An Optimist's Guide to Heartbreak (Heartsong #1)(53)

Miss.

Another miss.

Then he makes one, but it’s not enough to win a prize.

Cal fishes more change out of his wallet, handing the teenager manning the game a twenty. “Another,” he clips.

She throws him a ball. He makes it.

Then he misses.

Cal mutters profanities into the night, throwing balls at lightning speed, his form getting sloppier as aggravation takes over.

“Cal, it’s fine. I don’t need anything,” I say gently, pressing my palm to his twitching bicep. “Let’s go on the Ferris wheel.”

“You’re getting a fucking prize if I have to spend my entire paycheck on this rigged-ass game.”

My eyes catch with the young attendant, who pulses her eyebrows at me like she’s impressed with Cal’s dedication.

Another twenty is pulled from his wallet, in exchange for more balls.

I swear he’s sweating. It’s fifty-two degrees outside, but there’s a sheen reflecting off his hairline from the game lights as he lifts the ball slightly over his head and positions it with his opposite hand.

Swish.

Another one goes in.

Swish.

My heart races with childlike adrenaline. I feel like I’m sitting on the bleachers at one of Cal’s old high school games; like that wintry night in December when there were three seconds left on the clock and a teammate tossed him the ball as he stood perched at the three-point line, and everyone in the crowd went silent.

He made the shot, just like he makes it now.

Swish.

Cal turns to look at me as the ball glides through the net, in the same way he looked at me then, when he found me through the sea of people on those aluminum benches and thrust his arms to the sky in victory. I’d jumped up and down, grabbing Emma’s hand, whooping and whistling until my cheeks ached. He’d pointed at me—or at Emma—but his eyes were on me, that I knew.

“That’s my big brother!” Emma had hollered through cupped hands, her ponytail whipping me in the face as we bounced up and down.

That’s my everything, I had thought.

I couldn’t say it because what did a thirteen-year-old know about everything? But I thought it, and I’m still thinking it, wondering if I ever stopped.

The game blares victorious with a winning shot, the multicolored siren flashing blue and emerald. Claps ring out through the long line behind us as the attendant pops up from her stool to fetch a prize. “Which one do you want?”

Cal smooths back his chaotic hair, dark tufts curling behind his ears. “You got a mouse?”

“A mouse?” Her nose crinkles. “Fresh out of mice. I have sharks, panda bears, and some sloths.”

I slide my lip between my teeth, surveying the toys. Nothing is pink, but the panda is cute. Its eyes look sad, one ear droopier than the other. Something about it has me pointing with a smile. “That one.”

Cal frowns. “That one looks sick. Its ear is falling off.”

“It’s the one I want.”

The young girl shrugs and reaches for a long hook, snatching up the panda bear. She hands it to me as she glances at Cal. “Nice job. Lucky lady.”

In that moment, I do feel lucky.

I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

We’re both still damp from the water gun fight as we leave the line and I tuck the panda to my chest. I’m also still buzzing, a combination of cider, adrenaline, nicotine, and the soft look Cal throws me as we curve toward the rides. “This means a lot,” I tell him, peering up at him through my lashes. “Really. Thank you.” I squeeze the panda tighter with both arms, my smile misty.

He scratches at the stubble along his jaw and returns his attention straight ahead. “You gonna name it?”

“Yes. Pinky.”

“It’s black and white.”

That doesn’t matter; Emma already named it. And maybe it’s not a mouse, and maybe it’s not pink, and maybe we’re grown adults now and she’s not here, but she still named it. I pop my shoulders, glancing down at the wads of gum stuck to the pavement. “She looks like a Pinky.”

He doesn’t argue, and silence stretches between us.

It’s not the awkward kind that I’m quick to repel. It’s lighter, kinder, comfortable. It doesn’t need to be filled—it just needs to be savored.

It’s the kind of silence that has Cal reaching for my hand, the one I dropped to my side. He says nothing as his knuckles graze mine, gentle at first, just a kiss, and then his pinky finger extends to link with my own. My feet stagger, my legs crisscrossing. His hand is cool from the late autumn air, but his touch is warm. Still silent, he weaves the rest of our fingers together until our palms are clasped and intertwined.

Cal is holding my hand.

I’m not his, but I have his hand, and I have a little panda pressed to my heart, and I have this night, even if the nights don’t last forever.

Right now, I have everything, and all that ever really matters is right now.

He remains silent as we wind through the passersby, dodging double strollers and sugar-infused toddlers high on cotton candy. At one point, instead of letting go, Cal grips me tighter and arches our hands through the air and over a young girl’s head as she tries to plow through our arm barrier like a game of Red Rover. As the girl vanishes behind us, Cal and I pull back together like two magnets and nearly trip over each other’s feet.