Not until after the ride.

Another gust hit and my skirt billowed open, uncontrollable now. I didn't look down this time. I didn't need to; I could feel it.

Finally the ride slowed. As soon as we stopped, I grabbed Chloe's arm. "Your top."

She looked down, and her whole face did the surprised thing — eyes wide, hand flying to her chest. "Oh my god, how long was that showing?" But she didn't check the strap first. She checked me. Just a flicker, gone before I could be sure I'd seen it, and then she was laughing again, pulling the fabric up, entirely herself.

"Not that bad," I said, which wasn't really true and wasn't really a lie either.

We climbed down on unsteady legs. "That was AMAZING," Chloe said, looping her arm through mine. "We have to go again."

I laughed despite myself — of course she wanted to go again. But some small, disloyal part of me agreed. When I'd stopped worrying about the skirt, about her, it really *had* been incredible.

A dangerous thought bloomed, uninvited: *what if we did it again, and I didn't stop worrying at all?*