Aiden always paused when he said Neil. Harvard guessed that Aiden had to take a minute to remember Neil’s name. He appreciated Aiden making the effort. Harvard tried to visualize what Neil generally wore.
“Shirts?”
“You could stand to be a little more specific than that.”
Harvard tried to remember the color of Neil’s shirts. “Flannel shirts?”
Aiden made a face. “Maybe you shouldn’t encourage that behavior.”
He shouldn’t encourage Aiden when Aiden was being mean and hilarious, so he only raised an eyebrow and repressed a smile. Aiden grinned as though he could tell about the smile Harvard hadn’t permitted himself.
“You look great,” Aiden added.
“Oh. Thanks,” said Harvard.
He knew Aiden didn’t really mean it, but it felt good to hear anyway. He felt a little less nervous.
Aiden held out his hand, and Harvard grasped it gratefully, linking their fingers together. He’d thought he would get used to holding hands, but every time it felt new and a little scary. At the same time, he didn’t want to let go.
Dating had gone wrong for him, but maybe fake dating could go right. He could trust Aiden. He could believe this plan would work out.
Maybe it was because of Aiden’s fair outings that fair-going had always seemed to Harvard like mostly a date activity. He’d always stayed home and practiced in the salle instead or hung out with Coach and made plans for the team’s improvement.
The fair was held on the outskirts of the town, so on one side were the fieldstone walls encircling Kingstone, and on the other the encroaching woods. In the trees, lanterns hung from the boughs, and twinkly lights peeped from behind the golden leaves, creating luminous pools and sweet little gleams of light in the dark. Even the evening sky still had a broad sweep of gold painted over the dark line of the trees, and the fair made one of the brightest nights Harvard had ever seen.
They walked through a line of vendors. At a maple stall, Aiden and Harvard bought fudge. The woman there was obviously charmed by Aiden and gave them many free syrup samples until Harvard’s brain felt like it was buzzing mildly inside his skull. At another, they had cider and cider donuts, which didn’t help with the skull-buzzing. And at another, they bought freshly made lavender lemonade.
Harvard downed his wild-blueberry pie with a cup of lemonade and thought the fair was really fun so far. He’d been missing out.
They strolled around hand in hand, and it was strange how not strange that was, the easy physicality that had always been between them translating effortlessly. It wasn’t slightly awkward like with Neil. Harvard supposed that was because they knew each other so well and it wasn’t real, so there was no pressure.
To celebrate Kings Row’s latest victory, there was a butter sculpture of a man fencing. The butter sword was melting slightly, but Harvard still pointed it out with pride.
“You should come to our next match,” he urged Aiden.
“Don’t nag, honey,” Aiden teased, then said: “Fine, I will. Happy?”
“Yeah,” said Harvard. “Very.”
A guy working at the fair whistled at Aiden, but then shrugged and said, “Can’t blame a guy for trying!” when Harvard raised an eyebrow at him. Aiden truly didn’t seem bothered by it, only shaking back his hair, mouth curving.
One of the best things about this arrangement was that now Harvard got to stop guys from admiring Aiden and whisking him away. He was allowed to. For a little while.
They paused by the ring-toss.
“Hey,” said Harvard. “Didn’t you say you wanted to win a friend for Harvard Paw?”
Aiden hesitated. “I might have.”
“Let’s try it out,” Harvard suggested. “My aunt told me these games are set up so you think you should be throwing a couple inches to the right of where you should really throw. It’s an optical illusion our own eyes create for themselves.”
The guy working the ring-toss didn’t look impressed by this information, but Aiden did a little. In any case, he was smiling at Harvard, and that seemed encouraging.
Harvard threw a green ring, and what his aunt said must have been true, because he won.
He turned around and gave the stuffed giraffe he’d won to a passing child with pigtails. She stared up at Harvard uncertainly. Her mother regarded him with a doubtful gaze. Harvard gave the mother a reassuring smile.
Being reassuring didn’t always work—ever since Harvard was eight years old, certain people hadn’t found him reassuring, as he was both Black and tall—but in this case it did. The mother might also have noticed her child was now clinging to her giraffe, and it was clear she would scream if parted from her new toy.
“Thank you,” the little girl’s mother said stiffly.
Harvard said, “No problem.”
The mother swept on, the kid waving shyly as they went. Harvard gave her a little wave back. She gave him a big gap-toothed smile and his own grin was pure reflex.
“What?” Harvard asked Aiden, who was watching him with an expression Harvard couldn’t read.
Aiden gave a little smile, not meant to charm and thus entirely charming, and shrugged the matter off. “I’m horribly offended and insulted you gave away the first stuffed animal you won on our date. You shouldn’t… do anything like that with Neil. You should make it up to me. Win me a bear.”
Harvard concentrated, since this time it was important, carefully measuring the difference between actual depth and the perception of depth. Harvard threw, and the yellow plastic ring flew and spun and settled onto the peg.
Harvard looked around for Aiden to ask which stuffed animal he wanted, and was quietly pleased when he turned and Aiden was right there, taking his hand.
“Well done, baby,” Aiden whispered—oh, a dating thing to call somebody. After a surprised moment, Harvard smiled, the taste of lemonade bright in the back of his mouth. That was sweet.
“Wanna pick a bear?”
Aiden’s small smile was like the sparkle behind the leaves, hinting and promising at light. “First, show me how to win my own.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He put a hand on the small of Aiden’s back and positioned him in the correct stance. Aiden promptly dropped the plastic ring he was holding. Harvard picked up the ring for Aiden, shaking his head. He guided Aiden’s arm for the practice throw, leaning in to ask if he could see where it should land. When Aiden glanced back, Harvard smiled at him encouragingly, closing an arm around Aiden’s bicep and squeezing in a reassuring fashion.
The ring Aiden threw almost hit the guy behind the stall in the head.
“Wow, that wasn’t good,” Harvard said. “You’re not good at this!”
Aiden gave him an outraged look. Harvard supposed he was partly to blame for not being a skilled teacher, but he still couldn’t lie and say the throw had been good. Without honest feedback, how was Aiden supposed to improve?
He picked out a bear about the same size as Harvard Paw, who had an approachable air… for a bear.
“You’re bad at this game, but you’re still cute,” he told Aiden, and gave him the bear. “There, a friend for Harvard Paw at last. What do you want to do next?”
Aiden was hesitating. Harvard was suddenly concerned he’d messed up. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that.