Page 16

16 | On the Ball SASHA

It’s late afternoon. It’s unseasonably warm. And I am in a good mood, walking toward the school with my two costumed kids.

Bart is dressed as a volcano with a red hat as lava. The child loves an eruption.

Nettie is channeling Angelina Jolie as Maleficent. I can’t help but see the ghost of teenage future in the dark eyeliner, red lipstick, black hair. The moment we arrive inside the schoolyard gates and get wristbands and tickets, which serve as free passes to games and treats, she finds her friends and takes off with Bart in tow. He brings up the rear like a champ, the cutest natural disaster.

Last year, on the night of the school’s outdoor Monster’s Ball festival (a precursor to Halloween, when, in theory, the kids dress up as book characters or something related to what they’re studying), the weather was cutting. We were shivering before we even set foot inside, the wind pummeling us and sending witches’ hats flying. Not long after that, it began to rain.

That was a special kind of torture. But today it is sunny. And I am prepared. I’m wearing my favorite jeans and vintage Toxic Avenger T-shirt (so on theme). I’ve packed layers and a flask full of bourbon to share with Celeste when the sun goes down.

I owe her a drink. Or twenty.

By Friday morning, Derek had sent me an email officially offering me the job in Turks and Caicos and two options for flights. He cc’d the rest of the team too, but, after I wrote back saying I’d be thrilled to come on board, Stephanie emailed me on a separate thread.

“We’re gonna get so lit, woman!”

She is starting to scare me. I can’t tell if I want to avoid her or be her when I grow up. In all seriousness, I feel sure I’ll disappoint her. I’m kind of a lightweight, and I really want to ace this assignment. I’m way too square for her squiggles.

With such a tight turnaround, I set out right away to secure childcare, imagining I could cobble together ample coverage between my family and babysitters.

Not so much.

Finding babysitting is like anything else: sometimes it happens with ease. Other times, it’s like apartment hunting in New York City without a broker—depressing, futile and almost reduces you to giving up and moving to New Jersey.

My parents are traveling to an education conference over the same dates. And my mother, true to her new spacey persona, called me back once to say she was mistaken—they actually could babysit!—and then again to crush my dreams and say she’d actually been right the first time. Maybe it was okay. As horrible as it felt to admit to myself, I wasn’t totally sure I could rely on her.

None of our regular babysitters were free either, even for an exorbitant fee. I sat at my kitchen table staring at the linen runner, both hands on my head, racking my brain for a solution.

Out of ideas, I did the unthinkable. I called him .

“Sash?”

“Hi, Cliff.”

“Wow. Great to hear your actual voice!”

“Oh. Is it?” I said. “Okay. I’m glad.”

“Well, usually, you text or email. Like most people. Which is less invasive, it’s true. But you miss a kind of real connection that way. You know what I mean?”

Original-thought alert.

“Yes, of course.” I do know what he means—and so does every other cogent adult in the modern age.

“I was actually just talking to Ryan about this exact thing,” Cliff was saying.

“Ryan?”

“Oh, sorry. My friend Ryan Reynolds. Do you know who he is? We’re in development on a movie together.”

“Yes. I know who he is.”

“You’d like him. He’s actually so cool. So down-to-earth. Really kind.”

“Yes. Well. He’s Canadian.”

“Right, right. Hang on one second.”

I was treated to some rustling and then the clinking of utensils. “Hey, can I get a matcha latte with oat milk and a wellness booster?” I heard a distant woman’s voice, muted like the adults in Muppet Babies .

“What are the options?” Cliff said.

Murmur, murmur.

“Um. I think I’ll try the vanilla adaptogen powder with chaga mushroom dust? Thanks, love!”

I rolled my eyes in solidarity at our cat, Larry, who never liked Cliff. His expression was resigned. What did I tell you?

“Sorry,” said Cliff. “I’m at a Café Authentique. Meeting an exec from Sony to talk about this pilot I’m shooting next month. And then I’ve got to meet Ryan to plan our trip to the Himalayas. That’s where he likes to brainstorm his next projects. So, unfortunately, I don’t have long to talk.”

The only person more annoyed than me by this conversation had to be the person sitting next to Cliff in real life, trying to drink their mushroom latte in peace.

“I’ll be quick, then,” I said, so very accommodating. I am revving up for the big ask, swallowing a supersize serving of pride. “I just got an important opportunity, maybe the one I’ve been waiting for, and I’m having a ton of trouble finding childcare. Is there any way you’d be able to fly in to New York next week for a few days to hang with the kids? Spend some time together? You’d be saving us, and I know they’d love to see you.”

He lets out a slow stream of air. A whistle through his teeth. “Oh, wow. Sash. I’m so happy for you. That’s amazing! You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Cliff.”

“Really. You’re an incredible talent. And it’s wasted on those corporate videos.”

“I appreciate you saying so. Does that mean you might be able to help?”

I hold my breath.

“Oh, no. Definitely not,” he says. “I’m booking months in advance these days.”

Like I was trying to schedule a facial with a celebrity aesthetician. He is all booked. And I am all fucked.

“You know how it is,” he added.

“Do I?”

There was a time when I would have called Cliff on his shit. On how selfish he was being. On the fact that it wouldn’t kill him to miss a couple of days of wellness smoothies to be with his children. On the fact that he had kids only to leave them—and me—to fend for ourselves. But somewhere along the way I realized that my ex-husband was acting like a douchebag because he is a douchebag. And no amount of protesting or courtroom shenanigans would change that.

Sometimes it still breaks my heart. For Nettie and Bart, who have yet to fully surrender to this truth.

“Send the kids my love though,” he said. “Tell them I can’t wait to see them over spring break!”

“In five months?”

“My accountant is sending the child support checks on time, right? You have enough diaper money?”

This just makes me exhausted. I drag a hand down my face. “Cliff, Bart hasn’t worn diapers in two years.”

“Right. I knew that. Just, you know, diapers, so to speak.”

How had I ever wanted to have sex with someone who said “so to speak”?

“Anyway, I better run. The unsolicited phone call has thrown me off my game. It really is an intrusion. I need to get centered before this exec arrives.”

“Centered. Right.”

“But, hey, Sash. You’ve got this! You’re incredible, baby. Love and light.”

How had I ever wanted to have sex with someone who said “love and light”?

With no other recourse, I hung up the call, rested my “incredible” cheek on the kitchen table and stayed in that position until Larry jumped up and sniffed my face for signs of life.

When I ran into Celeste at pick-up in her amazing rust-colored romper, I had no intention of asking her for help. But, as we made our way beyond the throngs of parents and kids and stopped on the corner to chat as our kids played some invented game called “hot dog tag,” I was already complaining about my situation.

“And so I have no idea what to do. I basically either have to give up the job or leave the kids with a stranger. Which I don’t love and they definitely won’t love.”

“Your ex-husband is kind of the worst.”

“Kind of?”

Celeste shrugged. “Just leave them with us.”

I stared at her. “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“But what about…?”

“What?”

“How annoying it will be to have two extra kids around?”

“Henry will be thrilled.” She shrugged. “And it’s only four days. During which they have school. Cumulatively, it’s not even very many waking hours.”

“Celeste.” I gazed up at her glowing face. I was tempted to ask her what serum she’s been using, but this didn’t seem like the time. “I can’t thank you enough. Are you sure? You can still back out. I won’t hold it against you.”

“Positive,” she said, smiling. “I will not be a party to you missing out on this opportunity. Also, your ex-husband really blows.”

“It’s true. He does. Speaking of which, do you need to discuss with your husband? Before you sign up for this?”

“Jamie?”

“That’s the guy. Big. Burly. Loves to make his own ice cream. Inexplicably sometimes in gross flavors like banana.”

She exhaled. “Nah.”

I thought I read something complicated in her expression, but I couldn’t say what.

“He seemed a little out of sorts when I saw him last,” I tried. “Is something up with him?”

“A bit. Maybe a change of pace will help.” She gazed into the middle distance for a beat, then seemed to return to her body. “Anyway, I’m happy to help, if and only if, you address some essential questions.”

“Of course!”

“First, any more combative arguments with Demon Dad?”

I laughed, taken aback. Why did I feel caught? Like she could see inside my head, where he’d been making uninvited appearances lately?

“I thought you meant questions about my kids.”

Celeste shook her head. “Them? Nah. That’s not interesting. Plus, I already know all about them.”

More parents had begun to arrive for pick-up, lining the curb in staggered formation. They glanced down at their phones, up at the exits, around for other parents they knew. Younger siblings munched snacks in strollers or practiced balancing along the fenced edges of tree pits surrounding microgardens. The truth is, lately, maybe I had found myself looking a little more closely than usual at the crowds for signs of Ethan. I don’t know why. Probably just basic curiosity. I had caught sight of him a couple of times after drop-off since our park run-in (no pun intended, but no apologies either). We only nodded politely.

I noticed that he never did pick-up, but that wasn’t surprising. (More annoying was that I took the time to notice.) Since preschool days, it had become clear to me that—in heterosexual two-parent families—most often the men did drop-off before it could disrupt their workdays and made pick-up the purview of their wives, the primary caregivers. It was the women who stopped work early to make snacks and play games. Why should Ethan be any different? Cliff never even did drop-off.

Why was I even wasting time thinking about this dude?

“I’ve seen him around little,” I said. “But he hasn’t stolen any outerwear from me lately. How come?”

“Just looking for some intrigue.” She surveyed the crowd, scrunching her nose. “Everyone here is so well-behaved.”

“Ah. Sadly, intrigue-free.” That was technically true. “What’s question number two?”

Celeste looked right, then left, then stepped in closer to me, lowering her voice. “See the woman selling the school paraphernalia over there? The blond one with the coppery lowlights and the peacoat?”

I scratched my head, pretending to glance unseeing over my shoulder. So nonchalant. An expert spy maneuver. Then I realized who she was referencing and grimaced. “Oh, you mean Kaitlin?”

“Ah! That’s her name! She looks different. Like, less together maybe? How do we know her again?”

“I know her a little from growing up. From my whole high school scene. Not well.”

I chanced another glance over at Kaitlin, whose own gaze skittered away. I guess maybe she did look a little less together. She usually had a kind of preppy, tightly wound vibe. Today, she looked like maybe she hadn’t brushed her hair. No judgment.

The truth is, I kind of avoided her. There was something about the way she looked at me, talked to me, that made me uneasy. She was definitely a VIM. Maybe she thought I was slacking on the mom front? Maybe she just didn’t like me?

Once, early on at some festival, she had introduced me to her circle of school moms as “a close friend from middle school” and “that untouchable high school girl.” I thought about that periodically afterward. We’d hung out the summer before eighth grade, but we hadn’t remained close, at least not in my memory. It was more like that friendship that sustains you—at any new place—before you find your actual people. Like an unspoken understanding. Also, the idea that I seemed so inviolable as a teenager was hard to fathom, since, like all teenagers, I’d felt exposed. I guess I did a good performance of Teflon. Of course, later—after Cliff—I found better ways to protect myself. By being literally untouchable.

“Right!” said Celeste. “I could not remember!”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, she was like, ‘Oh, Henry this and Henry that’ and I was like, ‘Who are you again?’ I’m the worst!” Celeste clapped a hand over her eyes.

“She must have liked that.”

She grimaced with genuine remorse. “Hopefully, I played it off.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not.” She sighed.

“But, honestly, there’s no reason why you should know her. I barely do.”

I glanced back at Kaitlin then and caught her looking at me. I smiled, reflexively, and the corner of her mouth ticked upward too. But, as her gaze lingered, her smile faltered. And her eyes seemed to tell a different story.

Now, all is right with the world. I get to go on my trip. I can pay for drama classes and, oh, you know, rent. My kids have a safe place to stay while I’m gone. And, on Monday, I can begin planning the Citrine Cay shoot in earnest with the Escapade team.

For this evening, all I have to do is hang with Celeste at Monster’s Ball, help some cute (and some not so cute) kids use the photo booth and sneak swigs from my flask. Heaven!

Only, that’s not in the cards. Because there’s been a mix-up. Of course, there has.

When I approach Celeste, who is already working our station, she is wearing a cable-knit sweater, sailor jeans I wish were mine and a look of resignation.

“There was a mix-up with the sign-up sheet,” she says to me, eyes filled with unspoken expletives and boring into my own. “Apparently, your name did not appear with mine in the photo booth slot. So, Lisa, here, signed up as my partner.”

Lisa! Mom Who Never Stops Talking’s name is confirmed. That’s one tiny silver lining.

“We’re going to have the best time!” She grins.

Celeste bites her lip.

“Oh, okay,” I say. I am bummed, but not that bummed. Now, I don’t have an assignment. I can just hang around, chat with the two parents I know, visit Celeste. “I guess I’m out of work!”

“Not quite,” says Celeste, eyes wide.

And I can feel the universe readying to wallop me from a mile away.

“Oh, there you are!” I turn around to find the school administrator, the one who is always at the drop-off entrance, waiting behind me. “Are you ready to start?”

“Ready to start… what?”

She raises her eyebrows.

And now the pity in Celeste’s eyes is starting to concretize. It wasn’t for herself. It was for me. I have been given the most dreaded job in the entire Monster’s Ball festival:

I am the cotton candy lady.

There is no longer line. No more relentless demands. No messier station. No booth more likely to attract sticky kids to “help” (a.k.a. make everything worse). And it’s all mine. The position is for two, but is so reviled that, of course, no one signed up.

Last year, the poor dad who got suckered into running the booth got so frustrated with some fourth grade “helpers” that he banished them, making them weep, and had to contend with a mob of angry parents. Rumor had it that, in the end, he too was reduced to tears. He was never quite the same.

There will be no relaxing tonight. No carefree swigs of booze or amusing chats. No stealing Twizzlers and mini Three Musketeers from the kids. There will be no rest for the weary. There will be only spun sugar.

And, forty-five minutes in, it’s more in my hair than in anyone’s mouth. Strands of pastel pink and blue crisscross my face and body like I’m headed for mummification. I am frenzied; I am sticky; I am no closer to mastering the art of wrapping a fluffy cloud of cavities-in-waiting around a stupid white paper tube.

My cotton candy creations are more abstract than cylindrical. Lopsided and lumpy in a way, I’ve decided, more closely reflects our true humanity. Sure, it might fall off the stick and onto the ground, causing multiple children to wail in torment. But a little adversity is healthy. Perfection is only a construct. I am taking a stand.

Celeste and a couple of other parent acquaintances have come to visit me. But I have no time for solidarity or chitchat. No time to help Bart put ketchup on his hot dog (an act I don’t condone anyway since mustard is clearly superior). A line of restless, hungry beasts extends past the basketball hoops and behind the fortune teller’s tent. They will not be satiated.

This year, the fourth graders are not offering help so much as heckling me from the sidelines.

“You call that cotton candy?!” they yell, laughing as it congeals on my hands like superglue.

“That one’s upside down!”

“It looks like my grandma’s wig!”

I stick my tongue out at them like a deranged maniac.

The people in line are starting to complain too. “This is taking forever,” whines one of six mermaids to a first-grade ladybug.

“Patience!” I snap. Like a Disney villain.

I am starting to descend into madness in part because I keep eating the cotton candy I mess up. Which is all of them. I am on a sugar-high bender that can only end poorly.

That’s when he comes to the head of the line. Of course. Demon Dad. With a front-row seat to my failure. Dressed in a Yankees cap and his regular immaculate casual wear: perfect gray hoodie, perfect black T-shirt, well-worn Levi’s, work boots. Here to pour Maldon salt in my wounds.

I write off my accelerated heart rate to sucrose overload.

“Hi,” I say. I hope with hostility.

“Hi?” he says. He cocks his head sideways, examining me in my state.

I refuse to let him rattle me. I swirl the cardboard stick in the machine, then hand him a wispy uneven bulb of pink cloudy poison.

“Two tickets, please.”

He examines my masterpiece. “This is terrible,” he says.

“I am aware,” I seethe from beneath a bat-ear headband that has somehow landed on my head.

“It looks like a tumor.”

“You look like a tumor.”

He opens his eyes wide at that.

“Okay. No, but seriously. This is supposed to make the kids happy. Not terrify them.” He studies the cotton candy like it might bite him.

“Well, I don’t see your kid anyway. So, hopefully you can be a big boy about this. You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

“It’s not for me!” he protests. “I said I’d grab one and bring it back for her. Now, I’m not sure I should.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic.”

“I think you’re going to traumatize countless small children.”

“Hey!” shouts a fifth-grade Captain Underpants. “What’s the hold up?”

“Hey, kid. Get some manners!” I yell back.

“Okay, okay,” Ethan says, a hand up as if to stop me. “Try to remain calm. I’ll be right back.”

“Yeah, sure. That’s what they all say!” I call after him.

He looks at me quizzically, but even I don’t know what I mean.

He leaves me feeling even more tweaky.

I am doing my best to serve the next people in line when Ethan returns and, without warning, takes a spot beside me behind the table.

(A) He is close to me. (B) Why is he close to me? (C) Why is he close to me in my current state, as a feral cotton candy beast? (D) Why do I care?

Extra credit question: Why am I suddenly warm?

Startled and suspicious, I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you doing over here?”

“I’m helping you.”

“Helping me… or taking over?”

“Are you really in a position to make that distinction?”

He has a point, though you couldn’t torture me into admitting it. I smooth my hair, pulling tacky fluff through it.

“I don’t need help.”

A runaway strand of cotton candy stretches like a tightrope across my face. I watch him raise his hand, as if to help, then reconsider and drop it back down. I try to blow the sugar out of the way, but suck it into my mouth and choke instead. The resulting coughing fit does not feel hygienic. The crowd eyes me like I’ve got typhoid.

“Yeah,” Demon Dad says. “It seems like you’ve really got it under control.” He leans in close to my ear, whispering so the people in line can’t overhear. “Just let me help.”

I am preoccupied by his proximity, can feel his breath on my neck. It ignites a kind of pulsing beneath my skin. Does he smell like sugar, or have I inhaled cotton candy up my nose?

When he stands up straight again, leaving my orbit, I’m alarmed by an impulse to drag him back.

What is happening to me?

I shake it off. I will not be distracted from my suspicion! “Why are you helping?”

“Maybe because I’m a nice person?”

“That’s definitely not it.” He rolls his eyes, and I cross my arms over my chest. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I actually can’t watch this.”

He gestures between me and the angry crowd. Before I can protest more, he edges me to the side.

“You’re on order, paper cone and ticket duty.”

I look at him dumbly. Does not compute.

“Ask them which color they want. Take their tickets. Hand me a cone and I’ll scoop the powder into the machine and make it. Assembly-line style.”

I acquiesce, grumbling all the way. So bossy .

Sure enough, after a few minutes, I am able to exhale. The pace is still fast, demand remains high, but it’s more manageable at least. And, of course, Ethan is annoyingly capable. His creations are the platonic ideal of cotton candy—fluffy, joyful, effortless, smooth. Jerk .

There is no time to argue—or chat. After maybe an hour, he announces that it’s time to take a break.

“A break?” I eye the still epic line. “We can’t.”

“Ah, but we can .”

He grabs a piece of cardboard and a Sharpie out of a craft box under the folding table and scrawls: “BACK IN FIVE!” Then he props it up in front of the machine.

There are groans from the peanut gallery, particularly one dad dressed as a superhero who grunts, “What the hell?” But Ethan holds up his hand. “Hey. Take it easy, Iron Man. There are labor laws in this country. It’s called a bathroom break.”

The crowd grumbles but has no choice but to accept this setback. Before we officially start unionizing, Ethan and I step back from the table. And it’s like freedom! He gestures toward some empty folding chairs in the yard’s back corner. I grab my bag, and we stroll over.

I’m so elated to have escaped that I don’t even care that it’s with him. Alone.

“Holy shit,” I curse loudly, as I collapse into a seat. Definitely within range of small children and their innocent ears. But I don’t care. Cotton candy duty has made me hard. “It’s never felt so good to sit down, ever.”

“It’s a slog.” He nods, leaning back in his chair. “Especially if you’re inept at making cotton candy.”

I glare at him and his stupid cute face. His eyes glint. He has a single dimple that pops when he smirks.

But that’s clearly the cotton candy fugue talking again.

“Why did you volunteer for the suicide mission, anyway?” he asks. “Just for the glory?”

“I didn’t!” I protest. “I was supposed to be… part of this.” Only now do I take a moment to glance around. I’ve been so laser-focused that I haven’t even noticed my surroundings. Darkness has descended. All around us, children with glow sticks squeal and run around in packs, roaming constellations. Taylor Swift plays on the loudspeakers. In one corner, the fifth-grade girls dance as a unit, jumping up and down. Parents—normal ones, with normal shifts at normal Monster’s Ball jobs—bunch in groups, chatting, commiserating, laughing, sipping steaming drinks. It’s kind of magical.

“Wow,” I say. “So this is how the other half lives.”

Ethan laughs, like a hiccup. It’s dorky and unexpected. In a good way. Is Demon Dad part human?

“Sorry I kept you from your kid,” I say.

“Oh. She was with her friends. I was only a humiliating appendage.” He sighs. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. But, wait! I have a better idea!” I dig around in my tote and unearth my flask. “Aha!”

He raises an eyebrow, nods, impressed. “Good move.”

I am a bad influence, and I like it.

I take a swig and then, despite my wariness, risk cooties and offer him the hooch. He takes it gratefully.

“What are you supposed to be? A bat?” he says, eyeing my headband. He drags his gaze all the way down my body, then catches himself and snaps back to attention. Surprising . In our interactions, he has thus far been almost chaste.

“I don’t know,” I manage, still recovering from feeling his gaze on me like radiant heat. “I don’t even know whose ears these are.”

“That’s a pretty half-assed costume.”

I roll my eyes. So many opinions. “It’s actually not a costume at all. Anyway, look who’s talking. What are you dressed up as? A basic Brooklyn dad?”

“Sheesh. Basic . Harsh.”

I shrug. I call ’em like I see ’em.

He shakes his head like I’m naive, then rotates to the side. I can’t help but notice the way the cords of muscles flex in his neck as he turns, his skin still holding a hint of a summer tan. That is until I spot a giant bloody gash in his neck and (unfortunately) gasp. Like a sucker. He chuckles.

“What the hell?! Why does that look so real? Are you a low-key makeup artist?”

“Let’s just say it’s not my first rodeo.”

“What are you though? A chain saw massacre victim? A soon-to-be headless horseman?”

He shakes his head. “I’m ‘cutthroat.’?”

I drop my head in my hands. “Noooooo. See that? You took something cool and made it a dad joke.”

He shrugs, his eyes twinkling. “I’m a dad.”

I study his profile—strong jaw, small scar across the bridge of his nose that only makes him better-looking, eyes that crinkle at the corners, full lips. “So, how come you’ve got the cotton candy skills to pay the bills?”

“Did you just say that?”

“I’m not responsible for anything that comes out of my mouth tonight,” I say. “I have been robbed of my humanity and filter.”

“Fair enough,” he says, stretching his arms above his head. I do not notice his arms flex.

“So? Dish. How come you’re a cotton candy maestro?”

“I guess I’m just gifted.”

I cant my head. Nope. “Bzzzzzz. Survey says that’s not a thing.”

He snickers, handing me the flask back. I take another swig. It burns so good in my throat. Now that I’m sitting still, I realize the temperature has dropped. I hand him back the drink and he takes it without a word, grab my fleece from my bag and throw it on, cozy. I realize, now warm in this moment, I am kind of happy.

Strange.

“Truth?” he says.

“Obviously.”

“I’ve manned this station before.”

“Manned. That’s got to be a canceled expression.”

“Well, to be fair. I am a man. And I did run the show.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“Last year?”

He nods.

“Wait, what?!” I sit forward in my seat. Point a finger in his face. “You’re that guy? You’re the cotton candy dad? You’re legendary! Both for your gifts and your epic meltdown!”

“Whatever.” He frowns. “Let’s not get carried away. It just took a second to find my groove.”

“I heard you almost got into a fist fight with a kindergarten dad when you ran out of blue sugar!”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he mutters. “But that guy was a dick.”

I start to laugh. Suddenly, it strikes me as so absurd. That parents could get so worked up over a janky school fair confection! That he and this other dad literally had to be held back from punching each other in the face!

Ethan starts snickering too. Soon, there are tears streaming down both our faces. We can’t stop. I don’t even know if it’s funny or if I’m just in a post-sugar-withdrawal free fall. I might require a formal detox. Whatever it is, it’s been ages since I laughed this hard and he’s right there with me.

Wiping tears mixed with cotton candy remnants from my face (what manner of hot mess must I look like right now?!), I sigh as our laughter finally begins to dissipate. “You asked why I signed up!” I manage. “Why’d you take the dreaded job last year?”

But even as I ask it, I know the answer.

“The ex-wife,” we say in unison. Then we start laughing again.

This guy is a pain in the ass, but he sure is easy to hang out with.

“She signed you up? For this torture? Without asking?”

“She sure did.”

“Is that why you got divorced?”

“It didn’t help.”

“Wow. She hates you.”

I take one more sip from the flask as he eyes me. Across the courtyard in the shadows is a woman I don’t know, working the apple cider stand. I think I notice her glancing at us—birdlike, severe black bob, chic camel trench. I wonder briefly if she’s Ethan’s ex. Then I realize I don’t want to know.

When I look back at him, he’s peering at me a little shyly like he wants to ask me something. And the intensity of his gaze makes me shift in my seat. I suddenly feel like maybe no one has really looked at me in years. At least not like this.

“So, you’re divorced too?” he says finally. “I mean, I know you are, if I’m honest.”

I flush. Everyone knows. Even people who don’t know me. Did he see the Golden Globes meme like everyone else? “Almost three years in the club,” I say.

“When you were married, would you have signed him up for something like this?” Ethan asks. “Did you hate him enough?”

I think for a moment, then I shake my head. How to articulate this? “He wasn’t that kind of husband,” I say finally. “And he’s not that kind of ex-husband either. I could have signed him up, but it doesn’t mean he would have come.”

He nods. “He’s not in Brooklyn, I take it.”

“He is not. Which, most of the time, I’m kind of grateful for.”

“I guess that explains why you got divorced. If you didn’t want him in the same state?”

“Well, he didn’t want to be around,” I say. Maybe the alcohol is going to my head, but, for once, I don’t bother censoring myself. “I feel like people always want a concrete reason why it didn’t work, you know? But it’s a lot of things. Offhand, I can think of, like, twenty. Not the least of which is the frequency with which he said, ‘It is what it is.’ There’s only so much a person can abide.”

“It’s always a lot of things,” Ethan agrees. “It is what it is.”

I kick him lightly in the shin. He reacts as if he’s been mortally wounded—then grins. And the way it lights up his face is impossible to ignore in the glow of the schoolyard festivities.

“But yeah,” I continue, if only to distract myself. “He traveled to LA a lot for work. And the business trips got closer and closer together until the scales tipped and he was there more than he was here.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Ethan tries.

“Does it?” I say. “I hope he’s not the best of us.”

There’s a pause while we digest this.

Ethan looks down at the rugged blacktop, with a furrowed brow, and then back up at me. “You asked why I wanted to help you before?”

I nod, unsure of where this is going. I realize I’m holding my breath.

“The truth is, someone needed to step in before you caused an international incident, obviously. But, to be honest, I also wanted to avoid talking to people. This is a small community. The divorce thing… it’s hard.”

Ah . I get this. “It is hard.”

I think back to some of the moms, and a couple of dads, who greeted Ethan at the cotton candy booth with extra exuberance. Was it hard for him because he felt like an outcast? Or because, now that they knew he was available, parents kept hitting on him?

Before I can ask, he continues and I snap back to attention, oddly flustered: “I think I mentioned, I didn’t used to come to school events like this much. I worked a lot. Things are different now. Maybe that’s why my ex wanted to torture me with the cotton candy gig.”

“Fair enough, then,” I say. “I get it. None of it is easy.”

Ethan catches my eyes with his own. Shoots me a small smile. It’s pretty disarming—bordering on a panty dropper. “Sorry your ex-husband’s not on top of things,” he says meaningfully. “Sorry he screwed you.”

I laugh, but I am also oddly touched. Because he is joking, but he also seems genuine.

Maybe to avoid eye contact that’s too full of stuff, I look up at the sky pockmarked by the occasional star. Or maybe they’re airplanes and planets. These are things I do not know.

Warily, I let my eyes settle back on Ethan. The way he’s studying me, like I’m the New York Times Spelling Bee, is making me shift in my seat. He leans forward, resting his impressive forearms on his thighs. Lets his head drop for a beat. He feels too close for comfort, close enough that I can smell his grassy cologne (not cotton candy!). But I can’t will myself to move. Then he drags his gaze up to meet mine, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. “I think we both know it’s time.”

I am caught off guard. For reasons I can’t fathom, panic courses through me, followed by a shock of heat between my thighs. “Time?! For what?”

He nods his head toward the cotton candy line. The crowd has multiplied like soggy gremlins in our absence.

As I realize what he means, I catch a wave of something complicated, on the continuum between relief and disappointment.

“Damn.” I’d lost track of why and how I landed here. “The hungry hordes.”

He rises. “Ready?” He stretches out his hand to pull me to standing. I am in no way about to take it. Instead, I shove the flask in his direction one last time.

“To fortify,” I say.

He looks surprised, but he accepts it. As I hand it over, his fingertips graze my knuckles. A shudder passes through me like it’s Jane Austen era and I’ve caught a chill. We freeze for a beat, looking at each other. I can’t look away.

What is happening?

His lips part, as if he’s about to speak.

“Hey, Mom!” Nettie’s voice breaks the spell. Or curse. Or whatever the hell this night of cotton candy, bourbon and Halloween magic has done to me. Either way, she offers an out. I whirl around to find my daughter waiting, her Maleficent makeup cheerfully smeared. “Are you going back to the cotton candy booth?”

“Yes. I think maybe for all eternity. Why?” I ask, coming back to myself.

“Bart and I want to know—can we get a cotton candy without waiting on line?”

I smile at Ethan and then at Nettie. “Oh, hell, yes, sweetie. You’re a VIP.”

What seems like days later but is probably only hours, the very last fairy-unicorn-witch-princess-Violet-Baudelaire procures a blue cotton candy and our job is done. We are awash in a sea of red tickets, the hottest show in town.

As Ethan and I ready to part ways at center schoolyard, he in one direction and I in the other, I swallow enough pride to say, “Hey. Thanks for helping me.”

“No problem.” He shoots me that charming half smile. “But I didn’t help. I took over.”

I dig into the supply box I’m carrying back toward the cafeteria, grab a paper cone and throw it at him. I miss by a mile.

“Good throw,” he says. He picks the tube up off the ground, returns it to the box I’m holding. Lets his hand linger there, on the box’s edge. It is a conduit between us that I can feel.

I blink up at him.

“Have a good night,” he says, finally.

But I already have.