Page 175 of Knot Baked Out For This
We break apart to find Levi's head poking through the corn wall like a demented scarecrow.
"That's not an entrance," Rowan points out.
"It is now!" Levi crashes through, dragging Luca, who looks resigned to his brother's chaos. They're both covered in hay and what appears to be caramel.
"Do I want to know?" I ask.
"Probably not," Luca says, pulling hay from his hair. "There was an incident with a caramel apple stand."
"And a small child."
"And a goat."
"Why was there a goat?"
"Petting zoo got loose."
"Of course it did."
We make our way out of the maze together, Levi insisting he knows a shortcut that definitely makes us more lost, Luca documenting everything with his phone, Rowan keeping his arm around me like he's afraid I'll disappear into the corn.
When we finally emerge—twenty minutes and three arguments later—the sun is setting, painting everything gold and orange. The festival has that magical evening glow, lights coming on, families heading home, couples getting closer as the temperature drops.
"Family photo!" Reverie appears from nowhere because she has a sixth sense for photo opportunities. "In front of the maze entrance! The arch is perfectly lit!"
"We're not—" I start to protest, but Rowan's already positioning me in the center, the twins flanking us, and maybe we're not family in the traditional sense but?—
"Everyone say 'pack'!" Reverie calls.
"Pack!" we chorus, and the flash captures us laughing, covered in hay and caramel and whipped cream, looking absolutely ridiculous and absolutely perfect.
"That one's going on the Christmas card," Levi declares.
"We're not doing Christmas cards."
"We're definitely doing Christmas cards."
"I design them," Luca says. "You'll be festive. Resistance is futile."
"I'll bake cookies to go with them," I threaten.
"That's not a threat, that's a promise of deliciousness."
Damn. Need better threats.
As we walk back to the parking area, Rowan's hand in mine, Levi and Luca bickering about optimal Christmas card fonts, Reverie editing photos on her phone while walking —a skill that defies physics— I realize something.
This is it. This is belonging.
Not the big moments—the declarations, the grand gestures, the marking that will come eventually. But this. Corn maze adventures and whipped cream wars and arguments about Christmas cards in October.
"You okay?" Rowan asks, noticing my silence.
"Perfect," I say, meaning it. "Absolutely perfect."
"Even covered in hay and caramel?"
"Especially covered in hay and caramel."
