carnival turn out this year is at least
twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the
games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents.
Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their
charges and mingling with the other foster parents.
Chris and I are the “success stories” of the
night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last
year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake
answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than
I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of
child-fostering.
How’s that for screwed up?
I’m milling about, smiling like a politician,
awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text.
It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it
across the screen to read the message.
Are you ready for the next step?
My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m
not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next
step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.
Inevitable.
As the word goes through my mind, so does a
little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and
fiction.
Stop trying to convince yourself you should
be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only
I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you
can’t avoid.
I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability.
And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book.
It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope
that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like
me. Like us.
I answer.
I’m not sure.
There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure
he’ll reply. But then he does.
I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.
Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting
myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can
withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…
I hope you’re right.
Another pause.
Where are you?
A carnival. Where are you?
On my way to a carnival.
He doesn’t ask for directions. After seeing
him schmooze at the fundraiser, I have no doubts he’s
well-connected and well-informed. If he doesn’t already know about
the carnival, it probably won’t take him long to find out.
To find me .
The problem is: How am I supposed to
concentrate in the meantime? And what if he shows up before I have to give my speech?
I think back to the appearance Tuesday, when
I first saw Alec. I was completely distracted after I saw him in
the crowd. And that was before I actually knew him, before I knew
just how Mason-like he really is. I would never have imagined that
the similarities would go beyond the physical, the superficial. But
they do. They go deep. Very deep, it seems.
Knowing it will likely (hopefully) be a while
before he arrives, I walk to the ball toss tent to watch a trio of
young boys try and throw their fastest pitch for a prize. It’s
obvious the three are brothers. Curly blond hair, bright blue eyes
and freckles galore, they are practically identical but for their
stair-stepped height. I’d guess they’re each probably two years
apart, starting at maybe ten and going through fourteen or
fifteen.
To my right is an older couple, proudly
looking on. They are, no doubt, the foster parents. And good ones,
I’d wager. To take all three boys, probably so as not to separate
them, and then care for them, which they so obviously do—it’s what
makes the carnival shine. Not the lights or the rides or the
sparklers, but the foster parents who up-end their lives to help a
child. Or three. A surge of the gratitude that’s never far from my
heart rises to the surface.
I’m thankful when I see my foster mother
heading my way, coming to round me up.
“It’s almost time,” she says when she finds
me.
I’m relieved. I’m glad they’re doing it a
little
twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the
games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents.
Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their
charges and mingling with the other foster parents.
Chris and I are the “success stories” of the
night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last
year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake
answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than
I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of
child-fostering.
How’s that for screwed up?
I’m milling about, smiling like a politician,
awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text.
It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it
across the screen to read the message.
Are you ready for the next step?
My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m
not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next
step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.
Inevitable.
As the word goes through my mind, so does a
little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and
fiction.
Stop trying to convince yourself you should
be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only
I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you
can’t avoid.
I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability.
And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book.
It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope
that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like
me. Like us.
I answer.
I’m not sure.
There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure
he’ll reply. But then he does.
I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.
Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting
myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can
withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…
I hope you’re right.
Another pause.
Where are you?
A carnival. Where are you?
On my way to a carnival.
He doesn’t ask for directions. After seeing
him schmooze at the fundraiser, I have no doubts he’s
well-connected and well-informed. If he doesn’t already know about
the carnival, it probably won’t take him long to find out.
To find me .
The problem is: How am I supposed to
concentrate in the meantime? And what if he shows up before I have to give my speech?
I think back to the appearance Tuesday, when
I first saw Alec. I was completely distracted after I saw him in
the crowd. And that was before I actually knew him, before I knew
just how Mason-like he really is. I would never have imagined that
the similarities would go beyond the physical, the superficial. But
they do. They go deep. Very deep, it seems.
Knowing it will likely (hopefully) be a while
before he arrives, I walk to the ball toss tent to watch a trio of
young boys try and throw their fastest pitch for a prize. It’s
obvious the three are brothers. Curly blond hair, bright blue eyes
and freckles galore, they are practically identical but for their
stair-stepped height. I’d guess they’re each probably two years
apart, starting at maybe ten and going through fourteen or
fifteen.
To my right is an older couple, proudly
looking on. They are, no doubt, the foster parents. And good ones,
I’d wager. To take all three boys, probably so as not to separate
them, and then care for them, which they so obviously do—it’s what
makes the carnival shine. Not the lights or the rides or the
sparklers, but the foster parents who up-end their lives to help a
child. Or three. A surge of the gratitude that’s never far from my
heart rises to the surface.
I’m thankful when I see my foster mother
heading my way, coming to round me up.
“It’s almost time,” she says when she finds
me.
I’m relieved. I’m glad they’re doing it a
little
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