“No. It’s called trying to reason with you.”
Tou-fucking-ché.
I steal a sideways glance at him. He’s watching me with what I could describe as an amused smile. Really, the whole thing is ridiculous. I bump his shoulder while I fight a smile from escaping, but it’s no use. I smile anyway.
“Wise-ass.”
“You better believe it, darling.”
“Sorry. I can be such a baby when I don’t get my way, but I wanted to do something nice for you for a change. You’ve done so much for me. And the one day …” I sigh. “I should’ve known that the rides are closed during the off-season.”
“But you didn’t, so what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but spontaneity and I don’t usually go together.”
“I can think of two scenarios. Would you like to know what they are?”
I nod, staring at him.
“We could get back in the car. I could drop you off wherever you want and I’ll go back to the office. The day will go on as if this little adventure hadn’t happened at all.”
“What’s the second one?” I ask, not liking the first option at all.
“The second one is,” he extends his hand, pointing in the direction of the park, “the unknown—with me.”
I take one last glimpse at the outlines of the aging rides embedded on the autumn sky of Coney Island before focusing on Lawrence once more. Oh, what the hell. Why not? I reach for his hand and begin to walk in the direction of the park. “You make the unknown sound very inviting, Mr. Rothschild.”
He tightens his grasp. “Likewise, Miss White.”
We stop at Nathan’s on the boardwalk for an early lunch. While I wait for Lawrence to bring back our order, I find it extremely hard to focus on anything other than him. He sticks out like a sore thumb wearing his thousand-dollar suit in a sea of casually dressed locals and tourists. I giggle when I notice the dazed expression of the cashier who’s serving Lawrence. It’s the Lawrence Effect—complete immobility and the loss of all coherent thought and speech. Code word for making an ass of yourself.
Still smiling, I shake my head and look away when the famous Ferris wheel sticking out behind the building comes into focus. A memory long forgotten becomes so clear I can almost taste the funnel cake I ate on that occasion. It’s one of the few happy memories I have of my parents and my childhood. Maybe even the last. I’m not exactly sure how old I was, but I remember that a traveling carnival stopped at our town. It was during one of my father’s dry spells. He had been sober for a while and hadn’t missed any of his AA meetings. Mom seemed to be home more often, too. They were kind to each other. For once, laughter and the music of The Beatles and The Eagles filled our home instead of yelling and the usual fighting words.
In my innocence, I thought that we were finally going to be a family, that they would finally love me as I loved them. In retrospect, it seems like we all knew that it was a borrowed moment, a temporary delight—a daydream that would eventually come to an end. I think that’s when I learned that good things never last. So, in silent agreement, we laughed harder, we held each other closer, and we pretended to be the perfect family for a little longer. However, we never spoke of the future. We just enjoyed the present as it came.
But the most perfect moment of the night came when my dad took me on the Ferris wheel.
We were up high, my small town a collection of faraway twinkling lights, when my dad put his arm around me and pulled me close to him. He placed a kiss on my head, and said, his voice shaky, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”