Chapter 1

“Here you go!” I say, handing a funnel cake to the small child waiting patiently at the counter. The fried dough is still warm, powdered sugar melting slightly into its ridges. He grins wide as he takes it in both hands, bouncing on his toes like he can barely contain his excitement. Then he turns to look up at his mom with that proud little-kid expression, the kind that says look what I got.

“What do we say?” his mom prompts, voice sweet but practiced.

“Thank you,” the boy says, muffled a bit as he immediately takes a bite. A puff of sugar dusts his chin, and I catch the gap where one of his front teeth is missing.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, forcing a cheerful tone.

The mom gives me that classic smile, half genuine, half performative. The isn’t-my-kid-adorable kind. I return it with the best version of a customer-service smile I can muster, but the second they walk off, my face drops like a mask sliding off.

At least the kid wasn’t a little shit. Small wins.

Still, my head won’t stop pounding. A steady, dull ache pulses behind my temples. The blaring carnival music bleeds into the constant shrieks of children and the buzz of the crowd, all of it baking under the relentless assault of the afternoon sun. The hot, syrupy air clings to my skin, and I can feel sweat trickling down my back.

I want to end it all. But I guess I’ll settle for waiting out the rest of my shift.

“Fannie’s Funnel Cakes, we put the fun in funnel.” The line rolls off my tongue with all the enthusiasm of a corpse as the next customer steps up to the counter.

He’s young—college-aged, maybe—a mop of boyish hair flopping over his forehead, and a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Would you like to try our churro funnel cake today?” I ask automatically, already knowing the answer. No one ever says yes. There’s a churro stand right across from us that actually knows what they’re doing, but I’m obligated to pitch ours anyway.

“Uhh, is it any good?” he asks, sounding genuinely uncertain.

His hands stay buried in the pockets of his shorts as he leans forward just a little, standing with the easy nonchalance of someone who’s not in any hurry. The hem of his relaxed t-shirt rests against a soft curve of belly. Not huge, just enough to notice, a gentle press against the cotton fabric when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from sighing. “Yeah, it’s pretty good,” I reply flatly, keeping my expression as neutral as I can manage.

Truthfully, I’ve never tasted it. I haven’t tried anything on the menu besides the original, and even that was more out of obligation than desire. The smell of stale sugar that clings to my clothes by the end of every shift is enough to kill any lingering appetite.

He nods slowly, glancing at the tiny laminated menu taped to the side of the cart. I watch the way his eyes drift lazily from option to option, as if this is some sort of life-altering decision.

It truly cannot be this hard to pick a fucking funnel cake, I think, jaw tightening as I discreetly grind my teeth.

It might be the heat. Or the heavy, oppressive scent of overused fryer oil. Or maybe just the claustrophobic chaos of this tiny stand with its garish red-and-yellow paint job that’s slowly leeching the will to live out of me. Either way, my patience always drops to near zero whenever I’m here.

“What comes on the strawberry one?” he finally asks.

I blink at him, briefly wondering if he’s serious. His wide, expectant eyes are staring right at me, so full of innocent sincerity it actually stuns me for a second.

“Strawberries,” I say, letting the word sit heavy and deadpan.

His cheeks flush as he picks up on the dry bite in my voice. “Of course,” he laughs weakly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Um, I guess I’ll do whichever one is on the sign. That looks pretty good,” he says, nodding vaguely toward the front of the stand.

“What one?” I ask, trying not to sound too irritated. There are at least half a dozen signs and menu photos plastered around the booth, close-ups of powdered sugar, syrup drizzles, and whipped cream explosions.

“Uhh…” He trails off, stepping back a little to get a better look. His eyes flick around, hand rising hesitantly to point out the mystery funnel cake he apparently had in mind.

But just as he lifts his arm, two women pass behind him. He bumps into one of them by accident—barely, really—but it’s enough to make her stumble. Her cup of Dippin’ Dots jerks in her hand, teetering at the edge of a spill. She fumbles it for a second, fingers clutching at the plastic just in time to keep it from falling to the pavement.

“Ugh, watch it, fat ass!” she snaps at him without missing a beat, her voice sharp and cutting.

She scowls at him, then turns right back to her conversation and walks off with her friend like nothing happened.

I scoff without meaning to. Partly from the sheer rudeness of it, and partly because I have to fight back a very ill-timed laugh. The kind that bubbles up when you know you’re not supposed to find something funny.

“S-sorry about that,” the man says after her, voice cracking with embarrassment. But she’s already gone, not even glancing back.

He turns to me again, his easy, unbothered energy suddenly gone. His eyes catch mine for a second, wounded and unsure, and his face is bright red. It’s the kind of expression that hits you in the gut a little, that involuntary recoil when someone’s pride takes a hit in public.

Most of the amusement drains out of me instantly. Most.

He steps back up to the counter with his head low. “I’ll just take a plain one,” he mutters.

“Sure,” I reply, my voice softer now, the edge dulled.

I turn and call to my coworker, who’s sitting behind the fryer in the sweltering gloom of the back corner. “One plain,” I say.

As I turn back around, I catch the guy tugging gently at the hem of his shirt, smoothing it down over his belly. His fingers fidget with the fabric like he’s trying to hide the slight curve there, like he’s suddenly hyper-aware of what made that woman call him a *** in the first place.

“That’s $4,” I say, keeping my tone polite.

He pulls out his phone, tapping it to the reader without saying a word, his gaze still fixed firmly anywhere but my face.

It’s not entirely clear to me why he’s so ashamed. It was just a minor accident, and honestly, it wasn’t that embarrassing. A few people nearby might’ve seen, sure, but no one’s going to remember it five minutes from now. People don’t have the attention spans for that kind of thing.

I glance at him as he shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, waiting. His eyes stay low, his posture a little hunched, like he’s still trying to make himself smaller. Now that I’m really looking, I suppose he could maybe be considered chubby. Soft in the middle, especially around the belly, but only just. Barely. Certainly not by my standards.

No one’s looking at this guy and immediately thinking fat. And I would know. I’ve served, flirted with, fed, and—on more than a few occasions—fucked and funneled plenty of real fatties.

That woman was just being rude. Bitter and loud and entitled.

My coworker, half-asleep behind the fryer, drops the freshly fried funnel cake onto the counter next to me without so much as a word, already turning back to his corner. A second later, he’s glued to his phone again.

“Powdered sugar?” I ask, turning back to the guy.

He looks up, and something about his face seems a little calmer now. Not relaxed exactly, but less wounded. There’s a flicker of something else too. Curiosity, maybe?

“Yes, please,” he says softly.

I grab the sifter and give the cake a generous dusting, the powdered sugar falling like fresh snow over the ridges and folds of the still-steaming dough. The smell wafts up immediately, sweet and rich.

I hand it to him over the counter.

“Thanks,” he mutters, taking it with both hands. Then, without looking back, he scurries off into the crowd.