“Wait, someone actually did that?” I goggle at him, remembering how he used this as a “hypothetical” example of celebrity during our first meal together. “That was a real thing that happened? But why?”
“Why do people do anything?” he says with an easy shrug. “The next day, some gossip site ran a full spread analyzing all paparazzi photos of me from the last couple weeks, trying to determine if I was filling the emptiness I must feel inside with junk food, and how much weight I might have gained because of that—because what is Hank Chen without his abs, hmm? My parents reminded me that I always have to be mindful about what I’m doing in public. Otherwise, everything I have could go away—just like that.”
“And you support them,” I murmur. “Send them money. So that would mean, like, everything. For your family.”
He shrugs again, but it’s less easy. “Not eating an Egg McMuffin in public seems like a small price to pay, considering everything that I have.”
“But it’s another thing that doesn’t let you be the whole you,” I say. “You have to flatten yourself out again, because everyone in your life expects a certain kind of perfect.”
He nods, squeezing my hand. “Everyone except you,” he says, trying to make his voice light.
I squeeze back and study him as we shuffle forward in line. I got it so wrong. I thought he was so comfortable with himself, so at home in his body. I flash back to him dancing through the park, making faces at those kids. I’d assumed he didn’t care what anyone thought of him. I flash back again, to another moment—him looking around nervously before our Grand Central Market meal, making sure no one was photographing him. Taking the smallest, most delicate bite of a taco possible when all he wanted to do was dive in with gusto.
The truth is, he cares maybe too much. Because he has to.
“So that moment when the roller coaster drops off—that moment when everything comes out,” I say. “That feels freeing to you?”
“Yeah,” he says, shooting me a grin. “It’s the only time I’m not hyperaware of what I look like, how I must seem. Maybe one of the only times I can let go and just feel.”
“What are the other times?” I can’t help but ask.
He meets my gaze and looks at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then his mouth quirks into the softest of half smiles and he leans in close, his lips brushing my hair again.
“The alley,” he murmurs. “By Jitlada.”
“Oh” is all I can say. And despite the warm summer air, a shiver runs through me.
We make it to the front of the line, and the ticket taker ushers us into our little car and instructs us to pull down the big foam bar that’s supposed to keep us secure. Personally, I’ve always thought these things are way too flimsy. How does a simple piece of foam protect you from flying into the Pacific Ocean if this creaky-ass roller coaster makes a wrong move?
I breathe deeply and try to slow my rapidly beating heart. I’m all buckled in now, there’s no turning back. And I want to do this. I do.
I grab on to the big foam bar and curl my fingers tightly around it.
“You okay?” Henry asks, his gaze falling to my white knuckles. He’s tucked his incognito baseball cap into his back pocket, totally set for the coaster.
“Fine!” I say, trying to make my voice sound all easy-breezy. It comes out more like a pathetic yelp.
“You want to hold my hand?” he says, a trace of a smile in his voice.
“Um, no,” I snap at him. “I said I’m fine. Just getting ready for this super-thrilling roller coaster. I don’t need you to baby me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says—and that smile in his voice just keeps getting bigger.
Irritation flares in my chest, my nure-onna hissing at him. It’s enough to calm my nerves, and my hands relax a little on the foam bar. Then the roller coaster takes off, shooting us into the first loop, and they tighten right back up again.
“Yesssss!” Henry yells, waving his arms in the air.
I keep my hands latched to the bar, not willing to risk being tossed into the Pacific for even a second.
We speed through a couple of loops, a mild drop or two. Henry shouts and cheers through all of it. I sneak a sidelong look at him and can’t help but feel a little flutter at how goofy he looks, his eyes lit up with pure delight. He is truly himself right now, and there’s something beautiful about that. This is the Henry I know, the one who would cram an entire Egg McMuffin into his mouth without a second thought. If he didn’t have to worry about the cameras, that is, and everything that shattering his perfect image might lead to.
As we start the slow climb to the top of the coaster, the biggest drop, I hunker down over the bar, my eyes trained forward, my mouth set in a grim line. I must look ridiculous, like I am absolutely set on not having any fun at all. But at least I’m here.
Our little car creaks its way to the height of the drop, then grinds to a stop. I grip the bar harder, my palms slippery with sweat. I swear I can feel every rusty gear in this contraption, rattling through my bones.
I want to close my eyes, but I make myself look down and my stomach heaves. Okay, we are really high up. All the people at the carnival look like tiny ants, bustling through their tunnels on the ground below. The expanse of the ocean stretches out in front of us, endless blue. We’re so unprotected. We’re about to be flung into the sea. My sweaty hands slide against the bar, suddenly feeling desperately insecure.
And then I
