Page 121 of Stolen Harmony
“Elias,” I started, not sure what I wanted to say but needing to say something.
“We should clean up,” he said quickly, already reaching for our empty plates. “The day's getting away from us.”
But there was no urgency in his movements, no real rush to move on to whatever came next. If anything, he seemed to be drawing out the process, taking his time with dishes that could have been washed in minutes, finding reasons to stay in the kitchen where we'd created this small pocket of normalcy.
I helped without being asked, drying plates while he washed, our movements falling into an easy rhythm that felt like muscle memory even though we'd never done this before. When our hands brushed reaching for the same dish, neither of us pulled away immediately, and the contact sent electricity up my arm that had nothing to do with static.
“There's a festival down at the pier today,” he said eventually, hanging up the dish towel with unnecessary care. “Nothing fancy, just the usual small-town nonsense. Food trucks, carnival games, local bands playing covers.”
“Sounds terrible.”
“It is. Completely terrible.” He was smiling now, really smiling, and the transformation was devastating. “Elaine used to drag me every year. Said it wasn't summer without the pier festival.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she was right about a lot of things.” He looked at me directly then, something shifting in his expression. “Want to go be miserable together?”
The invitation felt momentous, like he was asking for more than just my company at a small-town festival. Like he was asking if I wanted to step into the life he'd shared with my mother, to take up space in traditions that had belonged to them.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by how much I meant it. “Yeah, I'd like that.”
The pier was exactly as advertised: aggressively cheerful, slightly shabby, the kind of small-town event that existed more out of tradition than enthusiasm. Food trucks lined the boardwalk, their generators humming against the sound of waves and seagulls. Families wandered between game booths where stuffed animals hung like colorful prisoners, and somewhere a brass band was murdering what might have been “Sweet Caroline.”
“It's perfect,” I said, and meant it.
Elias laughed, a sound I realized I'd been wanting to hear for weeks without knowing it. “You have very low standards.”
“I have realistic expectations.”
We bought fish and chips from a truck that looked like it had been serving the same menu since the 1970s, found a picnic table that wobbled on uneven legs, and ate while gulls screamed overhead and children ran past with faces painted like tigers and butterflies.
“Ring toss,” Elias said suddenly, nodding toward a booth where an overly enthusiastic teenager was trying to convince passersby that winning was “totally possible, dude.”
“You want to lose money throwing plastic rings at glass bottles?”
“I want to see if you're as competitive as you look.”
The challenge in his voice made something spark in my chest. “What makes you think I'm competitive?”
“The way you attacked those pancakes this morning. Like they were personally offensive to you.”
I laughed despite myself. “Those pancakes were a crime against breakfast food.”
“They were abstract art.”
“They were hockey pucks.”
We made our way to the ring toss booth, where the teenager immediately perked up at the sight of potential customers. His name tag read “KYLE” in crooked letters, and he had the manic energy of someone who'd been drinking energy drinks since dawn.
“Step right up, gentlemen! Three rings for five dollars, win any prize on the top shelf!”
The top shelf was populated with stuffed animals that looked like they'd been designed by someone who'd only heard descriptions of real animals secondhand. There was a purple elephant with too many legs, a dog that might have been a cat, and something that was either a very sick giraffe or a very long horse.
“I'll take two sets,” Elias said, pulling out his wallet.
“Two sets?”
“Competition,” he said with a grin that made my stomach do things I didn't want to analyze. “Unless you're afraid of losing.”
