Page 38 of Winging It with You

I should note that beyond the one I threw at Theo, I haven’t participated any further.

Looking around at the squishy pandemonium around me, the genuine joy is overwhelming.

I can’t identify any rhyme or reason to who showed up today to take part in this time-honored tradition, but people of all ages and from every walk of life are laughing hysterically as they do their best to combat being hit by an air strike of tomatoes.

Smack. And as hard as I’m trying to not look at my ruined clothing and shoes, seeing the collective happiness around me is delightful. Smack. Smack, smack, smack.

I want that.

To be happy simply because I believe I’m allowed to be.

To be…free.

Jogging to the nearest cluster of bins, I scoop up a handful of literal bottom-of-the-barrel tomatoes, really squishing them to ensure no one will get hurt by my fleeting desire to participate, and scan the crowd for the poor soul who will end up being on the receiving end of my so-called fury.

The chaos makes narrowing in on a single individual hard to do thanks to the constant barrage of bodies and relentless smattering of exploding fruit, but when I turn back toward the center of the town square, I lock eyes with a young girl.

She can’t be more than ten, eleven years old, with her long dark hair in a set of high pigtails.

Her determined face tells me she’s ready to bring the hellfire.

Absolutely not.

I may not like kids, but there is no way in hell that I’m going to playfully attack a tiny one with an armful of tomatoes.

She raises her hand, palm facing upward…and gives me the universal signal to bring it. And somehow, it seems oddly fitting, or soul-crushingly humiliating depending on how you look at it, that she is my one and only challenger.

Do I really want to do this? I’d like the record to note that I was born and raised a feminist and firmly believe that all women are the strongest, most brilliant inhabitants of this earth, so my reluctance only comes from the fact that the tenacious warrior before me quite literally comes up to my kneecap.

She must sense my hesitation, because one second, she’s standing there looking menacing in an aw, how adorable kind of way, and the next, she’s charging at me at full force, fearlessly unleashing tomato strike after tomato strike. Smack…Smack. Smack. Smack.

“Ugghhh!” I yell, dropping my own acidic ammunition so I can properly shield my face.

I turn my back to her in an attempt to protect my most, um, sensitive areas, because that just so happens to be where all her throws are repeatedly landing.

“I surrender!” I yell. Smack. Smack…Smack.

Smack. I have no idea how such an incredibly tiny human is capable of throwing objects as fast as she is, but I’m praying that someone is getting this on film so that every pitcher in the history of both baseball and softball can take some notes.

“I said I surren—” I start to shout over my shoulder, but then I slip on the slick pavers while turning around to take a step toward her and go theatrically crashing to the ground. Oh, fuck me.

Here lies Asher Bennett.

Physically overpowered by a pint-size fruit assassin, covered head to toe in chunks of tomato, and resisting every urge to curl into the fetal position.

Thriving, am I right?

And just when I thought I couldn’t feel any smaller, my petite southpaw bends over my laid-out body and extends the tiniest of hands in my direction, a temporary white flag in the name of good sportsmanship.

She struggles to pull me to my feet, but once I am right side up again, she grins and skips off in the opposite direction, clearly pleased with herself for taking down a grown-ass man.

It’s useless to attempt to brush myself off considering the sky is literally raining tomatoes.

Smack. It’s in my hair, in my shoes, and I can’t be sure how, but I’m positive I just felt a piece of tomato skin slide down into my briefs.

I use the hem of my stained shirt to wipe my goggles, hoping I’ll have an easier time seeing where Ellie and Theo have been hiding this whole time.

I step up on a nearby bench—s mack…smack…

smack —to get a better vantage point as the crowd swells.

That’s when I see them.

Like me, they are each dripping in remnants of this morning’s festivities, but instead of being grumpy about it, they’re the physical embodiments of pure joy.

Ellie and Theo are standing back-to-back, working in tandem as they shower the crowd with the tomatoes they’ve seemingly been hoarding, their heads thrown back in uncontrollable laughter.

Watching Theo is mesmerizing.

He’s erupted with more unbridled happiness than I ever thought one human was meant to.

My lips part at the way his soaked white shirt clings to his powerful build, and though I can’t quite hear it, I’ve been around him long enough for me to imagine the infectious laughter barreling through his whole body between throws.

Right now, I’m no longer in control of my body. Every molecule in me is gravitating toward Theo. Without even meaning to, I realize I’ve stepped down from my spot on the bench and, as if in slow motion, am closing the gap between us.

I know we’re approaching a turning point in what’s been slowly building between Theo and me.

And the truth is, I’ve never felt more confident about what I’m feeling.

I’ve never felt more confident about him .

As I weave my way through the hordes of people, all I can think about is intertwining my fingers in that thick hair and crashing my lips into his.

My pace—which is honestly more of a run at this point—picks up with each focused step. I can’t get to him fast enough.

Ellie sees me first. She must have some inkling of what’s about to happen, because she immediately lowers both hands and drops the tomatoes she was holding. Theo, curious about her sudden ceasefire, turns quickly, the beginnings of a megawatt smile etched upon his face.

“There you are,” he says, running a hand through his hair, now clumped together with bits of tomato. Every other sound around us quietly fades away, allowing the sweetness of his voice to wash over me.

Here you are.

This feels like one of those made-for-television moments, which…

is ironic because, well, you know. Like the state championship basketball game when Lucas Scott tells Peyton Sawyer It’s you , except instead of confetti floating gracefully around us, Theo and I are surrounded by, covered in, and choking on tomato guts.

I throw myself at him, which I know takes him by surprise because he staggers backward ever so slightly. But he quickly recovers, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me close to him.

And before either of us can say anything that might somehow rip us from the magic of this moment, I crash my lips to his.

Without a single camera in sight and because it’s entirely what I want.

What I need.

And whatever has been holding me—both of us—back from breaking that last remaining rule is snipped away with each brush of our lips.

Finally.