Page 13 of Love at Full Tilt

Phoenix’s Landing, Fableland

Orlando, FL

Issy Morales @IssyWillCookAnything

Help me plan my trip! What are the best desserts you’ve had at Fableland?

“Okay. I’m sorry. You have to explain why you have a book at an amusement park.”

I approach Mason as I leave the carousel. He’s leaning against the fence, one elbow slotted between the bars to keep him upright, his other hand balancing his book.

The Hammer of God by ArthurC. Clarke. It’s dog-eared, the layers of the paperback cover peeling to expose its white insides. A few of the book’s yellowed pages have lost their corners.

“Are you usually bored with this many people to watch?” I throw my arms out for emphasis. He’s so close that I almost smack him in the chest. I have to fight not to tuck my hands behind my back. “You brought one to the party yesterday, too.”

He offers me the book with a shrug. “I always have one.” His voice is so soft I can hardly hear him over the carousel music. “I do a lot of waiting. Reading passes the time.”

The cover is warm, as if it’s absorbed his heat, and for a second, I consider how this object sitting on my palm was just in his hands. We’re practically holding hands, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon–style. The thought sends my insides somersaulting.

To distract myself, I flip through a few pages. Pausing on one, I scan the first paragraph, but my pulse’s hum in my ears makes it impossible to concentrate. “Waiting for what?”

“Rides. To work or whatever.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“I’m saving for other things.”

“It sucks, doesn’t it? Not to be able to get around on your own?

” The idea of me driving triggered Mom’s anxiety so much that Dad had to put plans of getting me a car on hold until further notice.

One of the many ways I am trapped (literally) in that house.

“I’m constantly depending on Tess or Issy to get places, and my parents always have to drive me to work.

It’s like, how are you supposed to feel independent? Or like an adult or whatever?”

I snap my mouth shut to cut off my rant. I don’t want to keep dwelling on these things that already suck me dry.

I wave Mason’s book at him. “So what’s this about?”

“An asteroid on a course to hit Earth.”

“So a lighthearted comedy, then.”

His laugh is so real it hurts.

“Is it good?”

His eyes abandon my face to take in the growing line for the carousel. “So far. I like Clarke’s stuff. There’s a lot of actual science to his stories.”

“Do you only read science fiction?”

“Yeah.”

“But isn’t that another kind of fantasy?”

“It’s not the same. It’s speculative. Things that could happen. Not things that never will.”

“So science instead of magic.”

Mason nods.

His book is still clutched in my hand as we wander back toward Squirt’s Wicked Whirl, and I can’t seem to stop skimming its pages, as if they might tell me more than a story.

Spill some secret about Mason and why he’s here, with me, right now.

Why this tight, nervous knot in my stomach won’t ease, no matter how much I want it to.

Mason’s sweet. He’s great. But he’s not why I’m here. I need to win this money and embrace every bit of wonder the parks have to offer. I can’t do that if he’s constantly trying to convince me it’s all fake.

I hand over the book, trying to let go of him and whatever his presence promises along with it. We can work together for the next few days to get ahead, but that’s it. We’re an alliance of convenience, nothing more.

Instead of putting the book in his pocket, he fiddles with the cover, his fingers pausing for a long time over a spot on the spine mine had clutched moments ago. “What about you?” he asks. “Do you read?”

Four separate snarky retorts pop into my head, but he’s staring at me with so much earnestness—like the question really matters—that I can’t sass him.

“Like it’s my job. I don’t really have a favorite genre like you, but I guess I tend to gravitate toward mysteries.

I like trying to guess what happens. Solve the puzzle before the characters do. ”

“Maybe that’s why you’re so good at this scavenger hunt. It’s kind of like a mystery.”

“Maybe?” I smile. I’d never thought of it that way.

He gives me one of his ghost smiles in return, and my fingers itch to touch his lips.

Just ahead, the brightness and noise from a nearby bakery catch my attention.

Through its open door, I can see treats of every variety: chocolate, gummies, bars of rice crisps and marshmallow, cookies, cupcakes, and pastries.

Old-fashioned striped candy sticks in flavors like root beer and licorice and cinnamon fill jars in the corners of the shop, and everywhere you look there’s saltwater taffy, caramel apples, chocolate bars as big as my head.

You could build the witch’s house from “Hansel and Gretel” out of this place’s stock.

The smell of sugar and butter sticks in the air and fills my nose.

Mason waves me in and beelines to the counter, pointing to a dessert on display that’s styled like Dudley the Raccoon’s face.

I recognize the dessert from the approximately forty videos Issy sent me in the weeks leading up to our trip.

Apparently, it’s some criminally delicious combination of cookie, caramel, peanut butter, and chocolate ganache, dusted with powdered sugar to create Dudley’s masklike eyes.

She’d have a fit if she knew I was within feet of one without her.

As Mason heads back toward me, dessert in hand, I snap a picture of the shop’s sign with my phone so I can make sure Issy finds her way here. Mason has already broken the raccoon’s face in half and offers me one end, the caramel and chocolate insides oozing over his fingers.

“We’re going to have lunch in like five minutes,” I point out as I accept it.

“Appetizer,” he says around a bite.

“Appetizers are savory.”

He shrugs. “I’m a rebel.”

The powdered sugar dusting his nose and one of his cheeks suggests otherwise.

I cradle my half of the dessert in both hands, my insides feeling like they’re performing loop-the-loops. Nothing about him is what I expected after our first meeting yesterday.

I’m almost relieved when I hear Tess’s loud voice behind me. “Dude, you need a napkin. You’ve got sugar all over your face.”

Mason’s eyes pop wide, and he starts rubbing his knuckles across his nose, his cheeks flushed. He somehow manages to miss every bit of sugar. I reach up to help, but Carter beats me to it, slapping a napkin to his friend’s chin.

As soon as I see Issy, I hand her my Dudley cake. I love dessert as much as the next person, but trying this means something to her in a way it doesn’t to me. She should get the first taste.

Issy screeches and pulls out her phone. “Can you film me?” she asks Tess.

As soon as the camera is on her, Issy breaks into an enormous smile.

“Hello, fellow foodies! This week, my content’s going to be a little different.

Instead of cooking, I will be tasting everything here at the amazing Fableland Resort!

” She angles the dessert at the lens. “It only makes sense that I start with the legendary Dudley the Raccoon cookie bar!”

She divides the dessert into three pieces so Tess and I can try it, too, then has Tess use the flipped camera so we can all be in the shot for our first bite.

The three of us simultaneously break out into obscene groans as we chew.

There are few things as perfect as chocolate, peanut butter, and caramel together.

Carter’s eyebrows creep toward his hairline. “Are you going to do this every time we eat tomorrow too?”

I shoot him a glance. “Tomorrow?”

“I have the day off and Tess here needs a lesson in properly navigating the parks.” Carter smirks at Tess, who rolls her eyes hard enough to cause some damage.

“I already have Hero’s Quest fully mapped out, but I’m happy to prove you wrong,” she says.

Carter arches an eyebrow at her. “But what if the clues are at a different park?”

Tess’s eyes flash with frustration.

“You know we have to be flexible,” I remind her. “The riddles could lead us anywhere in Fableland.” My voice is as gentle as I can make it. “We won’t have the first clue for tomorrow until midnight, so we can’t plan where to go until then.”

This scheduling thing with Tess isn’t really new.

She’s been our friendship cruise director our whole lives, planning out sleepovers, mapping our trips to the mall, organizing food orders, and even inventorying our dolls’ wardrobes for maximum style options.

But these past few months, her love of spreadsheets and schedules has become less hobby and more lifestyle.

She broke down when our limo for the prom canceled last minute and we missed our restaurant reservations, and she ghosted Issy and me for a whole weekend over winter break when we ruined her minute-by-minute plans for a girls’ night by suggesting we go see a movie instead.

I wish she’d tell us what’s wrong rather than trying to fix everything by holding the whole world in a vise grip. But every time I’ve asked, she’s sworn she’s fine.

She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek, her index finger tapping out numbers on her palm like a calculator. All signs that Tess is ready to blow.

But then she sighs. “You’re really cramping my style, Baker.”

She heads off toward Finnigan’s Dog Shack before I can catch her expression to see if she’s joking.