have screams to make it all better. But IknowLysander has a big thing about his fears — his limitations, as he thinks of them. Even though I don’t see them that way. If he can sit in my house and let me choose to talk or not talk about my stupid insecurities over letting people down, why can’t I let him choose to conquer his fears for the sake of a silly bit of fun?

I push off.

Getting in the boat necessitates some rocking and rolling. I grab the oar on my right. Lysander releases his iron grip on theedge to pick up the other, dipping it into the water cautiously. The floats make atok-toknoise against the blade of the oar.

“Dip and push,” I tell him, demonstrating. The boat spins. He mimics my movement with a determined frown, pushing us in the other direction.

The mechanics of rowing a boat seem to distract him from the fact that we quickly abandon the shallow area of the bay. I focus on matching his pace, hoping he doesn’t notice the tension creeping into me. Slowly, our wonky little craft jerks forward.

Dip. Push. Dip. Push.

Our rhythm picks up. Lysander’s cheeks quickly flush with the effort. I’m so fixated on him, I don’t even notice we’re outstripping the competition until a wobble in the boat has me checking our status.

The wind has picked up, tugging at the umbrella and kicking up choppy waves that make the little craft rock and shiver. This time there’s no distracting Lysander from the fact that we’re smack in the middle of the lake.

His stroke falters. He stiffens up, hands tightening on the handle.

“We’re more than halfway there,” I reassure him.

He diverts his gaze back to the middle of the boat and hunches over his oar. “We could go faster.”

The thing about Lysander is he might be slender and light, but he’s also incredibly strong, and I find myself working hard to keep up. Our craft shoots forward, barely hampered by the decorations trailing off us. We zip past the other boats one by one. Lysander’s wings point straight out behind him, wobbling slightly with every flex of his shoulders, and an unbearable wave of endearment sweeps over me at the sight of him trying so hard to prove himself.

God… he’s really it for me.

Finally, the island looms and the dock comes within spitting distance. I steer us toward it. Never mind winning, I’m eager to see the back-end of this boat — my arms are aching.

“Almost there,” I grunt.

Lysander twists around to look, but when he turns back, his eyes are huge and frightened. “There’s something on the shore!”

“Huh?” I follow his gaze, scanning the shoreline. At first I don’t see anything. The island is a stubby chunk of moss-covered rock, with sparse trees and a single pier sticking out from the jagged shore.

Movement between the trees catches my eye. I see weird shadowy figures that sway in one place — or are they just tall bushes shimmering in the heat?

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