He takes my mouth with his, a hand grazing my throat like a warm, rough necklace.
"Touch me," he breathes onto my lips.
My hands slip under his shirt, over his abdomen, his muscles tight and warm against my fingertips. I touch the places on him I'...
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6:19 PM
"Bigger every year," Greyson notes, scanning the park's layout. I can't help but agree.
Arriving at the 24th annual Middlebridge Summer Fest with Greyson at my side feels like stepping into the past—every July since I was six. It defines us as friends: warm, bright, and enduring.
The fest is the summer heartbeat of our small town. As we meander, the sound of local bands fills the air, some folk, some country. The speakers crackle through the humid summer air mixing with the cackling laughter of kids on the few rides on the hill.
My feet move of their own accord, drawn to the stages where the orchestras play. I've always had a soft spot for a violin or cello, and my favourite, a piano.
But Grey thinks music without lyrics is stupid, so he pulls me to the classic rock band covering Uptown Girl by Billy Joel. I wine, but he pulls me along anyway.
Brunch with Keiko earlier was a pleasant distraction, her chatter as vibrant as a fresh paint palette, while my mind was happy just to listen and sip my third—okay, fifth—cup of coffee for the day. She doesn't bring up Grey, and he hasn't mentioned it either. Is he swimming in confidence, or is he just scared to dive into that conversation?
The festival's games section buzzes with laughter and competitive shouts. Greyson, ever the enthusiast for anything competitive, grabs my arm and drags me—lamenting—toward the uproar.
We arrive just in time for the three-legged race start and find Pat and Raveena among the pairs lined up at the start. They look ridiculously out of place in their jeans and casual shirts amidst a sea of teens in athletic gear, yet utterly content.
"Bet you ten bucks they come in last," Grey says.
"You're on," I chuckle, seeing the insane glint in Raveena's eyes. She's more competitive than Grey knows.
The race is a comedy of errors from the start. Pat and Raveena stumble, fumble, and nearly topple over more times than I can count. Yet, their rough laughter rings out over the crowd's cheers. True to Grey's prediction, they cross the finish line dead last.
Greyson taps the back pocket of my shorts. "Easy money."
I roll my eyes, fish two five-dollar bills from my wallet, and slap them into his waiting palm.
As Pat and Raveena approach, still coughing from their laughter, I brace myself. Greyson's split lip is obvious. Will they mention it? Ask questions? Demand we be separated for all eternity?
Raveena, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, says, "Did you see us? We were a disaster!"
Pat, still catching his breath, adds, "Haven't had that much fun in years." He beams at the nurse, and she smiles back, bumping her hip with his.
