Page 124 of Fall Fake-Out

No, actually, I secretly like the way Wade is looking back at me.

Wade

WEDNESDAY passes in a blur of pumpkins, baked goods, and small-town chaos.

The FFA students win the pumpkin weigh-in by a narrow margin, breaking Farmer Joe’s heart in the process. Mrs. Baker somehow manages to create a town scandal when she awards first place in the pumpkin bake-off to a pumpkin cheesecake instead of the reigning champion pumpkin roll.

I think Linda Tolman will never recover from the loss.

Meanwhile, Ari and I spend the entire day bouncing from one festival activity to the next. Together.

Everywhere I go, she’s there, and the best part of the week isn’t every festival activity. It’s Ari.

Which feels like information I should probably do something with. The problem is, I have absolutely no idea what.

Thursday night arrives, cold and clear.

The giant inflatable movie screen stretches across one end of the football field while families spread blankets across the grass. Kids settle in with popcorn and cider.

Ari and I stand inside the press box overlooking the field.

I hit play on the movie—my one big job—and the opening credits of Hotel Transylvania roll, releasing me from my responsibilities for the next two hours.

Ari leans against the railing. “That might be the easiest festival assignment all week. I’m signing up for this job next year.”

My brows lift. “Next year? Does that mean you’re making Autumn Ridge your home? Permanently?” My heart pounds as I wait. Her answer means too much to me.

She shrugs. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to go.”

“Or maybe I’ve convinced you how great this place is.”

“Maybe a little.”

I smile, feeling like that’s a huge win for me.

Her staying in Autumn Ridge is crucial to us having any sort of chance together—something that I can’t ignore.

“I have a surprise for you.”

Her eyebrows lift. “A surprise?”

“Come on.” I lead her up the narrow ladder that climbs above the press box roof. The wind immediately catches her hair when she emerges.

Two folding camp chairs sit waiting. A pile of blankets. A thermos of hot cider. The entire football field spread out below us. Hotel Transylvania continues playing while kids run around with glow sticks and parents settle beneath blankets.

“It’s the best seat in the house,” she says as she plops down into a chair.

For a few minutes, neither of us says much, which turns into a problem because now I’m aware of everything.

How close our chairs are.

How easy it would be to put my arm around her.

How normal that should be, considering we’re supposedly dating.

And how impossible it actually feels.

I used to be good at this. At least, I thought I was. Now I’m overthinking basic human behavior.