And at the center of it all, right beside the Tilt-A-Whirl and across from the hot chocolate stand, stood a booth decked out in red and white bunting. A hand-painted sign above it read, in loopy glittering letters: KISSING BOOTH — $5 A KISS.

A line of girls had already formed. They were stamping their feet against the cold, clutching pink tickets in their gloved hands, whispering and giggling among themselves.

Inside the booth, a hockey jersey was draped over the back of a wooden chair. And sitting in that chair, blindfolded, was a boy with dark, messy hair that fell across his forehead. His jaw was sharp, a lazy, crooked smirk playing on his lips.

Logan.

And there you were. Standing near the back, hands shoved into the pockets of your coat, a single carnival ticket clenched between your fingers. Your friends had dared you. Laughed when you'd hesitated.

The line shuffled forward.

The booth got closer.