Page 10 of The Dandelion Princess
His eyes dance. “She uses Blossom & Branch skincare.” He releases me. “I brought some for you…for all of you.”
Oh. I halt for a beat, letting the bomb spiral through my belly that Marc and Jang Mi aren’t just a fevered invention of the Seongan press. They’re close enough that he knows about her morning makeup routine. They’re really— Oh.
I inhale sharply. This was always going to happen, and it’s going to make everything easier. In desperation, I hail some friends and drag us into a loud, laughing group that runs from the merry-go-round to the Stop and Drop. The din of laughter and screaming almost drowns out my thoughts.
At the top of an enormous pink slide, Marc, arranged on a rectangle of burlap, hooks an arm around my waist and hauls me in front of him. “Ready?” he asks, mouth by my ear, holdingme close. When we cross the finish line, I leap up like I’ve had a scalding.
“Gravitron?” somebody suggests, and the group goes off. When Marc moves to follow, I grab his arm.
“Are you insane?” I ask.
“What?”
“Allow me to take you through the dark forest of memory—”
“Stop,” he smiles.
“—when riders of the Gravitron—a harmless ride, beloved by all—were terrorized by one Marc van Heyden.”
“I had an upset tummy.”
A masterpiece of understatement. “The ride was out of commission for the rest of the night andAmmahad to settle the cleaning bill for an entire row of girls on the other side of the wheel. I still don’t understand the physics of that.”
“One time. I can’t even believe you remember.”
I shake my head. “Remember? I’m haunted. I used to think you were kind of cute, but that was the night that killed my crush forever.”
Yes. He knows about the crush, and he knows it’s something to laugh about. I admitted to a tiny, toss-away, years-old infatuation for the same reasons a magician uses a leggy assistant and a smoke-machine. It’s a misdirection so that Marc won’t see all the years I’ve spent wishing he was mine.
We pass a shooting gallery where some of Tom’s American friends are having a quick-draw competition. It’s not too late to find my Tucker or Brody.
Marc catches me looking at them. “The sights are faulty,” he tells me. “You won’t hit what you’re aiming at. Where are we going next?”
“No spinny rides.”
He grins. “You’d think I’d outgrow it.”
My lips tighten. “There are some things you don’t outgrow.”
We continue up the midway, parting around families, casually keeping eye contact as we walk in tandem on either side of the crowd.
A group of teenagers knocks into me, and Marc shouts something I can’t hear over the sound of a calliope. I shake my head and he tries again, this time with gestures. Finally, he cleaves his way through the stream and herds me through a low doorway, pulling a curtain closed behind him until we’re squeezed in a photobooth so tightly that there’s nowhere to look but right at his collarbone.
“Let the crowd pass,” he says, his throat working in a swallow. “We can get a picture.”
I hold my phone up. “There are hundreds of pictures of us.”
“So we’ll give one to Alix,” he says, tapping a credit card to the reader. The screen powers up, framing us inside a tiny digital box. “Smile.”
I push the curly hair out of my face and look at the unblinking lens as a countdown beeps.Click.
The bench is narrow and Marc throws an arm around me. “This isn’t a royal portrait,” he chides, brushing his fingers against my waist. Even the suggestion of being tickled has me squirming.Click.
“You’re wasting the film,” I say, smacking his hand. He drags me closer and my blood thickens.Click.
“Hand heart,” he says, lifting his hand to form half the heart—fingers curled over, thumb forming the point. I lift my hand and it’s comical how small my side is.Click.
“We’ll give her that one,” I say, scrambling to my feet. I trip past him, but we tangle and he catches me on the narrow bench, bracing his hands on my waist.Click.
