THIRTY SEVEN FEET IN THE AIR

The ferris wheel jerked once—just enough to rattle her teeth—and then stopped. Dead in the air.
Camille groaned. “Are you kidding me?”
Across from her, arms folded, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky, sat her ex-best friend, Tasha.
“Maybe it’s karma,” Tasha said, picking invisible lint off her sleeve. “You always did rush into things without thinking.”
Camille exhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring. “You were the one who wanted to ‘talk.’ This was your idea, remember?”
“I said coffee,” Tasha snapped, finally pushing her sunglasses onto her head. “You insisted on the fair. Like some kind of nostalgia tour. You always rewrite the past so it looks like you were the fun one.”
The metal creaked beneath them. They both froze. The wheel swayed in the wind like it was shrugging.
“God,” Camille muttered, looking down. The ground was only thirty-seven feet away, but it might as well have been the moon.
Tasha sighed. “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s not that far.”
Camille turned, her face reddening. “Right, because you always know everything. Like how to sleep with my boyfriend and call it a ‘mistake.’”
Tasha didn’t blink. “You really think I meant for that to happen?”
“Did you trip and fall on his dick?”
Tasha looked away, out at the parking lot, where blinking lights still flashed and kids ran between corndog stands. From up here, everyone looked tiny.
“You think you were the only one hurt,” she said finally. “You think I didn’t lose anything?”
“You didn’t lose him,” Camille hissed. “You gained him.”
“I didn’t keep him, did I?” Tasha’s voice cracked. “You think he stayed? He ghosted me a week later.”
Camille blinked. “Good.”
“Yeah. Good.”
Silence again.
Below them, the ride operator shouted something indistinct into a walkie-talkie.
Camille gripped the safety bar with white knuckles. “If this thing tips over because of some high school soap opera karma, I’m going to haunt you forever.”
Tasha almost laughed. Almost. “We weren’t in high school. We were twenty-two.”
“Same difference,” Camille said. “We were stupid and broke and thought vodka counted as a meal.”
“We also thought we’d be friends forever.”
Camille’s jaw clenched. “I meant it.”
“So did I.”
The wind picked up, brushing hair across Camille’s face. Tasha reached out instinctively, tucking a strand behind Camille’s ear. Camille flinched.
“Don’t,” she said.
“Sorry.” Tasha retracted her hand. “Old habit.”
They sat in it. The weight. The air. The metal and history and tension hanging just like the creaking wheel.
“I missed your mom’s funeral,” Tasha said softly. “I wanted to come. I was going to. But I knew you’d throw a drink in my face.”
“I might have,” Camille admitted. “Maybe not. Depends on the drink.”
Tasha smiled, but it was sad. “Probably red wine.”
Camille exhaled something like a laugh. “Definitely red.”
Far below, something mechanical groaned and then clicked. The wheel shuddered, inching forward a fraction.
They both looked down, not speaking.
“You know what I hate?” Camille said.
“What?”
“That it still hurts.”
Tasha nodded. “Me too.”
Another groan. The wheel began to turn again, slow and creaky.
They descended in silence, past carriages filled with happy couples and bickering families and people taking selfies. The noise of the fair crept back into focus.
Camille stared ahead, not at Tasha. “This doesn’t fix anything.”
“I know,” Tasha said. “But maybe it’s a start.”
The ground met them with a clunk. The gate swung open.
Camille stood. “Don’t follow me.”
“I won’t.”
She stepped off and walked away, steady and deliberate.
Halfway across the fairgrounds, she paused, turned just enough to be heard.
“For the record—coffee would’ve been worse.”
Tasha smiled faintly. “Yeah,” she murmured. “I know.”