Chapter 5

Sophia came to me fast.
When I got in her car, I noticed a new pillow in the passenger seat.
Moving it aside, I saw an open box of condoms.
I hesitated, then sat in the back.
Sophia was glued to her phone, not noticing my movement at all.
She said casually, "Why the amusement park? You've done with wedding prep?"
"Pretty much."
"I remember you always wanted to ride the Ferris wheel. When I have time after the wedding, I'll take you. Promise."

After the wedding. Always after. After the deal closes. After the quarter ends. After Daniel leaves.

There was never a "now" with Sophia.

"Actually," I said, "I just wanted to see it one last time."

"Last time?" She glanced in the rearview mirror, finally looking at me. "You're being dramatic."

The amusement park was exactly as I remembered. Bright lights, cotton candy stands, the distant screams from the roller coaster. We used to come here as kids — Sophia would hold my hand through the haunted house because she knew I was scared but too proud to admit it.

Today, she walked three steps ahead, texting.

"Sophia."

"Hmm?"

"Put the phone away. Just for an hour."

She looked at me, surprised. Then, slowly, she slid the phone into her pocket.

"Okay. One hour."

We rode the Ferris wheel. At the top, the entire city spread beneath us like a circuit board of light.

"Remember when we were twelve?" I said. "You told me that when we grew up, you'd buy me a Ferris wheel so I could ride it whenever I wanted."

She laughed softly. "I was a kid. Kids say stupid things."

"Yeah. They do."

The cabin swayed gently. Below us, a couple was kissing by the cotton candy stand. Sophia watched them with an expression I couldn't read.

"Alex."

"Yeah?"

"Are you happy?"

The question hit me like a truck. Not because it was unexpected, but because it was the first real question she'd asked me in months.

"Are you?" I answered.

She didn't respond. The Ferris wheel began its descent.

When we got off, she checked her phone immediately. Seven missed calls from Daniel.

"I need to go," she said. "Daniel's car broke down."

"It's fine."

"I'll make it up to you."

"You don't have to."

She was already walking away, phone pressed to her ear, her voice shifting to that warm, soft register reserved for him.

I stood in front of the Ferris wheel, watching the cabins go around and around.

Then I pulled out my calendar page — "Ride the Ferris wheel together" — and unfolded it.

I'd crossed it off days ago. But I'd come anyway.

Not for the wish. For the memory.

One last memory, before I let it all go.

I folded the paper into a small plane and let it fly from my fingers. It caught the night breeze and disappeared into the crowd.

Four days left.