Chapter 88

EMILIA

We eventually find the air hockey table—tucked between a photo booth and a flashing wall of pinball. After absolutely obliterating Liam (and celebrating like I’d just won an Olympic medal), I start to feel like myself again.

We move from game to game—racing sims, whack-a-mole, that ridiculous fruit-slicing thing—and in between, we pause. We watch other people play. We laugh at a toddler trying to wrestle a ticket out of the prize dispenser. And we talk.

Sometimes we don’t.

Liam gets recognized more than a few times. A group of girls near the claw machine freeze mid-squeal when they spot him. A couple of guys at the racing game do double takes. He simply smiles, takes the photos, signs napkins and receipts and phone cases like it’s nothing—which, for him, maybe it is.

But what gets me is that he never lets go of my hand.

Not once.

It doesn’t matter if someone tries to slide in beside him like I’m invisible. It doesn’t matter when I cat