She held my head between her hands and stared into my eyes, breathing heavily. My nose caught the scent of peppermint.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi.”
“Thanks for catching me.”
I should have shrugged or said, no problem, or something chill like that. Instead I said, “Always.”
I was so cooked.
She wiggled, wanting to be put down. Reluctantly, I let her, half loving, half hating the agonizing slide of her down my body.
She waved apologetically at the stall next to mine, Maya’s Jams, and fished in the grass for her croc and my party hat, which had fallen to the ground as we kissed. She didn’t see Maya elbow her husband, Tom, who’d tilted his head to eyeball Lyssa’s ass as she’d bent over. I scowled at Tom over her head.
After giving Mini M a pat hello, she turned to me with a wide smile, but whatever she had been going to say cut off when she saw the balloons tied to the horse float.
“What are those?”
I wiped my palms on my jeans, which were suddenly damp. “For you.” I pulled the release knot and passed her the bunch. My brains must have been swapped for mashed potatoes while she was kissing me, because I felt the need to add, “Balloons.”
The clown had fashioned her a bouquet of different flowers, tall ones and round ones and ones that I knew for sure were tulips. Yellow, purple, pink, and red. There was also a dog and a ‘snake’ intermingled with the flowers.
Lyssa blinked rapidly, looking from me to the balloons and back again. “You got me a balloon bouquet? With a dog?”
Damn, why won’t my palms stop sweating?
“Yeah.”
She clutched them to her chest, and I worried for a second that they were going to burst. But then she turned her head, and the light illuminated wet tracks across her cheeks. Suave Mike, normal Mike, would have pulled her into an easy hug and teased her until she was grinning and laughing again. Sweaty-hands Mike stood there, feeling awkward as balls.
People were watching.
I wanted to pick her up again, to carry her home, to buy her more fucking balloons and fill the damn house with them. Instead, I stayed where I was, uncertain, unmoving. The stares from the town were drilling a hole in the side of my head.
“Thank you. This is the nicest thing anyone—” She cleared her throat. “Thank you. I love them.”
With great care, she fastened her balloons to her bag, then sat at the picnic table, pulling my tin money box and the roll of ticket stubs to her.
“It’s been busy today,” she said brightly, after looking at the contents of the tin. “Good hustling.” Then she noticed the blackboard I’d borrowed from the café to scrawl my prices on. “Well, that’s awful. Did one of your chickens write that? Where’s your chalk?” She found it in my backpack and then rubbed the sign clean, painstakingly redoing it in swirly writing.
All the kids had gone now and there wasn’t any demand for pony rides, but a good portion of my friends and neighbors were milling nearby, eager for a look at the American with her batshit outfits, who’d rocked up and pashed me so publicly. Luckily, Lyssa was busy with her sign and didn’t notice. I scowled at people over her head. Eventually, most of them took the hint.
“Lyssa, why are you here?”
“I thought I could handle the money for you,” she said cheerfully. “Then you could just focus on the rides and turn over customers faster.”
“The fair is nearly done.” I gestured at the gazebo where the performers were packing up. There was barely a kid still in sight, just liquored adults. Those who had been at the port booth were the loudest.
“Oh.” Her shoulders dropped for a second before her spine straightened. “Maybe I can go around handing out flyers? Do you have flyers? Or I can clean up? I got here as quickly as I could, but my flight got delayed?—”
“Lyssa. Why are you here?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “I thought acts of service would be your love language.”
I choked on air. “My what?”
“Maybe I was wrong.” Her eyes raked me. “Maybe you’re a words of affirmation guy.” She took a deep breath. “Mike, I’m sorry that I used you for sexual gratification without reciprocating.”
