I follow him through the flow of people until we settle down on a bench just beneath the yellow roller coaster that circles the Ferris wheel. As I eat the cotton candy, I watch the wheel spin around and around and around.
“Eden,” Tyler says, the quiet force of his voice drawing my eyes to his. His expression falters. “I wouldn’t mention this to anyone. It’s just easier if we, um…keep this whole thing a secret for now. God, please say you’re good at keeping secrets.”
“I am,” I confirm, but the reality of all of this makes me feel nauseous. I don’t want to sneak around, making excuses and lying. But I know it’s necessary right now. “And I know that you’re good at keeping secrets, because you clearly have a lot of them.”
His lips quirk upward into a crooked smile as he devours the remainder of his cotton candy. Standing, he tosses the stick into a nearby trash can and then points to the rides above us. “It’s time for these guys.”
It frustrates me how he never answers a question, but his silence speaks louder than words. He never replies because he knows I’m right, because he knows that I’m figuring him out despite however much he wishes I wouldn’t.
And so the two of us spend our Tuesday evening waiting in line for kids’ rides but enjoying every second of it. The West Coaster, the Pacific Wheel, the Pacific Plunge…I’ll remember them all, because I’ll remember this night. I’ll remember Tyler’s hysterical laughter when I thought my seat belt was broken on the Pacific Plunge and he leaned over to help me get it into place, with our hands awkwardly fumbling over each other; I’ll remember his sarcastic remarks on the West Coaster when others screamed their lungs out at the slightest turn; I’ll remember the way he said the ocean looked pretty cool from up there on the Pacific Wheel, but when I glanced at him, he wasn’t even looking at the ocean. He was looking at me.
It’s late by the time we leave the park, and the signs are glowing through the darkening sky and the stream of people is beginning to thin as we head back to the car. There are a couple people taking pictures next to the vehicle in the emptying parking lot when we get there, and they awkwardly scuttle off, knowing that they’ve been caught.
“It happens all the time,” Tyler tells me when we get inside. He pats the steering wheel, tracing his finger around the Audi logo. “I don’t know why. It’s LA. There’s, like, Lambos and shit on every corner in Beverly Hills.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying anything, but soon I can’t help myself. “How did you even get this car?”
He’s silent for a little while and runs his fingers over the steering wheel, like he’s trying to piece together the best way to answer me. “Because I got my trust fund early. And when you suddenly have all this money, you’re not really going to be rational about it, are you? I’m a teenager, of course I’m gonna go out and blow it all on a supercar.” He laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine or if it’s at himself for doing such a thing.
“Why’d you get it early?” I press, mostly because I’m curious. My eyes stare at his mouth, and I study the way his lips move when he speaks, the way his jaw shifts.
“Because apparently money can make you feel better,” he mutters sharply. He heaves a sigh and his hands freeze over the wheel. “It’s a big trust fund,” he admits. “I mean, my mom’s an attorney and my dad…” His voice tapers off for a second before he swallows and continues, his eyes drifting over to meet mine. I stare back inquisitively, yet I feel a little guilty for prying into his personal matters. It’s none of my business when and why he got his trust fund early. “My dad had his own company,” he tells me. “Structural engineering. All up and down the west coast.”
Oregon is on the west coast, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ve heard of it. “What was it called?”
“Grayson’s,” Tyler answers stiffly, his jaw tightening as something shifts in his eyes. He glances away for a moment. “Because we were the Graysons.”
At this, I rotate my body to face him, crossing my legs on the seat. I know I’m about to push him onto a sensitive topic, but I find it interesting learning about a person’s background, the foundation on which they are built. Especially Tyler. “Before the divorce?”
“Before the divorce,” he repeats, shrugging his shoulders. Slumping farther down into his seat, he throws a hand into his hair and lets it rest atop his head for a moment as he tugs on the ends. “I used to be Tyler Grayson. Mom didn’t want us to keep his name.”
I don’t know how to reply. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been so focused on his lips that the only thing I can think about is the way they felt when they were locked with mine. A lump rises in my throat, but I quickly force it down.