Natalie spun in place beneath the carnival lights. “Isn’t this place great?”
She narrowly dodged the other people in line. A few of the adults glared at us.
“We’ve been here every day this week,” I said. “Some of us get tired, you know.”
“How can you be tired of such a wonderful place?” a voice behind us asked.
My stomach dropped as the familiar twang of weed filled my nostrils. Trevor.
Of course, he’d appear when I was the most uncomfortable.
“Natalie invited me,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “We’re all friends, right?”
There was a pregnant pause.
“Skyler,” Trevor said quietly, “she’s going to realize.”
“What?”
“She’s going to realize we hate each other.”
I forced a smile as the cook slid our food onto the counter. Natalie ran to find us a table while we balanced the trays.
“Surprised you’re up this early,” I said. “With the sun out, I thought you’d burn to a crisp.”
“I’m surprised you came out of your little hobbit hole. I thought the sight of people made your skin crawl,” he shot back.
Trevor shifted the tray in his hands. “Look … if you want, I can stay out of your way.”
“You’re already in my way,” I muttered.
He huffed a laugh. “Fair.”
For a moment, something familiar flickered between us—like the old, easier days—but it disappeared just as quickly.
She bounced in her seat when we approached, unaware of the tension emanating from us like heat. “You guys took forever. Sit—before the funnel cake gets cold!”
We dug in, and soon Natalie ran to the bathroom.
“I’ll be back in a sec!”
We ate in silence.
“I don’t hate you, Trevor,” I said finally.
His shoulders slumped. “You don’t?”
“I’m just … tired. Tired of your jokes. Tired of pretending they don’t bother me. Tired of acting as if nothing happened.”
“Sky… I didn’t mean half the stuff I said back then.”
“That’s the problem,” I murmured. “You didn’t care enough to mean it. You just wanted to hurt someone.”
He looked down at his hands. Carnival noise filled the air, but it felt distant, like we were sitting in a bubble no one could break.
“I was stupid,” he said quietly. “And jealous. You and Natalie got close, and I felt … pushed out.”
“You pushed yourself out,” I said. “It felt like every time we hung out, you were so high you turned into a ghost.” Something in my chest loosened. “But I get it. I really do.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I don’t hate you,” I repeated. “But I can’t go back to how things were.”
Trevor nodded slowly. “I don’t expect you to. I just… I don’t want her stuck in the middle.”
“That’s one thing we agree on.”
Natalie came running back, hair flying. “Okay! Ferris wheel time! Both of you—move!”
Trevor and I exchanged a glance. A real one. Not friendly. Not hostile. Something in between.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “this doesn’t have to stay ugly forever.”
“Maybe,” I said.
Our lunch ended too soon. Natalie darted toward the next attraction, waving for us to hurry. Trevor lingered beside me for a second.
“We’ll be okay,” he said.
“Eventually,” I said.
The carnival lights flickered behind us, and the smell of cotton candy and popcorn followed us into the night.
Milo White is a fiction writer whose work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine. Their stories focus on memory, relationships, and the moments that shape who we become.
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