Olivia wakes to the sound of fifty sets of feet plodding down the aisle, overstuffed backpacks brushing against her seat, and Elliot Stabler's arm around her.
Somehow, in her slumber, she's tucked her head into the crook of his neck and her hand's fallen to his chest. He's warm to the touch and she's overheated; her mind tells her to move but her body disagrees. It falls even more deeply. It begs her to stay.
"We're here," he says in a low voice as she opens her eyes, realizing their closeness; she slowly untangles herself from his frame as the last few students make their way down the steps.
Noah's already made his way outside the bus, standing on his tiptoes to try and see what's taking his "chaperones" so long.
Elliot and Olivia hear an obvious huff from the driver's seat, straightening up as they catch Flossie glaring at them in the rear-view mirror.
"Rise and shine, lovebirds," she croaks in front of them, hitching a thumb toward the exit.
They quickly, clumsily gather their things, Elliot still holding a greasy brown bag—the cold, uneaten fried egg sandwich he had ordered for Olivia.
"We're not, uh—" she begins, trying to clarify, but it's no use; Flossie shoots her a knowing look as she and Elliot stumble awkwardly toward the open door.
Ms. Edwards is counting heads as a parade of buses from other schools unload nearby. Olivia and Elliot slip into the back of the group near Noah, trying not to draw too much attention to themselves. A few other adults are peppered throughout. Mr. Hunt, the science teacher, crunches loudly on pistachio nuts, dropping the shells on the concrete walkway; Mrs. Lopez, the art teacher, glares at him, perturbed.
And then there's Michelle Ripley, the head of the PTO, giving Olivia a curt wave before her eyes land on Elliot, her pupils tracing every inch of his form until they come to rest on his backside.
Olivia tries to intercept the ogling but there's no point; the woman's shameless. She recalls the first time she interacted with her at a dance troupe bake sale—Michelle sitting smugly behind the wooden folding table, her hand-painted sugar cookies in the shape of ballet slippers on display. Olivia had handed over her contribution, a plate full of rubbery, small brownies; Michelle hadn't even waited for her to turn the corner before swiftly sliding them into the trash.
A happy melody chimes on a loudspeaker, distracting Michelle at last; the park is open for business.
"We'll start at the wave pool. That's our home base," Ms. Edwards begins as she addresses the fourth grade. "We all stay together. Then we'll split up in smaller groups with the grownups to go on the rides. No one goes off alone. Do we understand?"
The children nod inattentively, their heads darting like a flock of flamingos toward the colorful structures beyond the front gates—the endless spirals, the twists and turns of the giant slides. Their minds are already swimming.
Finally, it's time to enter. Olivia fiddles with the bag Elliot had packed for her, peeking inside to check for the essentials. It's all there—her clothing folded carefully, flip flops tucked in a side pocket, a deep raspberry tankini sitting at the top.
In a zippered pouch, she finds a few extra surprises—a roll of her favorite caramels, an unopened package of aloe and chamomile face wipes, a small tube of lotion, and a tortoise shell clip for her hair.
"Don't worry," Elliot reassures, "I didn't snoop. Noah helped me find your stuff."
Olivia looks up at him, an unexpected thought pulsing through her. She wants him to learn these things, know them by heart—the shelf where she keeps the extra toothbrushes, the corner she always forgets to dust, the order of the spices she doesn't use.
She wants him to make himself home.
Before she can respond, he adds, somewhat shyly, "I left you a note."
They start moving through the main entrance, caught in a sea of bouncing children as they surge ahead in a pack. Olivia still manages to reach into the bag again, discovering a folded pink Post-It stuck to her shorts with message from Elliot—
CHECK YOUR EMAIL
"This is quite the treasure hunt," she jokes as the attendant slips a purple wristband over her hand.
"Nothing to worry about now," Elliot replies. "Just had an idea."
"An idea?
"Sure," he responds softly. "For you."
Something else lingers, an asterisk on the phrase, the thing he wants to say but doesn't dare.
They arrive at the main pavilion and Ms. Edwards gathers everyone for final instructions. There's a symphony of sorts at play—the flurry of excited voices, the ding and buzz of the arcade hut, the rush of water, near and far. And keeping time, the metronome, Olivia's heart beating in her ears as she considers the idea, the mystery and the gift, all the futures she had never imagined.
She turns to Elliot, giving into the wonder.
She lets herself picture it, something, everything.
Inside her chest, the drum sounds, the tempo hastens as she hears his silent words—
For us.