7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

DEAR RIVERS' ASSHOLE, WOULD YOU CARE TO MEET MY TONGUE?

When we arrived in town the next morning, the square was packed. Though the festival didn't kick off for another three hours, it seemed like everyone and their dog had shown up early; probably to catch sight of the prodigal queer.

Brenda/Carole and the crew were setting up by the stage, and when our eyes met, she flashed me a smile. A few feet away, Rivers and his son were deep in conversation. Beau seemed like a sassy little thing, judging by his current attire. He was wearing a shiny pink sports coat over his Muscadine Madness t-shirt. His maroon slacks were glossy in appearance, and there were gaudy purple gemstones down the seams. Rivers, as usual, had dressed conservatively in a pair of slacks and a button-down shirt. The only thing keeping him from looking like a glorified bank teller was his necktie selection. It was a bright baby-blue with magenta hearts scattered across the fabric. At their ankles, their pet piglet—attempted murderer Fudge Rivera—rubbed his snout against a partially eaten fried turkey leg. To my amusement, the little porker was decked out in a glorious ensemble, just like Beau. Beau had somehow strategically placed a tiara on Fudge’s head. The piglet was also wearing what appeared to be a pearl necklace which was latched to a small, bedazzled leash. A rainbow tutu completed the outfit to perfection.

Beau was glaring at his father like the man had just committed some grievous sin, his eyes narrowed, jaw tense. The boy's high-pitched squeals were audible from halfway across the city square. As we approached, his words came through fast, and they came through harsh.

"But you promised," Beau yelled. "You said we'd get to ride the Ferris wheel."

"We will, buddy," Rivers said, raking his fingers through his son’s hair. An action the young boy clearly wasn't fond of, as he slapped his father's hand away and scowled up at him.

"Don't touch the hair!" He pulled his phone out of his pocket and fiddled with his hair, staring at his reflection in the camera app. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, paused, and released. "Still cute."

I'd never been particularly fond of children. Not of their terrible manners or dirty hands. Not of the slobber and snot that chronically coated their faces. Certainly not for their tendency to talk back. This one seemed alright, though.

"I wanna go up high. You said we could go up high."

"We will. I promise," Rivers said.

"When?"

"Not long. There are just a few final preparations before we get the show on the road. Once those are done and we get you some breakfast, I've got the ribbon cutting. After that, I'll take you on all the rides you want."

Beau didn't agree to the counteroffer, choosing instead to kneel at Fudge's side and press a sloppy kiss against his forehead.

"He's fabulous," Jordan said to me.

"He's certainly something," I said. Behind Rivers, Brenda/Carole gave me two thumbs up, letting me know we were good to go. With the cameras capturing the moment, I approached Rivers with a fake smile plastered on my face.

"Mr. Mayor," I greeted, trying to make my voice sound affectionate. As soon as he spotted me, it was like the sun's focus was aimed directly at me. The world's grandest spotlight lighting me up. Our eyes met, and there was a slight fluttering in my chest that I couldn't quite explain.

"Firecracker," he said, approaching and pulling me in for a hug. "I’m really glad you could make it."

"Yes," I said, taking a step back and straightening my perfectly pressed shirt with my hands. "Well, I'm the main attraction. I didn't have much of a choice." Shit. Why was 'unnecessarily catty' my default setting? I might not have known much about romance, but I was pretty sure you didn't win a man over by repeatedly insulting him. Sure, shame kinks existed, but you couldn't forge a relationship—real or imaginary—by indulging the shamesters, could you? I turned and stared at Brenda/Carole. There was a mic clipped to my shirt, so I knew she could hear me through her earpiece. "Sorry, that was terrible. Do you want to try it again from the top?"

She gave a rousing nod of approval.

"You," I said, poking Rivers in the chest. "I blame you for this. I don't know how or why, but I do." Whirling around on my heel, I took ten steps back and reentered the shot with a smile so wide it made my jaw ache. "Mr. Mayor," I cooed at him.

"Firecracker," he said again, snorting softly. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having me," I said, pulling him in for a hug.

Rivers smelled delightful. His cologne mingled magically with the sheen of sweat on his forehead. It was a combination of musk, spice, and everything nice. He must have thought the same about me, because he pressed his nose into my nape and inhaled deeply.

"You smell great, baby. "

Baby?

BABY?

"What the hell did you just call me?"

"Oh my gosh," Beau said, sounding awestruck. "You're Phillip Firecracker." Rivers opened his mouth to speak, but his son cut him off. "I got all your albums, Mr. Firecracker!"

"I only have one album."

"Nuh-uh. You got the Methods and Madness album—"

" Methods to my Madness ," I corrected.

"—and you got the ones with the other guys in the band, but you didn't get to sing too much on them."

"I didn't sing on any of those," I said, trying my best to keep the bitterness from my voice.

"Point is, I got them all, Mr. Firecracker." He grinned widely at me. "You're my favorite singer."

I scoffed at him. "Well, clearly you have impeccable taste." I knelt in front of him and tapped the tip of his nose. "You, my friend, are positively delightful."

"I told you," Rivers said, crouching beside me. "He loves you. Just about had a heart attack when I told him you were coming to town."

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. Firecracker," he enthused.

"You met Phillip last night, remember?" Rivers said.

"Last night?" he asked, twisting his face into a thoughtful scowl. "He saw me last night?" Before either of us could respond, Beau put his hands behind his back, grabbing his left with his right hand, and circled us slowly, muttering to himself. "Last night. Last… last night? Last night, I watched TV, had dinner… Did I shower?"

He paused.

Sucked his cheek in.

Nibbled.

Continued walking.

"Did the doorbell ring? I think Fudge oinked at something." He turned and stared at fudge with an accusatory expression. "Did you oink last night?" When the piglet stared down at his hooves in shame, Beau huffed. "Figures." He was in motion again, walking circles around us. "Long day at school. I was tired, I can't be expected to remember everything. Was I polite? Did I remember to tell him it was good to meet him? What was I wearing?" He turned toward his father and frowned. "Answer the question, please."

"Which one?" Rivers said.

Sighing like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard, he clarified, "What was I wearing?"

"Your jammies, buddy. You were in your jammies and your sleep shirt."

"Okay," he said, continuing his circular march to nowhere. "Jammies. That's fine. They got baby cats on them, and Phillip Firecracker likes cats. Has one of his own. Maybe I'll get to meet him." Apparently, it was my turn to face his wrath. "I'd like to meet your cat, Mr. Firecracker." I opened my mouth to tell him that, actually, no, he wouldn't, because Papadop was a domestic terrorist, hellbent on mayhem, but I didn't get the chance. "I woke up in my pink shirt. That's fine. Phillip likes pink. We got that in common. Birds in bad weather, as they say."

"I think you mean 'birds of a feather,'" Rivers added, but all it earned him was a scoff. Beau tugged the tail of his shirt and sighed before continuing his bizarre orbit around us, still mumbling to himself.

"I brushed my teeth before bed, so my breath must've been okay. My hair was…" His eyes bulged so widely I worried they might just pop out of his head. "Oh, my God. My hair."

"Brace yourself," Rivers whispered, grabbing me by the wrist. "Here he goes."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"You're about to find out." His grip loosened around my wrist, but rather than release me, his palm touched mine, and our fingers weaved together. It felt like my heart was beating a mile a minute.

"Daddy, my hair! We didn't brush it last night. I specifically asked you to brush it," Beau said, marching toward his father. When he stalled in front of us, he crossed his arms against his chest and glared at Rivers with a look that sent chills down my spine. "You're lying. That's the only explanation for this."

"Beau," Rivers warned.

"But Daddy, I was in my sleep clothes. My hair was like a lion's mane." Ha slapped his hand over his mouth, his brows furrowed. "I must've looked terrible. Why would you let me come downstairs like that?"

"I didn't have much say in the matter," Rivers explained. "I can't exactly nail your door shut every time you go to sleep, just in case a local celebrity pops over in the middle of the night."

"Can't or won't?" he retorted, arching an eyebrow before turning his attention back to me. Rivers was right; this kid was terrifying. He had a crazed look about him, and his left eyelid was twitching like a car blinker at the end of its lifespan. Beau closed his eyes, gave himself a quick nod, and mouthed, 'I can do this.' He opened his eyes, and in an instant, his entire demeanor had shifted. He smiled, held his hand out for me, and offered me a nod. I obliged, giving his hand three firm pumps. "Beauford Rivera," he said. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Firecracker. On behalf of the royal family—"

"Royal family?" I said.

"He thinks we're America's version of the Windsors."

"Mexican-American," Beau corrected.

"My apologies, Prince Beauford," Rivers said.

"Mr. Firecracker, as I was saying, on behalf of the royal family, I'd like to welcome you to"—he slung his arm to his side as if presenting me with the town itself—"Tallulah, Texas. We welcome you with open arms." He stared down at his other arm, which was still hanging stiffly at his side. Mouthing 'whoops,' he slammed it out to his side, giving him the appearance of Jesus on the cross.

"Thank you?" I said, unsure what the hell the kid was doing.

"This is my father, Mayor Rivers Rivera, but you can just call him Dad."

With my lips drawn into a straight line, I assumed the role of ventriloquist, whispering, "If you think I'm calling you Daddy, you're high," to Rivers.

"We'll see," Rivers whispered back, tossing me another one of his trademark smiles—all teeth and gums and rays of unrequested sunshine.

"I'm your biggest fan, Mr. Firecracker," Beau said.

"That's true," Rivers agreed. "He's president of your fan club. Well, the Tallulah chapter, at least."

"There's a Tallulah chapter? How delightful."

"Don't get too excited. There's only two members in the group, and you're looking at them."

"He means us," Beaus explained matter-of-factly. "We're the two members." He leaned in toward me, bringing his voice to a whisper. "We're in the process of expanding. Whatever Daddy tells you about me slacking on the job, don't listen." A well-placed death-glare was flashed in Rivers' direction. "You're going to get me fired."

Rivers held his hands up in surrender. "My apologies, Mr. President."

"It's fine," Beau said with a dramatic exhale, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. "Just don't let it happen again."

"Listen, Phillip," Rivers said. "I figured we could head over to Minnie's and grab a bite before the festivities begin."

"I don't want to intrude," I said. "Honestly, it's fine. Jordan and I can—"

"Please?" Beau asked, gently grabbing my wrist.

How could I say no to that?

***

"So," Rivers said after Minnie had taken our order. The camera crew were in the booth next to us, but they weren't filming. I'd told Brenda/Carole we needed a few moments of privacy to break the news to Beau off-camera.

"There's something we need to talk to you about," I interjected.

Beau grabbed a lemon slice from the small plate Minnie had brought him. He squeezed the lemon into his water before delicately placing the carcass back on his plate. Once the juice was extracted, he fished stray seeds from his glass with a spoon, lining them up precisely on his plate and setting the spoon down beside them. After pulling a napkin out of the dispenser, he unfolded the thin paper and covered the forgotten fruit. He kissed the tip of his finger and tapped the bump under his napkin where the discarded lemon carcass was buried. At his side, Fudge rested on the booth, his head pillowed by Beau's thigh. "Thank you," he mumbled as he reached into his pocket.

"Who is he thanking?" I said.

Rivers leaned in close, his breath warm against my cheek. "He watched a documentary about dairy farms a few months back. It shook him up pretty badly. He's weaning himself off meat, but in the meantime, he likes to give thanks to all the lost lives sitting on the table."

"Are lemons animals now? Did I miss that memo?"

Beau giggled, reaching across the table and gently slapping my hand. "No, silly. But they come off a tree, and trees are alive." The mystery item from his pocket turned out to be a small bottle with the word 'rose' written on it. He unscrewed the lid, mouthing 'one, two,' and then 'three,' as each drop fell in. Using his straw to stir in the flavoring, he sighed, meeting my gaze. "You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Firecracker. Trying to get lemon rosewater in this city is like trying to find a pair of pretty shoes at Foote's Feet."

I gaped at him, and then at Rivers. "I adore this child."

Rivers laughed as Beau's cheeks turned scarlet. "He's pretty great, isn't he—Ouch! Son of a gun, did you just kick me?"

"Stop embarrassing me, Daddy," Beau ordered, before turning to me. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked, folding his hands together and setting them on the table. He looked like a five-to-ten-year-old business executive, ready to hear some revolutionary sales pitch. Unfortunately, Rivers and I hadn't taken much time to perfect our pitch, but if we were going to do this thing, we needed to do it now.

"You watch reality television, right?" I said, remembering his mention of it earlier.

"Real Housewives," he verified. "The ones from New York. Beverly Hills is good, too."

"I don't know if that's really age appropriate," I said to Rivers. "Listen, kid; it's like this. This show of mine is—You see, the thing is—I mean, the thing about the thing—"

"The thing about the thing?" Beau asked, furrowing his brow.

"And what a thing it is." I nodded in agreement.

"Daddy?" Beau questioned.

"Yeah, buddy?"

"Is Mr. Firecracker having a heart attack? Only, he's sweating real bad, and he looks like he's about to cry." He hoisted himself up onto his knees in the booth and leaned forward until the tips of our noses were touching. "Mr. Firecracker? Mr. Firecracker, can you hear me? Are you dying? I'd really like it if you wouldn't die. I saw a pig die once when I was helping out at Mr. Monte's farm and it was real sad. Please don't die, Mr. Firecracker."

"Of course, I'm not dying. Don't be ridiculous," I said, leaning back. Unfortunately, he didn't let that stop him. He just leaned with me rather than away from me. He brought his finger to my cheek and gave it a poke.

"I think you might be. All the color's gone from your face. You're whiter than the tablecloth," he told me, lifting the cloth and shaking it. The kid is clearly unhinged, because the action sent his glass of lemon rosewater airborne before landing directly in my lap. I closed my eyes and breathed before blinking them open slowly. Beau's mouth hung open, his eyes bulging. "Please don't fire me, Mr. Firecracker. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

I squirmed in my seat. "Consider this your final written warning."

"Don't worry, Firecracker. I've got some clothes across the street in my office. We can get you changed once we head out."

"I'm not wearing your dad-khakis, Rivers. I'm fine."

"What is it you want us to help you with, Mr. Firecracker?" Beau asked, clearly trying to distract me from my wet lap.

"Beau," Rivers said. "What Phillip's trying to say is that I've agreed to help him with the show. They think it might help if there's a love story on it. He was hoping it'd be alright if he dated me while he filmed his show."

Beau's eyes widened. "You want to date my daddy?"

"Pretend!" I said, trying to steady the speed of my racing heart. "Pretend to date him. It's not real. And only if you're on board."

Beau sat in silence, weighing the request. After an uncomfortable beat of silence, he nodded to himself. "I…" He closed his eyes, and then the strangest thing happened. The corner of his lip curled upward. "This will help you?"

"You don't know how much, kid."

He turned toward his father and grinned. "We get to help Phillip Firecracker, Daddy."

After trying to pay the check, only to have my hand slapped away by Rivers before he handed his card to Minnie, we shimmied out of the booth and made our way toward the door, Fudge trailing slowly behind us. "Just remember," I said, grabbing the handle. "It isn't real, but we need to pretend like it is. Do you think you can do that?"

"I played Toto in The Wizard of Oz last year. My teacher said I was the best daw-gone dachshund she'd ever seen. I'm a real good actor, Phillip. Just you wait and see." He knocked my hand away and pressed both of his palms against the door, shoving it open. As the kid skipped down the sidewalk, Fudge trotting quickly behind him, Rivers slid his hand into mine. His brown skin practically glowed compared to the far too pale shade of my own. Realizing the cameras were catching our every movement, I nuzzled up next to him.

"Is this okay?" Rivers said. "Are we at the hand-holding stage of our fake relationship yet?" I wanted to tell him it would always be too soon to hold hands with him, but I pushed down that thought and allowed it.

"I've wanted to hold your hand for years, Riv," I said, directly into the microphone clipped to my shirt. But the sincerity of the words took me by surprise.

We walked away from Minnie's and headed toward the stage. Center stage, Albert-slash-Leopold, the banner hanging bastard, and Danvers, the diabolical dick tease, were each holding the edge of an oversized red ribbon. A crowd had already formed, and the stale stench of sweat wafted along the breeze. Most of the food trucks had been going all morning, so the body odor was somewhat masked by the scent of funnel cakes and fried turkey legs. Rivers made his way on stage, stopping when he reached the podium. He opened a file folder sitting on top and shuffled through the papers, preparing for his speech.

Jordan approached from the crowd, leaning against me and resting his head on my shoulder. "Everything go okay with Beau?"

"He's on board," I said. On stage, Rivers turned around, saying something to Danvers.

"Are you okay?"

"Just nervous, I guess."

"I figured." He pulled a small tin can from his pocket. There was a marijuana leaf engraved on the lid, and as he unscrewed it, the emblem spun hypnotically. He pulled a small orange gummy from the container and quirked a brow at me. "I swiped these out of your father's pocket when I grabbed his arse earlier. Microdose. Only half. Just enough to help, not enough to hinder."

Grabbing the gummy, I feigned an overdrawn yawn, popping it into my mouth as I pretended to cover my mouth. The flavor exploded on my tongue; passion fruit and strawberry with an earthy aftertaste that always clung to the tongue for far too long.

"You just popped the entire thing, didn't you?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"Yeah, well, when you fall flat on your face, I don't want to hear you complain. Not a single word."

Rivers still had his back to us, putting his ass on full display. His hip was cocked to the side, and it seemed like he was arching his back to make the already larger-than-life orbs appear twice as voluptuous.

Rivers glanced over his shoulder, his cheeks darkening when he caught me staring at his ass. Danvers was droning on about something, but Rivers' eyes remained locked on mine. A smile spread across his face, and he waggled his eyebrows.

'You look like an idiot,' I mouthed.

"You have an unhealthy obsession with his arse," Jordan said. "Any time he's in the room, your eyes are hot-glued to his glutes."

"He's my fake boyfriend. I'm allowed to stare."

"You're not even a top. What are you going to do with it? Write it a love letter?"

"I could," I mused. "I've been told I'm a good songwriter, I'm sure I could manage a letter."

"Dear Rivers' arsehole," he started, holding his hand to his heart and staring longingly into the sky. "Would you care to meet my tongue?"

"You're—"

"Fired," he interrupted. "I know. And if you don't get up there soon, I won't be the only one out of a job." I followed his gaze and realized Rivers was staring at me with a frown. He had an arm held out, urging me forward. He was going to have to wait. Jordan's insubordination took priority.

"I'm bribing the attendant to lock you on the Ferris wheel tonight. Good luck sleeping in a rickety old cart."

"No worries. I'll just cuddle up to your father until they get us down in the morning. I promise, you don't have to call me Dad after we're married."

Rivers brought the microphone to his mouth. "Please give a round of applause for 2001's Muscadine Queen, Phillip—"

"We'll be right with you," I shouted. "We're in the middle of something." I drove my finger into Jordan's chest. "If you touch my father, I'll leave your ass here when I leave."

"I take it back," he said.

"Good. I'm glad you've finally come to your senses."

"You do have to call me Dad."

I groaned, whirling around on my heel and marching on stage. I took my place beside Rivers, waving at the crowd. Danvers and Albert-slash-Leopold slowly stepped in front of us, holding their red ribbon taut. I wasn't sure why these two men kept popping up all over the place. For God's sake, Danvers was a pilot. I couldn't think of a single reason he might be moonlighting as a ribbon-holding heartthrob.

"Phillip Firecracker, ladies and gentlemen," Rivers said. Leaning in, he whispered, "my queen." He moved ever closer, bringing lips to my cheek and giving it a kiss. I could have slapped him for it. The crowd was eating it up, though, and their applause was almost overwhelming. It had been years since I'd experienced anything like it. There was a lump in my throat, and as hard as I tried, I couldn't swallow it down.

Rivers talked to the crowd for a while, hyping both the festival and myself. As the audience let out another thunderous round of applause, he handed me a small pair of scissors. Having grown up around this all my life, I knew what was expected of me. I gave the onlookers a classic beauty-queen wave—hand shelled, wrist flicking slowly, my elbow unmoving.

"Thank you," I called out to them as a familiar sensation of warmth spread across my cheeks. As the crowd's applause roared out like a pack of baying wolves, I closed my eyes, soaking it all in.

God, I'd missed this.

"Let the muscadine madness begin," Rivers called out, guiding my hand toward the ribbon. He held on as I slashed through the fabric, his fingers like static against my skin. A stagehand grabbed the scissors from me, and the group of people congregating on stage dispersed, making their way into the crowd. When it was just us, Rivers stroked my cheek. "Thank you." His lips touched my forehead, and it was like someone had thrown a torch into a barrel of oil. Explosions. Fireworks sparkling in the sky.

"What was that for?"

"I'm just happy I got to be here for this." He pointed out at the crowd, half of them still standing in place, staring up at us. "Welcome home, Firecracker." Without invitation, he leaned in and pulled me against him for a hug. For the briefest of moments, I melted into him, and warmth spread through me as my edible kicked in.

Just as quickly as I'd fallen into the muscadine madness of it all, my senses returned. This was moving way too quickly. The way he'd kissed me—the frequency of his hugs—it wouldn't be believable to the viewers. We'd only been fake-dating for an hour, for God's sake.

I shoved him away and took a step back. My foot caught on a poorly placed cable, sending me tumbling backward. Trying to right myself, I swiveled midair, realizing it had been a terrible mistake when my face was smashed against the stage floor with an audible thud. The pain was insurmountable. It shot across my mouth and up the bridge of my nose. Unable to do much more, I ran my tongue against my teeth, praying I hadn't lost one in the fall. The last thing I needed was to look like a hillbilly on my own docuseries.

Rivers rushed to me, shaking the stage when he fell to his knees. He rubbed his palm up and down my back as he attempted to comfort me. Against my better judgment, I leaned in to the touch, seeking comfort the only way I could. Tears stung my eyes as I pressed my face against his chest.

"You're okay," he said, his voice low and full of concern. "I've got you." His hand was firm against my back, as if he was trying to press the sincerity of his words into me by brute force. "Can I take a look at it? I need to see how bad it is." I pulled away, wincing as my aching nose bumped against his jaw.

"Riv," I croaked. A bubble of blood spread across my opened mouth, and when I tried to exhale, it burst, painting both of our faces red.

Jesus actual Christ.

I'd just snot-bubbled blood all over my archnemesis as half of the town watched. I'd never be able to show my face again. His hand touched mine, and I flinched, worried he might vomit after the unintentional bloodbath. Instead, one arm looped around my back, the other sliding beneath my thighs. Effortlessly, Rivers lifted me, carrying me off stage.

"It's okay, I've got you, baby," he said, his voice barely even a whisper. I chose to let the endearment slide, because my nose was throbbing, and I could only handle one crisis at a time. Besides, it wasn't like he actually meant it. This was all just for the cameras. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I whispered, burrowing my face into his shirt. I knew I'd need to replace it later. I didn't even want to look to see how messy I'd made him.

"You're hurt," he disagreed, nuzzling his face into my scalp. I blinked my eyes, only to slam them shut seconds later when I realized the entire crowd surrounded us, staring on in horror.

"They're all staring."

"They don't matter. It's just you and me. I've got you."

Each step he took caused me to jolt, bumping my face against his chest. It was like someone was repeatedly smashing it with a sledgehammer. "Where are we going?"

"There's a medic station over by Minnie's. We need to get you checked out. You fell really hard." His hand gripped tighter against my shoulder. "You've got to be more careful, okay? I don't like to see you hurting."

I shook my head, regretting the decision when pain spiked in my nose. "The speech. You have to give your speech. We have to cut the stupid ribbon."

He chuckled softly as he rubbed his fingers up and down my ribs. "Already did it. You were right beside me, remember?" I opened my eyes and stared at him, confused. He'd already made the speech? "Yeah, we really need to have them take a look at you. I'm worried you might have a concussion. Between banging your skull last night and cracking your face open today, I'm surprised you can even speak."

***

It turned out that most of the blood had come from a gash on my cheek. Rivers offered to take me to the hospital for stitches, but the medic who bandaged me up arched an eyebrow at him, telling him it was just a scrape. I wasn't sure if Rivers actually had the authority to terminate a medical professional, but he didn't let a little red tape stop him from threatening it.

When the medic flung his hands up in exasperation and stormed off, Rivers and I hung back in the ambulance, our legs dangling over the edge. Across the square, Jordy, Beau, and my father took turns at the ring toss. Bathed in silence, I could almost forget about the pain and pressure in my face. I couldn't explain it, but it was almost like just having Rivers next to me, knowing he wasn't just at my side to play it up for the cameras… Well, the comfort it provided was better than any ibuprofen I'd ever taken.

"I'm really sorry you got hurt," he finally said.

Thanks to the edible and whatever the hell they gave me for pain in the back of the ambulance, I was at the beginning of a two-hour ride of carelessness and confusion. I probably looked ridiculous with a bandage taped across the center of my face, but it didn't matter. The world was spinning around me like an oversized Tilt-a-Whirl, and once I stopped trying to hold on, every bit of my resolve left me.

"Want to make it up to me?"

"Yeah," he said, resting his hand on top of mine. We both stared down at it, like our flesh had fused and connected us together. "Can I?"

"You want to take me on the Ferris wheel?" I didn't know why I suggested it. I vaguely remember someone mentioning the ride earlier, but I couldn't remember who or why. There was also the fact that I was deathly terrified of heights, but with Riv, I felt like I didn't need to be. It was like I knew he'd wrap his big, strong arm around me and keep me safe.

Not that I wanted his arms around me, or anything.

Shit. Did I? My head felt like it was being held underwater, but that couldn't be the case, because I could still breathe through my mouth. Had I gone insane? This was just for show. I needed to remind myself of that little factoid. None of this was real. Not for me, and certainly not for Rivers. I mean, the man was straight.

Wait, was he? He'd been married once. He had a child. Vaginal sex must have transpired at one point.

"Come on," I said. "Let's ride."

"You sure you're up for it?" he asked.

"I only smashed my face," I said playfully. "I think I can manage sitting stationary on a moving cart."

"Maybe we should wait a while." He stalled, cocking his head to the side and staring at me. I didn't know what the hell the problem was. I was fine. Perfectly marvelous, actually. Sure, my face more than likely looked like a slab of ground beef, but that was beside the point. I was on top of the world, but Rivers was acting like a stick in the mud. He reminded me of an overbearing parent, and, having never actually dealt with one of those, I wasn't having it. I reached forward and thumped him for all I was worth.

I must have thumped him a bit too hard.

"Motherfudger! Good grief, Firecracker. What was that for?"

"You're being a spoilsport," I said, placing my fingers in their thump-ready position again. He leaned back and slapped my hand away.

"No. Not again. That really hurt," he said. Tears welled in his eyes. They were just sitting there, dripping down his face like tiny little raindrops. It was my fault they were there, and I felt a personal obligation to remove them from his flawless skin. I'd planned on wiping them away, but my arms somehow found themselves hooked over his shoulders affectionately. With no free hands, I used the only tool in my arsenal. Leaning forward, I kissed the spot on his cheek where they lay falling, not worrying about the taste of salt they left on my lips. His breathing quickened, and then his hands found my hips, nails digging in roughly through the fabric of my shirt. When I pulled away, he was nibbling on his bottom lip. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence, he smirked, running his thumb against the length of my mouth.

"Jesus, Firecracker," he whispered.

After stepping away, he held his hand out for me. I stared at it, memorizing the three freckles in the center. I reached out, wanting to trace their path in every possible pattern. But I only managed to connect the dots twice before he slid his fingers between mine and tugged, pulling me up from the ambulance's bumper. He led me toward the ride, allowing me to lean on him for support. I was fairly confident I could have managed on my own, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Once in our cart, I watched the world shrink small beneath us. Aunt Lurlene was at a vendor stall, gossiping about God knows what. The camera crew were next to the spaceship ride, and Brenda/Carole was chain vaping plumes of plum-scented water vapor into the faces of anyone unlucky enough to cross her path. Just a bit further down, by the ring toss and the sledgehammer strength tester, Jordan and Beau were playing a game that involved aiming a BB gun at unsuspecting glass jars as Fudge allowed a little girl to pet him. To their side, my father had his arms folded over his chest, watching intently. Beau was aiming his gun at the jars, while Jordan stood behind him, trying to help the kid with his aim. Unfortunately, being a left-leaning liberal like myself, Jordan Miller knew nothing about guns. Preston did, though. When it was Jordan's turn, my father stepped behind him, helping him aim. When he pulled the trigger, the bottles must have toppled, because Jordan dropped the gun and spun around, clapping his hands. He leaped into my father's arms, wrapping his legs around his waist, and held on for dear life. I would have given anything to see my father's scrunched-up face at that moment. The embarrassment at having a man throw himself on him in front of the whole town. The mortification that would ensue when he came to terms with the fact that he'd—if only for a moment—allowed some of that ice around his heart to thaw.

"When we get off this ride, remind me to fire him," I said.

"Are you sure about that?" Rivers asked, inching closer to me. "You seem like you'd be lost without him."

"And you seem like a raging narcissist, but you don't see me pointing that out just to make you feel bad. I mean, Christ, Riv, are you actively trying to insult me right now?"

He chuckled softly, darting his eyes in my direction. When he caught my gaze, he blushed brighter than I'd ever seen him.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing. I just like seeing you like this."

"Bruised and bloodied? Does someone have a pain kink?"

"Goofball." He rested his hand on top of mine, though I wasn't sure why. There were no cameras to capture the moment. No showrunners screaming out for us to make it look believable. Just the boy who ran, who turned into a man. A man who stayed when he didn't have to. A man who was helping for reasons I still didn't understand. "No. Just… the way you are now. Before you left, you were this quiet little kid. When we had to do that science project together, you hardly even said two words to me."

"Yeah, well, gay teens and jocks don't generally go hand in hand."

He stared down at our hands; the way they fit together like stitched patchwork, each complimenting the other. His thumb stroked my skin delicately, like he was afraid if he tugged too hard, those metaphorical stitches might unravel.

"They do now." He paused, staring up at the sky, unable—or, perhaps, unwilling—to meet my gaze.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's just… I've never really told anyone before." He forced a laugh, but there was no smile on his face. Not even so much as a gentle grin. "No one but Sabrina, at least." He turned his face away from me, staring off into the empty field to his right. "I'm bisexual."

"You're bi?" My heart slammed in my chest. He was bi? Rivers Rivera?

"That's why I ran off that night. I was scared. Terrified someone would see us, and they'd put two and two together. I wasn't ready to come out." His gaze flickered back to the sky. "I should have danced with you. I wanted to."

"You did?"

He nodded, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he bit down.

"Thank you for telling me. For trusting me."

Our cart came to a stop, and the attendant lifted the metal bar, allowing us to exit. Then, the strangest thing happened. I realized I wasn't ready for the ride to end. I didn't want to get out of that seat, because getting out would mean going back. Rivers may have been the single-worst soul in the world, but it had been years since anyone held me the way he did.

Like I was appreciated.

Like I was admired.

He was holding me as if he was scared of letting go. Like if we left that cart, he might never see me again. Perhaps, worst of all, I was starting to think maybe he liked seeing me. Sure, he'd grow tired of me in the end. Everyone did. But for one moment, on that old, rickety Ferris wheel, I could look out past the hills and trees. I could stare beyond the stretch of city where everything faded into long, lonely country roads. For the first time in a long time, I could breathe.

"Beau wanted to ride," I said, pressing my face into his nape. "Can we go again?"

He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in even closer. If he'd called out his son's name, I must have missed it. Within seconds, Beau rushed onto the platform and wedged his way between us. After adjusting our positions on the cart, I thought that would be the end of the ridiculous, unnecessary body contact. Instead, he shimmied in closer, hooking his arm over my shoulder and pulling me toward him, smushing his son between us like a well-melted grilled cheese.

When we were up at the top, Beau peeked up at me through squinted eyes. "Mr. Firecracker?"

"You can call me Phillip, little man."

He blushed. "What you were talking about… This thing with you and Daddy," he said. "About this all just being for pretend." My heart raced, worried that this might be where he came to his senses and told us the entire proposition had been preposterous. That he'd sooner have Minnie Sinclair mount his father like a bucking bronco rather than allow him to sully the Rivera name by having it associated with me.

"What about it?"

"It would be okay if it wasn't. Just pretend, I mean."

Unable to form a coherent response, I stared at Rivers, and for the first time since returning, I saw the same boy from all those years ago. The fear in his eyes. The panic in his soul. That undeniable sound of 'run-run-run' echoing inside of him.

Then he smiled at me. Jesus Christ, the way he smiled at me.

"What about you, Firecracker? Would that be okay with you?"

It was at that moment I understood how he felt all those years ago. As hard as I tried, I couldn't get my mouth to work. No words fell from my lips. Rivers, though. Rivers was practically beaming at me.

"That's alright. I'll win you over in the end."