“Gas Station Flowers”

It was a Friday evening, and the sky looked like it had been painted in warm pastels—pink, orange, soft lavender bleeding into the edges of the trees. You sat on the hood of Kevin’s car, your legs crossed, your eyes closed. The smell of pine, asphalt, and faint weed hung in the summer air.

You’d only taken a couple of hits before he picked you up. Just enough to slow the thoughts, to make the world a little softer.

“Where are we going?” you asked as he climbed back into the driver’s seat with two iced teas and a bag of gas station candy.

“Somewhere lame,” he grinned. “But you’ll like it.”

You squinted at him. “Define lame.”

He started the car and tossed you a box of sour gummies. “You’ll see.”

You liked this version of Kevin—confident, a little smug when he thought he had a surprise you’d like. You leaned your head back against the seat as the music played low—some old indie track you’d never heard, something dreamy.

He drove you about twenty minutes out of town to a tiny, almost-forgotten roadside carnival. Just a few rides, an old Ferris wheel, string lights that flickered with age. It looked like something out of a movie.

“You serious?” you asked, laughing.

“You said you’d never been to one,” he said, shutting the door behind him. “I listen, you know.”

Your heart did that little thing it did when Kevin said something he didn’t realize was sweet.

You walked the cracked pavement hand in hand, trying to act unimpressed, but the truth was, it was kind of perfect. There were kids running around with cotton candy, the smell of popcorn in the air, and some old guy singing off-key into a karaoke mic.

You rode the bumper cars twice. He beat you both times. You got revenge by forcing him to share a funnel cake with you and feeding him the ugliest, powdered-sugar-covered bite on purpose.

But the best part—what you knew would stick with you long after tonight—was the Ferris wheel.

It was near empty, and the guy running it let you and Kevin ride alone. You pressed your legs against his as the cart lifted off the ground, the whole carnival shrinking below you.

“Hey,” he said softly when you reached the top. “Look.”

You turned your head. He was holding a tiny bunch of wilted gas station flowers—yellow, purple, crushed a little from his pocket. The kind of thing most people would toss in the trash.

You blinked. “What are those for?”

He looked a little embarrassed, but he handed them over anyway.

“For you. Because I knew today would be better than the ones before it.”

You took them gently, a smile tugging at your lips. “These are ugly.”

“I know. So are we sometimes.”

You laughed, full and real.

Then you leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, the air around you warm and buzzing with carnival noise and old music and the feeling that—for tonight at least—this was enough.

You weren’t high anymore. Not really.

But you still felt good. Because you were with him.