Page 71 of It Happened on a Sunday
She rolls her eyes. “I think I can handle the three bucks. Besides, I drank all of yours.”
She heads back to the food truck before I can tell her I didn’t mind.
While she’s gone, I pull out my phone and make a few quick arrangements for what comes next. I’m done by the time she comes back a couple of minutes later, with another Jarritos and a giant concha amarilla.
“They don’t havepolvorones, but they did have one of these. She tried to give us a pink one, but I insisted on yellow.” She grins proudly.
And just like that, I fall. Like really fall. All the way, no mat, no net, nothing but air. I’m smart enough to know the landing’s going to hurt, but right now—as I look into Sloane’s eyes sparking with joy—I can’t bring myself to care.
Chapter 31
Sloane
Sly’s face lights up when he sees the pastry, and I’m glad he likes it.
Not just because I didn’t mess up with my choice, but because it makes him look like a kid again. Unburdened. Uncomplicated. Like life hasn’t taken chunks out of him, too, and left the scars behind to prove it.
I didn’t know I needed to see that look until it showed up. And now I can’t tear my eyes away.
And for one perfect moment, there’s no noise. No past. No audience, despite the two teen girls taking surreptitious pics of us from near the ice cream truck. There’s just him and me and a pastry that smells like sugar and looks like sunshine.
Sly reaches for it slowly, like it’s sacred. And when our fingers touch, something warm and soft sparks between us. It’s electric. Powerful.Real.
All of which means I should be hauling ass for the exit. Because if the last decade has taught me anything, it’s that real is dangerous. Real can hurt you.Real can break you.
But I don’t run. Instead, I sit back down and wait to see what happens next.
“Have you ever had one?” he asks after a second.
I shake my head. “No. But it smells delicious.”
“It is. And it’s yellow—much better than the pink ones abuela Ximena sent you.”
My stomach drops. “Is that what was in the bakery box we left at the Willow? A present from your abuela?”
“Indeed. One that might or might not have been wrapped inSloane Walker–printed tissue paper.”
My mouth drops open. “There’s no such thing.”
“Oh, yes there is. Also, Sloane Walker wrapping paper, duct tape, coffee mugs, and even slippers. Abuela has them all.”
“You mean like spider slippers? Because I have some of those and they are so comfortable—”
“No.” He shakes his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Sloane slippers. Your face is the front part, and then—”
“I don’t want to know,” I tell him, caught halfway between amusement and horror.
“The merch world is a wild place,” he says with a waggle of his brows that makes me giggle when Inevergiggle.
His eyes go wide. “Was that a—”
“Nope, absolutely not,” I cut him off. Then, to get the subject off my very out-of-character laughter, I ask, “Are there Sly slippers out there?”
He shakes his head. “If there are, I have no knowledge of them.”
“Now I know what I’m going to be looking for after tonight’s show,” I tease.Who am I? And why am I having so much fun?
“This is not a war you want to start,” he warns. “I can promise you there’s way weirder Sloane Walker merch out there than anything you might find for me.”
