“You could be riding the Ferris wheel,” I shout. Kit laughs, and then flips on his side to face me. All of a sudden we’re separated by a pathetic three inches. I can’t really go anywhere since the Gravitron is in the middle of its most fierce spin. It’s hard to move, and suddenly, it’s hard to breathe too. I’m glad it’s dark, and that Kit doesn’t have access to my expression. He has a different kind of access, and I finding myself daydreaming about a kiss. It’s sick, and I’ve never done that before. But I’ve also never been this physically close to Kit Isley. I close my eyes to fend him off. And then. And then I feel his hand on my face. Longing can come to a person at the most inopportune times. Like when you’re on a fair ride and gravity is holding you down, and your dream husband puts his warm hand on your cheek, even though it’s really hard work to do that. I won’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see what’s happening in his. I’ll fucking die if he looks at me like I look at him. I keep them shut and feel a tear squeeze its way from the corner of my eye. It struggles down my cheek and rolls onto Kit’s hand. And then the ride is over. The spinning slows, and we are given back control of our arms, and legs, and head, and hands. Which is why I’m surprised when Kit’s hand doesn’t immediately leave my face. We’re thrown to our feet as the music ends, bodies still closer than they should be. The doors haven’t opened yet, so we stand like that for a minute—my forehead on his chest, his hands around my upper arms. It’s a suspended moment, both inappropriate and innocent at the same time. I cling to him, smell him, wish he was mine. And then the doors slide open, and I’m running.

I take a selfie. Call it, The Muggle Searches for Magic, and then I pack a small overnight bag and drive the five hours to my parents’ house. My mother hasn’t been speaking to me. She wanted me to forgive Neil, which was fine. There was room in my heart for forgiveness; there wasn’t room in my life for someone who constantly needed it. She wanted to plan a wedding, and I’d foiled her plans of tulle, and pearls, and cake tasting. My father is working in the yard when I pull up. He tips back his Yankees cap and comes to say hello to me.

“Didn’t know you were coming, Hellion. Your mother is going to be so happy to see you.”

“I didn’t know either. And don’t lie to me, Daddy. She’s still pissed.” He smiles like he’s caught.

“She’s at the market, so hide your car around back and get her really good.”

I nod. Nothing better than scaring your overbearing, controlling mother. My dad liked torturing her too; he’d been putting ideas in my head since I was a little girl. Move all of the paintings in the house to different rooms. Rub butter on her reading glasses. Wrap cello wrap around the toilet seat.

My poor mother (who really deserved it). At least she only had the pranks of one child to worry about. My dad comes inside to make me a prime rib sandwich left over from their dinner the night before.

“You coming here to tell us something, Hellion?”

“Yup.” I sip spiked lemonade from the Mason jar he hands me. God bless him.

“Good or bad?” he asks. My dad can’t keep still. He’s never been good at it. I watch him move from the sink, to the fridge, to the back door.

“Why can’t you just ask me a question directly?” I ask him. “What are you here to tell us?” I imitate his deep voice. He shakes his head.

“I don’t sound like that. But, fine,” he says. “What are you here to tell us?”

“I’m moving.”

“To where?”

“It’s really none of your business, Dad.”

He comes to sit down across from me. “Is this about Neil?”

I’m shaking my head before he’s finished his sentence. “No, it’s about me. I’ve always been that girl who you can count on—steadfast, predictable, mousy brown hair. That’s why Neil liked me—well, he wanted me to dye my hair blonde—but the other parts. And you know what? I don’t even think that was me. I think it’s what everyone expected from me, so I just went along with it.”

“So, you’re telling me that on the inside you’re a wild, unpredictable blonde?”

“Maybe. I’d like the chance to find out.”

“Why can’t you find out here?”

I put my pale hand over his brown, calloused one. “Because I’m not brave enough to change with everyone watching me. I want to do it alone. I want it to be real.”

He sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. I think he learned that look from watching too many Robert De Niro movies. My dad is a handsome guy, his hair is all white, but he spikes it up. He has a tattoo of a flamingo on his forearm. A dare from his college days. I always wanted to be like him, but my personality veered more toward my mother’s.

“Your mother is overbearing and controlling,” he says. “Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s the reason I fell in love with her. All five feet of her, not afraid of anything, and always telling me what to do. It’s pretty hot.”

“Eww, Dad.”

“Sorry. Anyway, it’s nature. Overbearing mothers usually give way to one of two things in their children: rebellion or passivity. In your case, the latter.” He dips his finger into the honey jar that sits in the middle of the table and rubs it across my forehead.

“Go child,” he says. “Be at peace. Let no one overbear you.”