Page 52 of Shattered Promise

We meander toward a big food tent, and just as we near the edge, Mason leans in close. His voice is quiet.

“You don’t have to clarify every time.”

I look at him, startled and maybe a little stung. “I just don’t want to overstep.”

But he’s looking at me with something close to apology in his eyes, and anything else I was going to say gets caught in my throat.

Inside the food tent, we share a funnel cake dusted with enough powdered sugar to give me a sugar high for a month.

Some of the powdered sugar dusts Mason’s thumb as he tears off a corner for me. He holds it out, and there’s a beat before I realize he means for me to take it from his hand. I do, brushing my fingers against his and feeling a jolt of something embarrassingly sharp for a carnival snack. I pop the piece in my mouth and try to look unaffected. I tear off a teeny tiny piece, the only part not coated in powdered sugar, and offer it to Theo.

Next to us, a man in a faded Fyr Bal volunteer shirt and a weathered baseball hat is waiting for his own funnel cake. Heleans toward Mason with a chuckle, and says, “God, I miss when my kids were little.”

Mason’s mouth curves into a genuine smile. “It’s a wild age,” he says, keeping his gaze on Theo, who’s currently trying to grab my hand and get more funnel cake.

“How about this instead?” I murmur to Theo, offering him one of his puffed rice cereal snacks.

The man turns toward Mason, like he’s settling in for a chat while he waits for his food. “You local?”

“Just visiting for the festival,” Mason answers, steady as always.

The man whistles, low and fond. “It’s a great festival, isn’t it? I’ve been coming every year since my kids were his age,” he says, nodding toward Theo. “My oldest is in college now, but he still comes home for Fyr Bal.” He plucks his funnel cake from the counter and grins at Mason, eyes soft with nostalgia. “You’re lucky, man. Beautiful family.” He nods at Theo—at me—and then back at Mason, as if the three of us are a matched set, the only possible arrangement.

“I really am.” Mason throws his arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side, and the heat of him is like a pulse running straight through my skin.

For a second, I can’t breathe. The tent narrows to the tight circle of his arm and the clean, sun-warmed scent of his shirt, and I’m sure everyone around us can see how my face flushes to the roots of my hair. I’m so thrown I almost don’t notice the way he leans down, voice pitched just for me.

“Play along, Trouble.”

The words lodge somewhere behind my ribs, and maybe it’s the sugar or the noise or the fact that his grip doesn’t loosen even after the well-meaning gentleman grabs his food and leaves the tent.

I keep waiting for him to let go, or for the joke to land and for us to step back into the tidy boundaries we’ve both spent years pretending we haven’t drawn. But Mason’s arm stays draped over my shoulders, his fingers curving against the bare skin at the crook of my neck. He’s not in a rush. Not performing. Just holding me there—like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Theo licks the cereal dust off his fist. I stare at the funnel cake, feeling every nerve ending in my body vibrate with awareness. The tent buzzes with laughter, the accordion music from outside now a dull background hum in the distance.

Mason leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear as he murmurs, “See? Was that so bad?”

I choke on a cough. “No,” I say, and my voice is too thin, too quick. “Just—unexpected.” My ears burn. I can’t even look at him. I fumble for a napkin, dust my fingers, and pretend the only thing I’m feeling is embarrassment at the sugar smears, not the way his thumb is still tracing slow, absent circles at the base of my neck.

Theo babbles, waving a sticky hand in the air. I latch onto him as my excuse. “You want more cereal?” I ask, even though he’s just as happy gumming his own thumb and staring at all the people.

Mason squeezes my shoulder once, then finally lets his arm slide away, slow and careful like he’s reluctant to create even an inch of space between us. I shiver at the loss, skin prickling with the ghost of his touch.

We move through the rest of the festival in a haze. Neither of us talking. Neither of us willing to puncture whatever just happened. I keep one hand on the stroller, the other clenched loosely at my side, and try to quiet the spinning in my head.

I don’t even notice the next time someone assumes we’re a couple. Maybe I don’t want to.

Kids weave through the crowd, trailing balloon animals and melting popsicles. A woman with three toddlers in matching overalls gives us a tight-lipped smile as we pass.

Theo squirms in the stroller, kicking his legs restlessly. Mason leans over to readjust the sunshade, and at the same moment, I reach out to straighten Theo's flower-crown hat hybrid, which he's somehow tilted to the side. Our hands touch lightly, knuckles brushing in the gentle space between us.

Mason just looks down at me, mouth tugged into that lopsided line he gets when he’s caught off guard and trying to pretend otherwise.

Every now and then, our hips bump, or the swing of our steps syncs up, and I thinkmaybe this is what being content is supposed to feel like.

For once, I let myself have it.

Just for now.

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