Page 80 of One More Chance
Harper
As we takea short walk from the Ferris Wheel to the next ride—the Scrambler—I try to ignore that Jensen seems unusually quiet. His face portrays a happiness, though I can’t help but feel like it’s masking something else. Not that I can really say anything, it happens to me from time to time too. All I can do is try to pull him out of his fog.
We step into this Scrambler thing, which I’ve ridden at county fairs in the past and know there’s no chance in there to really talk. You spend the majority of the time hanging on for dear life, squishing the person sitting on the outside and laughing uncontrollably. Jensen wraps one arm around me and holds the bar in front of us with the other.
I hold onto the bar tightly with both hands, my face buried into his chest. “Are you ready to be squished?”
“Please. Have you seen you? No way you’re gonna squish me,” he teases.
“We’ll just see about that.”
The ride starts up and as it builds momentum, I feel myself thudding into the side of his body with each spin. As the ride goes on, I move my hands from the bar to around him and notice his tightened stomach muscles. Tears stream from the outer corners of my eyes I’m laughing so hard. We rock back and forth in our spots, the inertia of the ride pressing us together and then apart, over and over again.
As the ride slows to a stop, Jensen’s even wiping tears of his own.
“So did you get a little squished?” I ask him.
“Not even,” he says, giving me the side eye.
“Whatever, I felt those muscles tighten.” I trail my fingers up his stomach as we exit the ride.
He lets out a long, “Pshhhh,” and tugs me toward an old school looking diner called ‘Jim’s’—that’s it. That’s all it says. I want to question it further, but I trust Jensen to make good decisions.
As we approach the door, he says, “I know it doesn’t look like much, but it’s the best. Trust me.”
We seat ourselves in a corner booth, per the instructions yelled out to us when we enter, as is customary with a lot of diner settings.
The waitress—a young woman, maybe college age—sets two waters down in front of us along with straws and pulls her pad from her apron. “What can I get ya’ll?” she asks, her deep accent punctuating each word.
“We’ll need just a few minutes.” Jensen smiles up at her.
Her eyes meet his for just a moment, and it’s long enough to fluster the girl. She twirls a strand of her hair and pushes it behind her ear, a shade of pink brushing her cheeks now, before she steps away.
Yeah, girl. I know the feeling.“Seems you have an admirer,” I joke.
“Huh?” he says, sounding genuinely confused.
“You caused her to blush just by making eye contact with her. You didn’t notice?” I laugh.
“Not really,” he says, shrugging his shoulders and turning his attention back to his menu.
“Is that how all hot guys respond to obvious attention? Just a shoulder shrug? Of course you must be so used to it.” I giggle.
“I didn’t notice because I’m here with you. And I don’t care about anyone else,” he says, bringing his gaze up to lock with mine.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a chill trail my spine. If this is what she felt when she met his eyes, I can understand the blushing.
I reach across the table and lace my fingers into his, suddenly feeling like he’s too far away with this table between us. Not that I want to be one of those couples that sits on the same side of the table. That’s ridiculous.
Then again, so is my use of the word “couple” to describe us. We’re not a couple. We’re friends at best. Friends with benefits? Part-time lovers? Shit, I hate this.
Shoving thoughts of labels aside, I ask him what he’s ordering and tell him to make it two. I excuse myself to the restroom and immediately pull my phone out once I’m locked in my stall.
Me:This is too much for me.
Lyla: What do you mean?
Me:I mean this might have been a mistake. What happens when I leave?