He grins. “Who do you think I am? Mary Poppins? The babies get bored staring at the walls in our apartment. Not doing that is about as far as I planned.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head at Ryder and Roman. “Your daddy thinks he has to have a flying umbrella to find a schedule online, guys. I apologize for what that’s going to mean for your future.”
Ryder just grins, and Roman reaches out to tug on Flynn’s shirt.
Flynn, not one to lie down and take any abuse, hits me right back. “That’s rich coming from the guy who couldn’t be more vague about his future if he tried. What exactly are you doing with Maria? The baby? Are you committed?”
I roll my eyes and groan. Even a little surprised that Flynn, of all people, is going there.
“You invited this, bro. You’ve only got yourself to blame.”
“I don’t know. I could blame you. Seeing as you knew my full fortune from Cleo and didn’t bother to tell me.”
Flynn’s eyes widen ever so slightly with surprise. “I figured you wouldn’t want to know.”
“I mean, I get that in the beginning, but recently? With all of yours coming to fruition? Why the hell wouldn’t you tell me?”
“Because I think it’s bullshit. Whether the fortunes have come true or not, no man should have anyone involved in his destiny other than himself. You have to make your own choices, carve your own path. Not sit around waiting for some shit a lady with velvet curtains tells you is going to happen.”
The thing I love about Flynn is that he doesn’t even ask me how I knew there was more to my fortune. He’s reliable with that kind of shit. He’s the guy who waits for you to want to tell him, instead of pushing and prying like everyone else in our family.
“Well…” I pause and sigh. “Who is going to be in charge of our destiny today? Now that the library’s not happening.”
Flynn grins at my avoidance and points in the direction of Wall Street. “They’re having some sort of fall carnival down there with all kinds of shit.”
“Do they have stuff for infants?”
“Dude.” Flynn laughs. “Does anywhere have stuff for infants? I’m sure it’ll do.”
He has a point. It’s not like Izzy is going to be hopping on a Ferris wheel anytime soon. “All right. Let’s do it.”
Almost in tandem, the two of us pull our sunglasses from our heads and slide them down onto our eyes, jogging down the steps of the library again like some sort of scene out of Ocean’s 11.
Watch out, George Clooney and Brad Pitt. A new duo is coming to town. Though, this duo has three babies. One of whom is named Ryder and is now screeching like a banshee in Flynn’s arms.
But still, come hell or high water, we’re a-coming, babies in tow.
Upon arrival at the fall carnival, I can see that we’ve made an egregious error.
This is the kind of dog and pony show people plan to attend for nearly a month in advance, so that they can create a plot of attack and brief their kids on how many dollars they’ll get to spend on games. There are rides and vendors and game booths and food trucks everywhere, and the smell of frying dough for funnel cakes hangs heavy in the air.
Instantly, something deep down, something from my childhood, is invigorated within me. It feels fun and exciting and like this carnival is just as much for me as it is for Izzy.
I glance to Flynn, scanning the environment with a twin on each hip, and realize it’s not just me. He’s feeling it too.
It’s time to make this fall carnival our bitch.
Silent communication strikes true as we meet each other’s gaze and nod. The Winslow Brothers are ready for anything.
Fully engaged with our environment, Flynn and I walk down the aisles between the booths, looking for something to catch our eyes. Children shout and people laugh all around us.
And Izzy, Roman, and Ryder pick up on our vibe and, instantly, become our ride-or-dies. They calmly let us get the lay of the carnival land without a peep of resistance.
Yeah. These babies get it.
“Balloon pop,” I murmur, spotting a booth with brightly colored balloons and a patron throwing darts.
Flynn shakes his head in the negative, and the twins turn up their noses via annoyed whines.
Message received, fellas. That’s not the one.
Cruising a little farther, we hang a left to the main aisle of the carnival. Dead ahead, a huge, rectangular ring toss booth sports hundreds of goldfish in adorned fishbowls spinning and swirling in the center. A dad is there, bright-white Reebok sneakers on his feet and a baby on his chest, and immediately, a feeling washes over me.