Page 41 of How You See Me
Her head tilts in adon’t be stupidglare. “You never want to do anything, Hayes. It’s your whole vibe.”
“That’s not—”
“Just think of me as your tour guide. When you book an excursion, you follow the guide. That’s why you pay them—to lead the way and show you a good time.”
“I’m not paying you to torture me.”
“It’s a metaphor, big guy.” She taps my chest with her free hand, and I still can’t figure out why she’s attached to me with the other. “Get onboard.”
We continue moving toward the van, but slower now.
“Just don’t embarrass me.”
“I promise. Scouts honor.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better. You already said you were never a Girl Scout.”
“Fun isn’t scary, Hayes.”
“I think your version of fun might be.”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
“What about you?” I ask, almost daring her. “Are you willing to do something outside of your comfort zone?”
Her eyes grow wide with surprise before accepting that she can’t expect from me what she’s not willing to give. “Okay.” She quickly points at me. “As long as it doesn’t involve a restroom or driving, I’m in.”
???
I have two goals for this so-called adventure at Dollywood—ride a rollercoaster for Ava and find a smooth rock from Pigeon Forge. That’s it. But for some reason, I’mdoing neither and standing under a full sky of floating umbrellas while Josie takes photos of a bed of flowers. Had I been here alone, my tasks would already be completed, and I’d be on my way to my next destination.
But she belongs here. This whole place is built in her image—colorful, chaotic, joyful. The music, the staff, even the damn signage is smiling at me. Josie explodes with delight over every little thing she comes across, and I have a feeling I may have to drag her out of here kicking and screaming before the day’s end.
“Hayes!” She waves me over and points at something on the park brochure. “We should start here.”
I lean down to read. “You’re kidding, right?”
She beams up at me. “Not even a little.”
Grabbing my hand, she tugs me toward the—and I quote—junior coaster. There’s a real chance I won’t fit in this thing, and I guarantee we’ll be the only adults without kids riding it.
I need to send a picture to Ava of me on a rollercoaster, but this humiliation won’t be the evidence I take. The line is short, and soon, I’m squished inside a coaster car painted like a wooden barrel beside Josie. I’m taking up at least two-thirds of the space, pushing her against the side whenever the track curves her way.
My hands ache from squeezing the safety bar to keep my body weight from crushing her. It’s not working thanks to the jerky path and bumpy track. But she’s still laughing and screaming at every jolt, so I guess I haven’tbruised her yet.
“That was fun,” she says after we stumble out the gate. “It’s your choice next.”
“You’re really going to let me pick?”
“It’s only fair. Just go easy on me at first. We can work our way up to the ones I’ll have nightmares about.”
We spend the next two hours riding anything from frogs and bears to swings and carousels. She keeps screaming. I keep pretending not to enjoy it. But something inside me loosens with every ride, like I’m letting go one gear at a time.
That is until she drags me to the entrance of something called the Grist Mill. “We have to get cinnamon bread.”
“Are you sure you want to do that now?”
“Breakfast was a while ago. I figured you’d be ready to eat by now.”
