Page 53 of From Square One

“You were so annoying it became homophobic,” I tell him. “Like the balloon lady.”

“What? She gave me that stuffed duck out of the goodness of her heart!” he cries out.

“And then whispered a slur as we left.”

Aaron gasps. “She did?”

“Probably. Though that might’ve also been me.”

Aaron laughs, his head arching back under the force and nearly ramming into someone’s arm behind us. I can’t maintain my neutral expression, so I twist away to keep him from spotting my grin. He notices and catches my jaw, pulling my face forward. “Don’t hide it,” he says. “It’s been so rare lately.”

I don’t have time to think of a response, because the line shifts, and the ride operator shepherds us and two bickering guys behind us into one of the large, rounded booths. I’m a teeny bit disappointed we’re not by ourselves, but the line is egregiously long, so I don’t blame them for trying to cram multiple couples onto one gondola. Thankfully, it’s big enough that we’re not knee-to-knee with them, and we can probably chat quietly without them overhearing. Still, seeing other people nearby makes me inch away, because I don’t know how these guys feel about sharing a cabin with—

“They’re holding hands, too,” Aaron says.

I glance across to the other corner of the booth and realize he’s right. I haven’t properly looked at the two until now, nor have I been listening to their agitated conversation, but they’re clearly a couple. I pin them to be in their early twenties.

“I’ll crush it,” the smaller one on the right is saying, and though they’re technically holding hands, it’s more hostile than it should be. He’s applying all his strength to squeezing his partner’s palm, his face contorted in a scowl. “I’ll crush all your fucking fingers and then you’ll apologize through your sobs of agony.”

“Apologize for what?” the taller one drawls, leaning against the gondola railing as the attendant closes the door and sends us climbing into the air. “I drove you two hours here because your impatient ass couldn’t wait another month for the Delridge fair. What reason could you possibly have to fracture my hand?”

“You called me a weak little bitch in front of your brother!”

“Yeah? That’s not new information for anyone.”

“Get dicked.” The first boy squeezes the other’s hand even harder, teeth clenching. The second boy clearly isn’t swayed by this physical violence.

I glance at Aaron in bewilderment, feeling like we’ve intruded on something. He’s wearing an entertained grin, his arms spread along the back of the bench, his left draped subtly over my shoulder. “Is it a domestic dispute?” I breathe. “It’s like they hate—”

“You can’t tell?” Aaron asks, smirking down at me.

“Tell what?”

“That they’re in love.”

I scrunch my brows with skepticism, glancing at the two. They’re discussing something else, and the first boy is now nearly huddled up in the second boy’s lap. His giant gray eyes are flitting around with unease as the wheel climbs toward its peak. With his hair in disarray and his shaky limbs, he looks a bit like a small feral animal.

“Fuck this,” he wheezes out, giving up his conquest to crush his partner’s hand into dust. He slings his arms around the other’s bicep, hugging it fiercely. “Why did you let me do this? Fuck you.”

The second boy massages his brows with a weary sigh but looks admittedly pleased to be clung to. He leans his head sideways, bumping it against his partner’s. “Your exact words were We’re not gay if we don’t ride the Ferris wheel.”

“There’s no way I would ever say something so biphobic.”

The taller one smirks and uses his free arm to scoop his partner’s legs up into his lap. “Cranky as ever,” he mumbles, and suddenly, what I feared was an altercation has melted into something soft and intimate and, oh God, why am I watching this like it’s a movie? I whip toward Aaron, hoping he can’t see my flushed cheeks with all the varying lights splashing across our faces.

“What do we do?” I choke out.

“We should make out in retaliation,” he says flatly.

“Aaron.”

He snickers, closing his arm around my shoulders and sliding me against his side. “If you need a distraction, let’s talk about something,” he suggests, cocking his head, giving me yet another look at his black dagger earring and narcissus flower.

I blurt my question before I can deliberate it. “Does your tattoo mean anything?”

Aaron blinks in surprise. His gaze detaches from mine, and he peeks down at the carnival beneath us, focusing on the spinning rides and flickering lights and meandering groups.

“Sorry if that’s too invasive,” I say, but he merely shakes his head.