The worst thing in her life is dealing with a long-distance relationship with a boyfriend who adores her. Mr. and Mrs. Teller love her, praise her, and support her. They’ve been happily married since they graduated college and have a fund for Sage’s tuition set up—whatever she decides to do with her life. Her mom gets tipsy on wine once a week at her book club. Her dad still drags her to father-daughter dances. She lives in a stable home. A safe one. My best friend gets to not know the bad because she doesn’t have to survive it.

I want it all to stay simple for her for as long as possible before the world inevitably turns on her.

Miles wins her a big pink skeleton stuffy at a ring toss booth. She beams, names it Pigeon, and then he plays again to win me one too. I get a wink as he hands it off.

We’ve circled back on the midway, reaching the carnival’s entrance when Foster texts back about the video I sent him of the mirrors.

Why do you hurt me like this?

I bite down on my smile, staring at the words like they’re the actual man. At this point, the fever of him burns hot enough that I quit trying to cool it. The delirium feels too incredible.

Feeling the stare, I rotate to face Sage a few feet away, likely trying to read my mind. Miles went for his car in the parking lot, offering to pick us up to save a heels-and-gravel situation. The man gets shit.

Sage tips her chin up and flits her gaze everywhere but at me, clearly uninterested in what’s on my phone.

I sigh.

“His name is Foster,” I tell her, and her grin spreads.

“And he is…” She raises her eyebrows, waiting for me to finish the sentence.

I shrug. “He’s Foster, the wandering boy.”

That earns me a squint, but I don’t know what Foster is. I just know I want him to be.

“So, just some guy you’re lamely talking to? Ugh. I thought maybe he was the car ho, but I do applaud you for keeping them lined up.”

Before I can remind her there was no car sex, we hear a deep, “Remington Sinner” behind us.

I spin, catching the black police uniform first. The spike of anxiety only lasts a second because above it waits possibly my favorite smile in existence.

“Are you a stripper cop tonight?” Sage asks Roman as he stops in front of us. “Because there is an ATM…”

His expression changes to the one he always gives her—like he wishes she’d find a filter. “I am a normal cop, like always, and no, I don’t want to know what you’re dressed as, Sage Teller.”

“Slutty fairies,” I supply, punctuating with a bratty smile.

Roman runs a hand over his face. “Christ.”