Page 106 of The Storm

I will. If you let me. If you only let me. Please, just let me.

“So?” he says. “Bumper cars?”

I nod slowly. Not the place. Not the time.

“Yeah,” I say. “Bumper cars.”

My pulse races and my skin buzzes. It feels like my brain is trying to reboot and get back on track.

The bumper car area smells faintly of rubber, and there’s a line, but it’s a lot shorter than the one to the roller coaster, where the estimated wait time is at a cool ninety minutes right now.

“Suckers,” I say, and Nick laughs.

We have to wait for ten minutes, but then we each grab a car. Mine’s got a cracked pleather seat, and the steering wheel looks like somebody’s been holding it with their teeth instead of hands.

Nick settles into the car next to me that looks equally as banged up.

“Try not to cry when I leave you to eat my dust,” I tell him.

His smile is too sexy for this arena mostly filled with kids.

The music kicks in, and the cars come to life.

I don’t wait. I slam my foot on the pedal and go straight for him. He jerks the wheel at the last second, so my car only clips his instead of hitting it dead on.

“Terrible aim,” he calls. “Is that a preview of how you’ll be driving when you’re ninety?”

I flip him off, laughing, and he gasps in a very un-Nick-like, over-the-top, dramatic way. “In front of the children!”

I feel mildly bad. But then he rams into me again.

We spin apart, and I end up in a seven-car pileup with a bunch of ten-year-olds. Nick waves at me as he whizzes past, head thrown back, laughing so hard he almost drives into the border of the track.

The rest of the ride is pure chaos. We chase each other in tight circles, crash into each other and occasionally into strangers, get trapped in pileups, and break free.

I’m laughing so hard there are tears in my eyes.

The music blares overhead, the lights flash, and the floor vibrates beneath us.

And Nick is laughing. Really laughing. Out loud, carefree, full-on belly laughing.

I’m not falling anymore. It’s not possible. I’m already there.

Stupidly, perfectly, impossibly in love with him.

TWENTY-NINE

INDY

Once we’ve hita dozen different rides and eaten our body weight in junk food, and the sun has sunk considerably lower, we catch up with Dia and Bridge. They’re sitting on a bench, eating ice cream, Dia’s head on Bridge’s shoulder.

A stage has been set up a bit farther away, and people have started to gather in front of it, settling in with their picnic blankets and foldable chairs.

“We should head over there if we want to grab good spots,” Bridget says, nodding toward the stage.

Dia yawns. “You guys go. I think I’m gonna head to the hotel. I’m beat.”

I frown at her. “You sure you’re feeling okay?”