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Nick and Jen both look at me expectantly, and I suddenly find myself actually considering it. “Fine,” I relent, lifting my pointer finger for emphasis. “But only on one condition.”
“And what’s that?” Blake asks.
I look back and forth between them, unable to contain my smirk. “One of you has to enter alongside me.”
Jen and Nick groan in unison, but Blake’s eyes light up. “You have yourself a deal, Mia. One of those two will have to volunteer.”
“Yo, what the hell?” Nick protests. “What about you? How aboutyouenter?”
Blake grins. “I’m technically working tonight. I have to write an article for the paper.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You’re a journalist or whatever.” Nick turns to Jen. “You look cute. Why don’t you enter?”
Jen’s face flushes, and she winces, as if burned. “No way. I’m way too embarrassed. You do it,” she says, elbowing Nick in the arm.
He heaves a theatrical sigh. “Alright. Fine. I’ll do it.”
Blake motions for us to follow. “Let’s go get you two registered.”
“I’ll go get some food and wait for you guys,” Jen states, waving at us before heading into the nearby tent.
Nick stares at her longingly, though he finally tears his gaze away when he notices us leave. It’s interesting how close the two of them have become recently. I wonder if something bad happened between Nick and Zoey. But it’s probably not my business. I’ll likely hear about it at work soon, so I don’t feel the need to pry.
We go over to the contest area where a woman sits behind a table. Blake approaches her, getting her attention as if they’re already acquainted. “Hey, Charlotte,” he says, gesturing to us. “These two are here for the contest.”
She looks up and smiles warmly. “Glad you decided to join us! Here are your forms,” she says, giving them to Blake, who hands one to each of us. “Fill them out and submit them when you’re ready. Good luck!”
Nick and I go to the table and use the provided pens to jot down our answers. Once we submit the forms, Nick heads towards the food tent to find Jen. I linger, observing Blake as he munches on a churro. I find myself fixated on the mask, which features a screaming, sheet-white face that appears to be in agony.Creepy.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, wiping his hand on the napkin he pulls out of his pocket.
Definitely not that your mask is unnerving. “Not much, really. I’m kinda hungry, though.”
He offers me a churro, but I wave my hand in refusal. “You look gorgeous, by the way,” he comments, stepping closer. “Gorgeously murderous, at that. I think the two of us make an impressive pair.” He unsheathes his rubber knife spattered in fake blood.
“Thanks,” I say shyly as I try not to make it obvious that I’ve taken an interest in that mask. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” He wears all-black, with a few silver accents that shine in the light of the full moon. Part of me wants to tell him that he looks good in black, that he should wear it more often. But I hesitate.
He smiles, sheathing the knife. “Come on,” he says, offering me his hand. “Let’s go find Nick and Jen and grab you some food.”
Taking his hand in mine, we make our way back to the food tent. We spot them outside, each with plates of nachos, sitting at one of the picnic tables. I share a knowing look with Blake before turning my attention back to the other two.
“I’m gonna go get some food,” I say, enjoying the feeling of Blake’s hand. “Do you have time to hang out?”
He appears briefly in thought, before replying, “I need to get back to work soon, but sure. I can carve out some time to hang.”
We part in different directions, with him heading to the picnic table while I enter the tent. The smell of hamburgers and fried foods hits me like a wave. I load up my plate with sweet potato fries, a handful of elephant ear pastries, and a glass of apple cider before making my way to the table with the others.
Settling into my seat beside Blake, I watch as he holds court, regaling us with stories about his job and funny anecdotes from interviews. Dipping my pastry in maple syrup and taking a bite, I listen as he enchants the table. I can’t help but marvel at how seamlessly Blake fits into my life, as if he has always been a part of it.
“Hey there, Killer,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts.
Standing by the table is a man with fake red facial hair, wearing a straw hat and a cardigan.
“What do you want, Van Gogh?” Blake asks, his banter lighthearted.
‘Van Gogh’ pretends to smoke an old fake pipe. “You’re wanted over at the hayride. Cleopatra’s all set up and ready to shoot.”
Blake gives us an apologetic look. “That’s my coworker. Looks like I’m going to have to disappear for a while.”
