The Playground Fair

“Are you scared?”

“No. I have this terrified look on my face because I’m having so. Much. Fun.”

That was the conversation I had a few minutes ago with a 6"1 man-child. This is the conversation I am having with said man-child right now:

“Aaww, come on Mindy, don’t be like that. It wasn’t that bad.”

“Shut the fuck up, Brandon.”

I ignore him and walk through the stalls, blocking out his pleas for forgiveness and focusing on the exciting sights and smells the carnival brings every year.

Bright lights twinkle against the starry sky, creating the most amazing background for a picture or two with that special someone. The scents of hot, buttery popcorn, sizzling sausages, and sugary sweet cotton candy mix together to form an exotic, enticing aroma, eliciting a rumble from stomach. I’m starved.

A brown paper bag is suddenly thrust into my arms. When I peer in, my favourite snacks greet me. Gummy bears, buttered popcorn, and corn dogs. A whole lotta corn dogs.

“Don’t think you’re forgiven.” I look up into the traitors’ warm brown eyes. Dammit, he’s so beautiful that it hurts sometimes.

Brandon smiles. “I know I’m not. Eat up, Mindy, we’ve got one more ride left. I saved the best for last.”

He puts a hand on my lower back, guiding me to our destination, and I shrug him off. He chuckles and pulls me close.

Why am I angry at him, you might ask?

I’m angry at him because he’s my best friend. And best friends should know when enough is enough.

Brandon knows about my irrational fear of heights- heck, all of Devil Falls knows- but it didn’t stop him from blindfolding me and putting me on the Goddamned Ferris Wheel. This isn’t Love, Simon, my dude We’re not going to have a perfect kiss atop a perfect Ferris wheel with perfect lighting and perfect music and perfect everything. It’s never gonna happen.

It’s never happening because I’m in love with Brandon, and I’m 100% sure he doesn’t feel the same way. But it’s okay. I’ve hidden my feelings for the last two years, and I’m willing to do so for the rest of my life, if that’s what it takes.

I hope you didn’t buy the crap I just sold you. Me? Sit still and let him move on with his life as I pine from afar? I’m Mindy freakin’ Simmons. If I burn, he burns with me.

Brandon tugs on a strand of my infamous obsidian curls. “We’re here.”

We’re standing in front of a dark ride; a ghost train, to be exact.

My favourite.

It is without a doubt the best attraction the fair has to offer, well at least in my opinion. Half of the girls in this town would kill to be on the Ferris Wheel with a boy.

A boy like Brandon, to be precise.

Brandon Fisher stands at a height of about 6"1. He has curly chocolate coloured hair which refuses to be tamed, and warm,chocolate-y eyes (he’s a ball of chocolate. He even smells like chocolate.) which twinkle whenever he smiles at you.

Or it could be just me. I’ve been told I have that effect on people.

He’s the Captain of our town’s absolutely shitty football team, and he’s completely shitty at too. Only got the position because there was no one better.

His left sleeve is covered in tattoos, in angels and stopwatches and phoenixes and treasure chests. Whatever took his fancy, really.

When he got his first tattoo, his mother cried and chased him out of the house with a frying pan. Had to bunk in our attic for a week.

I know my description of Brandon gives you the idea that he’s a typical small town jock. The guy who ends up being the male romantic lead in a Wattpad story that centers on a whiny, 17-year-old Caucasian who’s ‘not like other girls’.

You know, the type with the adorably rusted truck he pieced together himself, with a boy band haircut and outfits based on flannel and a dog chain his grandfather left him when he died.

Well, he wears flannel, but that’s not really the point. And I gave him the dog chain, so it doesn’t count either.

Sure, chicks wanna screw him and dudes wanna be him (and vice versa), but he’s not a shallow, egotistical, small town casa nova whose talent only goes as far as the size of his muscles.

He’s got heart. He’s sensitive, and he cares about others way more than he should. He loves helping people. God, it’s all he ever does. If he sees something which could do with an upgrade, or just something he thinks he can do to make your life easier in some way; he gets to work immediately. So fuckin’ selfless.

I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I guess I’m just trying to prove that we are not - that he is not a stereotype. We are so much more.

“Earth to Mindy. Where are you, babe?”

“Up your ass.”

“Hey, that’s the job of your dildo, not you in particular...”

Fucking weirdo.

“Are you zoning out because you’re scared? Don’t worry, Mindy, you can hold on to me.”

“Brandon, no. I’m not touching you.”

“Why not? You know you want to.”

“I swear to God, if you don’t leave me alone...”

“You’ll what, Mindy? You’ll do what?”

I’m trying to pay attention to the ride, and this delectable brat is making it harder than it has to be.

“Fisher...”

“Simmons...”

I huff and look away.

“Mindy...”

I ignore him and look to the side. He’s a stubborn motherfucker, unfortunately, so it’s not gonna be easy avoiding him.

“Mindy. Mindy. Mindy. Miranda.”

I abso-fucking-lutely hate my name, and he knows it. See why he’s the worst best friend to ever exist?

I whip my head to the side, hoping to decimate his puny existence with a verbal onslaught, but for the first time in my life I’m left speechless.

I’m speechless because it’s kinda hard to talk when the love of your life’s grasping your chin with one hand and kissing you like its something he’s been wanting to do for a long, long, time.