Page 69 of Over the Edge

“Pumpkin?” Quinn sounds nonplussed, her eyebrows arched.

Her tone doesn’t seem to bother Oliver, though. “I’m trying something new.”

“And you’re immediately failing at it.” Quinn shakes her head then turns to me. “Do I look like a pumpkin to you?”

“You have a certain rhubarb quality, but definitely not a pumpkin,” I say to ease the spark of tension. A great sign since we have yet to make it inside.

“Ahh, see, that’s probably what I was picking up on.” Oliver nods then slings his arm around Quinn’s waist before starting toward the entrance.

We scan our tickets and shed our jackets as we push through to the main hall. The colors of the exhibit are decidedly psychedelic. A painted bus and VW Bug take up opposite sides of a walkway, each with their own intricate swirling patterns of flowers and starbursts. Overhead, film footage is projected on panels.

“I think I found your time machine,” Garrett says, leaning close enough that I’m met with his clean scent of bergamot and lavender.

“Close enough.” Though, this isn’t exactly what I meant.

Quinn and I end up next to each other watching concert film from bean bag chairs. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Santana, and others from the lineup each performing to a sea of people all caught up in the same moment. Collective effervescence, one of those things that make you believe there’s a touch of magic in the mundane. Strangers becoming friends through their love of music.

“Would you want to do something like that?” Quinn asks.

“Go to a music festival? Maybe?” I shrug. “I’m not exactly the biggest fan of camping but I could make it work.”

“No, go on stage.” There’s a rustling from her bean bag, and I turn to find her facing me. “And be in front of a crowd like that. I bet you could, with Avery, and play the piano or something. I mean, if you still practice now that you’re in the city.”

“I think I’d be too stressed about all the people. Like one mistake and it will live forever on someone’s phone.”

“Really?” She sounds shocked. I guess it makes sense why. Between the two of us I was always a bit more performative.

“I mean in this hypothetical, it could be fun,” I say and let myself dream. A crowd singing along as I play. People dancing. Strangers sharing this one moment. Icouldlike it.

“Yeah, well, I think your hypothetical self would kill it,” she says then hesitates. My bean bag crinkles as I turn to face her. Her bottom lip is pulled between her teeth, a question caught in her eyes. “We should talk about Oliver.”

“I don’t see what’s to talk about. You’re together. I’m with Garrett. We’re good,” I insist, despite my stomach starting to flip. There’s nothing more to it. Nothing that’s going to change by making a fuss of it.

“Ev, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” My eyes nervously dart around the room to land on a group of five glancing our way, waiting for us to give up ourseats. “The film is about to restart. Let’s give them our spots,” I say, then stand and call out to the group. “Hey, we're done if you want our seats.”

“Evelyn.” Quinn stands and tries to reach for me, but I pretend not to notice as I hurry to the next part of the exhibit.

I find Garrett and take his hand as we meander through the space and then outdoors to view the sculptures. Every now and then I make him pose so I can take pictures of him, which he sends off to his boss. I’m running on the logic that if I make sure I’m not alone with Quinn then the conversation can never really happen, and if the conversation can’t happen, then it can’t implode our current delicate balance.

“You’re part of Fool’s Gambit, right?” A woman’s voice comes in a hushed question. I whip around to find two women standing in front of Garrett with hopeful bright eyes.

“Yeah.” Garrett nods. His hands are thrust deep in his pockets. His attention flickering between the women and the stage for the performance getting ready to start in the pavilion. We’re on the grass near the back because we got waylaid by a vegetable stand where Oliver found an impressively large zucchini heneededto buy. Quinn managed to talk him out of it, but only after she took a picture of him cradling it.

Things arenormalish. But I’m not sure if that’s us in our default setting, years of history winning out over the last few months of distance, or if things are actually okay.

“Could we get you to sign something?” one of the women asks.

“Sure, do you have a pen?” he replies. He’s not eager, but he also doesn’t seem put off by it either, which surprises me.

Quinn and Oliver approach, carrying popcorn and drinks to where I’m resting on the red gingham picnic blanket we bought in town.

“That seems fun,” Oliver says.

“It happens all the time.” I shrug, as if Garrett and I have done this before.

“The moment you post with him online you’re going to break so many hearts,” Quinn says as she sits next to me, working to not spill the butter drenched popcorn.

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