Page 2 of Run, Little Bunny

“Does the Easter Bunny keep looking at me?” I ask Megan as we walk farther into the park, trying to sound casual, though my heart’s racing a little.

She glances over, raising an eyebrow. “No, don’t be ridiculous. He’s probably scanning the crowd. There’s a ton of people here.”

“It feels like it.”

Megan shrugs, but I can’t shake the feeling. Every time I glance back, the bunny’s giant eyes seem locked on me, like he’s watching my every move.

“Maybe he thinks you’re cute,” Megan teases, nudging me with her elbow.

Cam tugs at my jacket, pulling me out of my thoughts. “What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Orange.”

“I’ll grab an orange egg for you.” His little face lights up, and I pull him in for a side hug. He’s the cutest, and moments like this remind me of why I want my own family someday.

A woman’s voice crackles through the speakers, explaining the rules for the egg hunt. Thankfully, Cam’s age group is up first.

“Did you listen?” Megan asks him. “You can only grab ten eggs.”

“Ten eggs,” Cam repeats, looking out at the plastic eggs in front of him, ready to run.

The air horn blares, and dozens of kids dash across the field. I watch the adorable chaos unfold but can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching me.

“Seriously,” I whisper to Megan, glancing back at the Easter Bunny. “He’s definitely looking at me.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “Okay, now you’re being paranoid.”

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m imagining things.

But as the kids scramble for eggs and parents cheer them on, I steal one more glance over my shoulder—and sure enough, those giant bunny eyes are locked on me.

2

I’ve done some embarrassing things in my life—drunken karaoke ballads, ridiculous dares—but nothing,nothing, compares to standing here in this godforsaken Easter Bunny costume. All because I lost my fantasy football league. Three hours of fucking torture playing Buttons the Bunny at Lake Geneva’s annual Easter egg hunt while my so-called friends laugh their asses off from a safe distance.

Seriously, I’m thirty-four years old. You’d think we’d be past this kind of nonsense by now, but clearly, we are not. The worst part is, deep down, I know none of us are growing up anytime soon. Not with stunts like this still on the table.

I shift in the bunny costume, my white parachute pants rustling awkwardly. The costume is somehow making me sweat even though it’s barely fifty degrees. At least the mask hides my face. Buttons the Bunny’s expression is frozen in a permanent state of wide-eyed horror, which suits me just fine at this point.

As if the universe has a sick sense of humor, I spot her.Anna.Great.

Anna started working at La Nonna about a year ago, and ever since, I’ve practically made it my second home. I tell myself it’s because of the food, but honestly, it’s mostly because of her.She’s hilarious, quick-witted enough to keep me on my toes, and always wearing something that clings to her hourglass figure. Anna’s a classic beauty—long blonde hair, blue eyes. Why does she have to be so damn cute?

She’s way too young for me.Younger than my youngest sister. I try not to think about the age gap, but standing here in this stupid bunny suit isn’t exactly helping my case. I mean, what kind of grown man does this to himself?

I raise my hand to wave at her as she walks past. It seems like she’s going to ignore me. But then she looks right at me and, to my surprise, she high-fives the giant paw.

“Anna!” I say through the mask, my voice muffled by the layers of faux fur. She blinks up at me, looking a little scared, before walking off toward the egg hunt. Can’t blame her. If some random bunny said my name, I’d be creeped out too.

I watch her go. These jeans today, hugging her in all the right places. I sigh, replaying that interaction, coming up with a hundred ways it could’ve gone better.

Twenty-two.Too young. But everything about her draws me in. Outside of her looks, she’s genuinely fun to talk to. Either way, I’ve been hanging around La Nonna more often than I’d care to admit.

“Chad!”

I turn toward the voice and spot my handler for the day—my buddy’s wife, Lauren, who works for the park’s district. She’s all business, clipboard in hand, knitted eyebrows saying she’s had about enough of this chaos.

“It’s almost time for pictures with the kids,” she says, tapping her watch. “Get over to the photo booth.”

---