Page 32 of Pick-Up
There is no time to argue—or chat. After maybe an hour, he announces that it’s time to take a break.
“A break?” I eye the still epic line. “We can’t.”
“Ah, but wecan.”
He grabs a piece of cardboard and a Sharpie out of a craft box under the folding table and scrawls: “BACK IN FIVE!” Then he props it up in front of the machine.
There are groans from the peanut gallery, particularly one dad dressed as a superhero who grunts, “What the hell?” But Ethan holds up his hand. “Hey. Take it easy, Iron Man. There are labor laws in this country. It’s called a bathroom break.”
The crowd grumbles but has no choice but to accept this setback. Before we officially start unionizing, Ethan and I step back from the table. And it’s like freedom! He gestures toward some empty folding chairs in the yard’s back corner. I grab my bag, and we stroll over.
I’m so elated to have escaped that I don’t even care that it’s with him. Alone.
“Holy shit,” I curse loudly, as I collapse into a seat. Definitely within range of small children and their innocent ears. But I don’t care. Cotton candy duty has made me hard. “It’s never felt so good to sit down, ever.”
“It’s a slog.” He nods, leaning back in his chair. “Especially if you’re inept at making cotton candy.”
I glare at him and his stupid cute face. His eyes glint. He has a single dimple that pops when he smirks.
But that’s clearly the cotton candy fugue talking again.
“Why did you volunteer for the suicide mission, anyway?” he asks. “Just for the glory?”
“I didn’t!” I protest. “I was supposed to be… part of this.” Only now do I take a moment to glance around. I’ve been so laser-focused that I haven’t even noticed my surroundings. Darkness has descended. All around us, children with glow sticks squeal and run around in packs, roaming constellations. Taylor Swift plays on the loudspeakers. In one corner, the fifth-grade girls dance as a unit, jumping up and down. Parents—normal ones, with normal shifts at normal Monster’s Ball jobs—bunch in groups, chatting, commiserating, laughing, sipping steaming drinks. It’s kind of magical.
“Wow,” I say. “So this is how the other half lives.”
Ethan laughs, like a hiccup. It’s dorky and unexpected. In a good way. Is Demon Dad part human?
“Sorry I kept you from your kid,” I say.
“Oh. She was with her friends. I was only a humiliating appendage.” He sighs. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. But, wait! I have a better idea!” I dig around in my tote and unearth my flask. “Aha!”
He raises an eyebrow, nods, impressed. “Good move.”
I am a bad influence, and I like it.
I take a swig and then, despite my wariness, risk cooties and offer him the hooch. He takes it gratefully.
“What are you supposed to be? A bat?” he says, eyeing my headband. He drags his gaze all the way down my body, then catches himself and snaps back to attention.Surprising. In our interactions, he has thus far been almost chaste.
“I don’t know,” I manage, still recovering from feeling his gaze on me like radiant heat. “I don’t even know whose ears these are.”
“That’s a pretty half-assed costume.”
I roll my eyes. So many opinions. “It’s actually not a costume at all. Anyway, look who’s talking. What are you dressed up as? A basic Brooklyn dad?”
“Sheesh.Basic. Harsh.”
I shrug. I call ’em like I see ’em.
He shakes his head like I’m naive, then rotates to the side. I can’t help but notice the way the cords of muscles flex in his neck as he turns, his skin still holding a hint of a summer tan. That is until I spot a giant bloody gash in his neck and (unfortunately) gasp. Like a sucker. He chuckles.
“What the hell?! Why does that look so real? Are you a low-key makeup artist?”
“Let’s just say it’s not my first rodeo.”
