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“Ooooh,” I cry out, sliding right past James’s backside.

And in that moment he whips around, and I feel his arms reach out and circle my waist. His grip is strong and slows me, but I slip still, one foot flying right out from under me, followed by the next. I tilt sideways like a cartoon figure in an animation slipping on a banana peel. James holds fast, but then he, too, in this twisted backward position, loses his grip on the earth and starts to fall.

In his subconscious he must not have wanted to smash me like a pancake, and running on instinct he rolls briskly over me. I, however, am still connected to him in this merry-go-round, and so I roll over as well and then, at last, stop. On top of him.

Both of us throw out our arms to stop ourselves from rolling a third time on the slippery grass, identical movements made in identical moments, and then, sturdily stopped, we are so close that our noses touch. I pull back a few inches. And in startled surprise, I gasp. Then . . . smile.

There’s a smile in his eyes as he looks back at me too. And something in his expression reads, This is exactly what I wanted all along. Right here.

Really?

Possibly?

“Sorry,” I say breathlessly.

The smile lines at his eyes deepen.

“For stealing my flag or knocking me down?”

“Proud of the flag part. Apologetic for the knockdown.”

“On the bright side, there’s no rock this time.”

I wince. I’ll admit, in hating him, I’d forgotten a little bit about the tailbone.

It comes to my attention that people are still watching us. And that I’m still taking the breath out of his lungs. Even though he—and maybe I?—doesn’t seem to mind. And in the blink of an eye, I feel the warm peck of his lips on my cheek, and my heart pounds in reply.

Nanny, with her terrifying goose yapping, breaks the moment.

I tuck the hope away in a deep pocket of my heart and awkwardly push myself to standing. When I do, I raise the flag in my hand.

People cheer.

And I’m just about recovering myself as I walk back to my huddle when I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder one more time. He winks, as though he’d been hoping I’d turn. “All right, Hollis,” he says playfully (which isn’t too clever, considering several Hollis heads swivel his way). “That was good once. Let’s see if you can do it again.”

I feel a shoot of adrenaline in the challenge.

The thrill of the game continues for the next hour, until younger children start to complain about not being able to feel their toes and the house starts to smell to the outside of sweet potato casserole and roasting chicken.

I am exhausted. Definitely soaked with sweat, my long-sleeved T-shirt underneath my coat sticking to me. I’m also happy.

No.

Exhilarated.

Life feels, maybe . . . good.

“Ready to go in, or . . . ?”

James has his hands in his front pockets, and he looks at me like I’m conducting the show here and he’s just going to follow my lead. But he, too, appears happy—really happy—to go wherever I want to go.

Do whatever I want to do.

Which, given the circumstances, is more confusing than anything. A new seed of doubt rises in my stomach, a fear in the question of Wait—so that’s what this is? Just an experiment? but I quench it.

I want to quench it.

For the moment, even if it’s a daydream, I want to live in this daydream.