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“Want to go in?” I ask.
His jaw flexes. “Nah. I have their business card and can check their stuff online.”
That pops my brows. If he has their card, this place has caught his eye before. He’s been tolerating my wandering, so why shouldn’t I indulge his? Besides, I don’t know anything about his hobbies—mostly, he’s just been letting me pursue mine. “Let’s look,” I urge, drawing him through the entryway.
The shop is overflowing with carved knickknacks, decorations, figurines, and woodworking tools. Aaron’s trying to play it cool, but his eyes are sparkling, and he can’t keep from lingering near pieces he likes. When he glances at me for the third time next to an intricately painted carving, I shuffle closer.
“A nativity scene?” I ask. Prompting him.
As I expect, an explanation spills from his mouth. “Yes, but rather than having several mix-and-match pieces, it’s carved into one slab of wood. It’s called a deep relief carving. It requires a high level of craftsmanship—see the way the layers create these shadows?” He leans over it, admiration pouring from his gaze. “They probably used every specialty gouge under the sun to get it this detailed.”
I want to insist he should buy it, since he’s been wasting his money on me. On second glance, though, I don’t think he cares about it as a decoration. Rather, he’s focused on the craftsmanship. He wants to learn from it—not necessarily purchase it for display. “Have you done one?” I ask, nestling into the gap beside him. “A deep relief carving?”
He laughs, but it’s gentle, not cynical. “No, I just started working on bas-relief—or, like, low relief carvings,” he corrects when he notices my blank look. “They’re shallower, usually less than a half inch. I started practicing last year. Though I’ve been whittling longer.”
I suddenly remember my bedside drawer. I was so overwhelmed by…all the nonsense…that I forgot about the figurine of unknown origins. “The wooden duck in my drawer,” I say. “Did you make that?”
Aaron rubs his neck like it’s something to be embarrassed about. “Yeah. You said ducks were your favorite animal. I could make a better one now, but it was the first one I ever made you, so you kept it.”
I don’t know how to respond to something so sweet. I merely turn to the nearest wooden sculpture, and say, “Thoughts on that thing?”
I feel something light settle atop my sun hat, but when I whirl back to him, he’s retreated and pretending to be innocent. I think he just kissed me. “That’s a chip carving,” he explains. “This one is free-form. Basically, they drew a pattern onto the wood and carved it out with a knife blade.”
We explore the entire shop, and he explains all the varying forms of wood carving to me. I’m more a fan of paintings and pottery, but his passion is intense enough to make me care about what I’m seeing. I wonder if he ever feels similarly when I start rambling about history. If so, maybe I’m less annoying than I think I am.
In the end, I convince him to buy a new pair of wood carving gloves he’s been eyeing. For no reason at all, I notice they’re extra large.
Eventually, we move back to the actual carnival. The mingling smells of hot dogs, burgers, and fried everything reel back into my nose. With impeccable timing, my stomach growls, and though Aaron doesn’t hear it, I foolishly react by self-consciously grabbing my abdomen with my free hand.
He zeroes in on the movement. “Want something to eat?”
“No,” I say quickly. “There’s nothing I could get.”
He stops in the middle of the walkway, to the disgruntlement of dozens of people filtering through. His eyes wander from a stand selling funnel cakes to one offering meaty sandwiches and fries. “There,” he says, pointing diagonal to us. “Kettle corn. Looks like it has its own stand, so there shouldn’t be cross-contamination. Also there.” He swings his index finger toward another stand, beaming. “Pre-bagged cotton candy.”
Sometimes I think Aaron is more knowledgeable about what I can and can’t eat than I am. It’s a silly reason to be more attracted to him.
Knowing that doesn’t undo the damage.
As we wander, I stuff my face with kettle corn, enjoying the energetic atmosphere. I wonder what I would be doing right now, if not for Aaron. Maybe I’d be trying to tackle the lawn work or getting a head start on dinner. Maybe I’d be organizing the basement or washing the carpets or polishing the wood. Being useful.
We pause to sit on a germy metal bench and watch the dunk tank so I can let tufts of cotton candy melt in my mouth. This and the kettle corn aren’t enough to satiate me, but Aaron has some of my favorite gluten-free protein bars to get us by.
His mood noticeably sours when we approach the red-and-white-striped game tents, where people are attempting to land rings on milk bottles or basketballs in misshapen hoops or water blasters in targets. I don’t realize why his demeanor has changed until his stride screeches to a halt next to one tent. We’re at the balloon darts station. Hanging on the racks behind the vendor…
A giant stuffed yellow duck.
“Hold this,” he commands, placing our bag of newly acquired belongings in my hand.
“Sounds like you humiliated yourself last year,” I say. “Fortunately for you, I can’t remember your crushing defeat. You’re willing to go through that again?”
Aaron catches my chin between his fingers so he can match my stare. “I’m winning you that motherfucking duck,” he whispers heatedly. “No matter the cost.”
“Good thing for that big-boy job, then,” I respond.
He swivels toward the game operator, slapping five dollars down since we can’t use the tickets here. She snags it and places three darts on the red counter, then gestures to the massive board behind her, fit with dozens of colorful pinned balloons. Some of them are bigger, easier to hit, while others are tiny and fastened by themselves with gaps between them.
“Two balloons get you a consolation prize, and three balloons win a small plush,” she says, gesturing to the rows of tiny stuffed animals. No ducks, but the pandas are cute. “If you hit three of the smallest balloons in the top row, you win a major prize.” She points overhead to the stuffed duck, like she knows exactly why we’re here.
