I had my heart set on visiting a hayride this year. Between college and then work, I had little time or money to waste on frivolous seasonal events since high school. This year, however, I made a concerted effort to arrange at least one festive outing. This was the highest rated haunted hayride on this side of the state, and I hoped it would be worth the hour and a half drive. I had invited my coworkers, friends, and roommate to join me, but most of my peers, all in their mid-twenties, thought hayrides were too childish to squander an evening on.

 Kyle was my last hope for company on my trip. Having been friends since middle school, he and I had a standing twice-a-month hang out night, usually consisting of a Redbox DVD rental and Chinese takeout, but occasionally we would do something a bit more exciting. Kyle had suggested going to his cousin’s tailgating party this weekend, but acquiesced to my hayride request after I casually mentioned the event only a few dozen times over the course of the previous day. He loved football, so I appreciated his sacrifice – and I braced myself for whatever boring arthouse film he’d drag me to next time it was his choice to pick our activity.

We pulled up about half an hour after the event opened – cars were lining both sides of the small rural road and the field used as a lot was already five rows full. The ground was muddy, causing Kyle to snidely comment that my tin can of a car might not make it out once parked for a couple hours. There was certainly a possibility that we would be stuck in the middle of nowhere until the morning if that occurred, but I was more worried that we would end up covered in mud from the lot before we even got to the hayride. I already felt self-conscious about my appearance; the autumn weather in Western New York made my mousy brown hair frizz and heavy sweaters did nothing to help define my already overweight frame. Mud everywhere would just add insult to injury.

I stepped out of the car and found that the ground was more solid than it had appeared as we drove through. There was a chill in the air around the apple orchard on that clear October evening, making me glad that I had stolen a hand-knit scarf from my grandma before heading out to the countryside. With my heavy sweater and scarf, the temperature was not too bad. Kyle, however, was not one to stand the cold, so even with a leather jacket and knit hat, he was uncomfortable. Stepping out from the car he adjusted his jacket, making sure that there was no way to zip it up further to keep out the cold. He had a keen fashion sense. Perhaps if he had left our small hometown after high school, he would have been handsome enough for movies or tv. His black jacket clung to his upper body and his jeans fit snugly, giving him a flattering silhouette in the moonlight. His chestnut brown hair poked out along the rim of his hat in a haphazard way, though that only added to the charm of his appearance. His dark brown eyes hid behind small wire-framed glasses.

Growing up in a small suburb, Kyle and I had been friends since grade school. We graduated together, went to the same community college, and after graduating both worked in the city. I squandered my English lit degree in a dingy diner, hoping to someday write that great novel that would allow me to start over someplace more exciting. Kyle had majored in business at the request of his parents, but now he worked as a bartender and wrote for an arthouse e-zine every other week. Neither one of us were living our dream, and we bonded over those shared feelings of listlessness and disappointment. Our bi-monthly hang-outs were the highlights of each month.

We walked through the field being used as a parking lot for the night’s event, hoping that none of the incoming cars would run us over in the dark. Though, if we did get run over and died, we wouldn’t have to finish paying our student loans – which was a tempting positive – but not until we finished the goal of the evening. Some large lights run by generators scattered about the area attempted to light the way, but they lacked the power to adequately light pedestrian pathways. Despite the lack of clear vision, we made it to the main event entrance without incident or accumulating too much mud and hay on our shoes and pants.

The ticket stand was located at the corner of a large barn covered in event sponsor signage. We stood in line behind a couple who were already taking advantage of the low-lighting for a romantic evening. Kyle shot me a disapproving look while I just shrugged, whispering, “I guess they’re here for a different kind of thrill.” We both chuckled a little, doing our best not to stare at their increasing boldness. I’d be lying, however, if I denied feeling a pang of envy – of the few guys I had dated in college, they barely had the urge to pounce on me in private, let alone at a crowded public event.

When we finally made it to the ticket window, we saw a portly man with a white beard sitting in the booth. He grunted what I assume to have been a greeting and mumbled that tickets were nineteen dollars apiece. Kyle offered to pay the ticket price as compensation for the gas to drive to Rochester from Buffalo. I appreciated his gesture as I was on a tight budget for the month and every dollar counted until the holiday season, which would bring more shifts at work. For all of Kyle’s faults, he was always mindful of my budget.

The old man in the booth processed Kyle’s credit card and handed him two plain white tickets. Our hayride number was fifty-two. As we walked up to the entrance they were still calling numbers in the thirties – it was going to be a long night. Kyle had hoped to catch a late screening of Happy Death Day back in the city, but I began to doubt we would make it anywhere else before the end of the evening. There was a healthy crowd of teens/young adults milling about in the open field amid the entrance to the hayride, a barn, a silo, and some food tents. A DJ played a mix of current pop songs and 90’s nostalgia, which some of the kids were dancing to (or rather gyrating to) at the center of the crowd. We checked the food options in two small tents on either side of the field – nothing special, but we did get two cups of warm apple cider and a small bag of kettle corn to share.

A nearby barn was warmer than standing in the open field, so we climbed the hill and wandered inside. The barn housed a “Hellivator” mini haunted house (a room which shook like you were riding an elevator and ended with a jump scare from an actor), zombie-themed laser shooting gallery, and mechanical bull. Everything cost extra and Kyle did not want to partake in any of these little attractions anyways, so we looked around for somewhere to sit and wait. Lines of picnic tables surrounded a screen hung on the back wall where Halloween-themed clips were projected. We found an unoccupied bench edge and squeezed our way on, nudging over a few couples more focused on exploring each other’s mouths than the movie scenes. After being nudged by their activities multiple times while watching two scenes of Michael Myers murdering horny teenagers, I started to relate to his sentiment.

 Kyle was preoccupied checking the Bills scores, answering texts from friends, and scrolling through Instagram on his phone. I did not have any claim to his attention, but I couldn’t help but feel offended at the lack of consideration. He always seemed to be on his phone, tuning out the real world; I could only imagine what it would be like if his dark brown eyes focused on me instead of a screen.

“Ahem,” I coughed in the most unsubtle way possible, catching his attention. “Care to share with the class?”

“You’re such a dork,” he retorted, but he did turn his phone to me to include me in his browsing. We whiled away the time by looking through his recent photos and then he opened up his Tinder to critique profiles of the local women. Much to our amusement, we saw the profile of one of the girls from the nearest make-out couple; she had a pretty attractive profile. We pondered if the two had met through the app or if she was just playing the field. Based on the way she would boredly scan the crowd in between kisses made me lean towards the latter. 

Kyle and I rarely talked about our love lives – mostly because mine was non-existent and his was constantly in flux. In an almost desperate display, Kyle would message every half-decent profile he came across on dating apps, copying and pasting greetings until he found someone as thirsty for an encounter as him. With his good looks, he didn’t have much trouble getting a date or two, but things always seemed to fizzle out quickly. I never pried too much into why that was the case – once a girl was out of the picture, he acted as though she never existed in the first place. Deep down I secretly rooted for things to fail – I didn’t  want to have our bi-monthly hang out nights ripped away from me by some lackluster skinny blonde. Or worse, be cast out from his life like those seemingly forgotten exes. Losing my closest friend would cut deep.

An hour and a half had passed since our arrival and the announcer was only calling attendees for hayrides in the early forties. Conversation waned, and my eyes began to hurt from squinting at the screen.I looked up to rest my eyes and found myself studying Kyle’s mannerisms. His fingers deftly typed messages on his smart phone – the swift movements reminded me of when he played bass in college. My roommate dated the band’s singer so I had gone to quite a few of their shows despite hating grunge rock. My eyes moved upwards, investigating his features. He was half-Latino from his father’s side, giving him a slightly olive skin tone. His face was free from blemishes, but I could see a five o’clock shadow forming along his jawline. 

As he concentrated on the phone, his expression changed depending on what he was working on. A furrowed brow and focused eyes – he was editing a photo on Instagram. A raised eyebrow – he found a Tinder profile he liked; a quick swipe right immediately followed. Pressed lips – he was disapproving of the current Bills score. I found myself smiling over the way his emotions showed plain on his face, and quickly quelled the behavior, fearing he would eventually realize that it was not the old horror movie projections I was staring at when I faced his direction.

Needing a distraction from this line of thought, I prayed for any reason to get up and move. Luckily, the DJ answered my prayer – playing a fun dance tune I had not heard since middle school dances – “Cotton-Eye Joe”. It was the perfect excuse to get up and distance myself from the unexpectedly strange path my thoughts had taken. 

Instinctively, I grabbed Kyle by the hand and whisked him out towards the dance area. His hand was smooth and warm, fitting perfectly in mine. A giddy feeling rose within me as I pulled him down the slope to the dance floor. To an outsider we probably looked like all the other couples here for a date night. After being single for so long, it wouldn’t be so bad to pretend I had a partner just for one night – and it being Kyle, well that wasn’t really so bad, was it? I shook my head and quickened my steps to clear the thought from my mind.

It was not until I had dragged him to the edge of the dancing crowd, that I realized I had forgotten the steps. Kyle refused to dance, but he smiled and laughed as I struggled to follow the crowd. I looked like a fool: stepping right, lunging left, turning (and nearly falling), and then jumping carelessly around. It really was like my high school days, back when I felt more confident and like I could conquer the world. I was in better shape back then, however, and my twenty-seven-year-old self wheezed through the last chorus’ jumping section. Once the song ended, I had a moment to catch my breath and then we made the trek back up to the barn as some current pop song by what sounded like an emo tween played.

I let Kyle lead the way this time. He stopped at the entrance to the barn, not wanting to go all the way back past the gaggle of lovestruck couples to get to the benches. Instead we stayed at the doorway, looking out over the kinetic throngs of people. He ogled a throng of attractive college girls while I enjoyed the general atmosphere of merriment. Unlike the posh downtown artists I had grown accustomed to serving in the city, these crowds seemed to enjoy silly fun, not needing some hipster fad to feel superior in their entertainment choices. Standing next to Kyle and amongst the mob of cheerful young adults, I felt more at home than I ever had in the city.

We stood there people-watching for another few minutes until our number was finally called. Our time in hayride purgatory had come to an end. Kyle leapt at the chance to get in line to board the tractor. I was less enthusiastic about leaving our comforting spot on the hill, but followed along without protest.

We lined up in a chained area for tractor fifty-two, standing intimately close together to give more room to the other patrons. Kyle enlisted my help to spy on attractive women in the crowd, pointing out their location and strategically positioning me so he could pretend to talk to me while actually staring at them. It quickly grew old for me, but he continued seemingly with pleasure. As he chatted away, I began to wonder what it would feel like if he looked at me the way he stared at other women. In the past I would have laughed at the idea, but tonight I had a different sentiment.

The tractor fifty-two corral was only yards away from the DJ’s speakers, making it difficult to conduct conversation. Kyle leaned close to me each time he spoke, so I could hear him over the din. I could feel his warmth, smell his cologne. For a moment I lost track of what he was saying, coming to when I noticed he was staring at me. He had obviously asked a question, but I did not have any clue as to the context. I smiled, hoping to stall, and was granted a reprieve as the line began to move forward, proceeding closer to the hayride tractors.

Before the line made its way to the loading area, we passed through a set of skeletal arches and received paper glasses for a 3D black light maze. Kyle followed close behind me, making sure I would be the one to face the horrors within first. I wondered if the maze would be scary. I was a wimp in creepy situations and would cling to anyone in my group as actors would come near – would Kyle allow me to grab his arm? Unfortunately, I did not find out in this maze – it was not scary at all. There was no way I could convincingly play the part of a scared young woman clinging to her date, so halfway through I held back and pushed him to lead the way. Once again, I resigned to be a silent lurker, secretly studying each reaction as he judged every prop, set piece, and “monster” interaction. His harsh set of standards prevented him from even feigning amusement at the poorly constructed pathways (much to the dismay of the poor actors trying to scare him). I hoped he did not regret his decision to come along instead of watching football with his friends. We made it to the hayride tractor without even a mild scare.

We finished the maze near the end of the group, and thus were among the last to load onto the wagon. We walked up rickety wooden steps onto the large bed of hay, sitting on the edge once the steps were removed. The tractor was packed with thirty or so other people, so we had to snuggle in close to fit. Kyle set his hand in the hay next to me, accidentally brushing my fingers with his, so I rested my hand on my leg. I realized that I couldn’t remember a single time in adulthood that we had touched like that prior to this evening. Most of the time I had avoided touching him at all. Taking his hand when I pulled him to the dance floor had been the first time I had the audacity to make contact – and the memory of the sensation still gave me a flutter in my stomach.

The tractor began its way along the darkened path through the orchard. The area was dimly lit with lanterns only every fifteen to twenty feet alternating sides along the path, allowing us to see the universe of stars above us. I caught him staring up at them as well; I wanted to believe that he may have been thinking similarly about the beauty of the scene, but I knew it was more likely that he was just thinking about the last meme he saw on Facebook.

A tour guide dressed in a black robe narrated our journey at the front of the wagon. His dialogue was written like a scary version of Disneyland’s Jungle Cruise. The morbid jokes made me giggle and even Kyle turned to me with looks of amusement after the particularly corny puns. It was nice to finally see him having fun and just enjoying the evening. I felt I could relax as well and resolved to stop worrying about his perception of the evening.

A man in his early twenties sat next to Kyle, making small comments to him in between the bouts of narration. While Kyle struggled to end the unwarranted conversation, I took the opportunity to sneak in a few more stares without drawing attention to myself. In the faint light, I could still make out all his handsome features. After a particularly silly joke from the narrator, a small smile escaped his thin lips, exposing just a hint of white teeth. In pictures he never showed his teeth when he smiled – these rare moments could only be seen if he was not paying attention; once he was conscious about his expression he refused to smile like that. It perplexed me that he still hadn’t found a steady girlfriend after all these years. Though I was happy he had not run off with a Tinder date, I could not help but think the entire female population of Buffalo were idiots.

Perhaps it was the scent of apples mixed with hay, or maybe the cheesy nineties dance music from the DJ in the field, but something reminded me of Octobers from my high school days – lusting after some random drama club guy while on field trips to the pumpkin patch or corn maze. I wanted to feel the excitement of flirting and the possibility of something more; feelings I had not felt for much too long. 

Sitting next to him then, I looked back at our years of friendship with new eyes. I thought of our outings, our movie nights, our late-night Mighty Taco runs. Movies had led me to think that romance should have a meet cute, then a whirlwind feeling of passion. I had known Kyle since he was a shy fourth-grader with acne and I was a precocious little girl who refused to wear skirts to school; I watched him slowly grow and change – we never dated or even went to a school dance together. This wasn’t the story I expected. For the first time, I finally admitted what I had been hiding from myself – I had fallen for him. My thoughts began to spin as the weight of the revelation hit me. The world had suddenly changed around me, yet I was the only one affected.

As we moved further into the orchard, we encountered the first scary scene – an exorcism gone wrong. I rested my hand on my leg as near to him as I dared go. Each time the tractor hit a bump along the path and Kyle’s hand brushed mine, my heart skipped a beat. Staring up to the sky, I wished on every star for him to take my hand and pull me close.

About halfway through the ride, we passed a wooden shack which surprisingly held a chainsaw-wielding maniac. The sudden roar of the chainsaw engine startled me, and I screamed like a little girl as the actor pulled at my legs, feigning an attempt to pull me off the wagon. Kyle laughed at my screams; he wrongly assumed that I was only pretending to be startled. Then without warning he put his arm around me and hugged – I nearly swooned right there like a nineteenth century lady in a corset. I put my arms around him and buried my face in his jacket. Even through the jacket, I could feel his warm torso. It was as if my wish on the stars was coming true and I endeavored to memorize every sensation.

I spent the rest of the hayride letting him “protect” me from the scary characters, though I could tell that his attention was focused more on the hayride (and the man next to him that continued to hold a one-sided conversation) than on me. A small part of me felt guilty for ignoring the hayride – the main reason we even came to the event –  to focus on him, but I couldn’t help myself. Far too soon, the tractor exited the orchard and pulled us back towards the dirt road entrance. Kyle let me go, unmoved by the blissful minutes that warmed my heart. I quickly retreated, pretending that I did not mind putting the distance between us again.

The tractor pulled to the exit and we hopped off. The exit path looped through a barn which contained what promised to be a more traditional haunted house. It was beginning to get more than just chilly and even my winter sweater started to feel inadequate for the weather. Never one to miss an opportunity, I leaned against Kyle and playfully whined about the drop in temperature. Though he did not pull me passionately close as I was secretly imagining, he surprisingly did not pull back. I wondered if he would comment on our hug or closeness, or anything that had been running through my head all evening. Instead he focused on the man who had sat next to him and kept talking to him throughout the hayride. The man had been there with a girl, but Kyle was convinced that the man had intentionally cuddled close to him. Of course, he would focus on that – he could be completely self-absorbed at times.

If there was an award for restraint, my performance while leaning in close to him would have cemented my candidacy for it – it took every ounce of my strength not to tackle him to the ground in a frenzy. Luckily, just as my resolve was beginning to weaken, the line began to move forward, and we proceeded closer to the attraction.

The entrance to the haunted house was rather plain, just plywood, black plastic, and a few fake spider webs. A worker with a flashlight stood at the doorway letting one group at a time walk into the maze. The girl from the couple in front of us laughed obnoxiously at something her date whispered in her ear, making me glad that there would be some distance between us. As we neared the entrance, I stopped leaning on Kyle. I could not tell how he felt about it and did not want to press my luck; creating an awkward situation with him before having to drive an hour and a half home in the same car would not be a smart idea.

About a minute after the couple in front of us entered the maze, the worker waved us into the first black hallway. There was little in the way of décor, but the darkness did enough to create an atmosphere of uneasiness. We ran into the end of the hallway and turned the corner right into a waiting actor who jumped out and screamed at us. I finally had my chance to cling to Kyle, hanging onto his arm and pressing close as he led the way towards a light further down the hallway. We came across a generic haunted house scene with some bloody props and a knife-wielding killer. The following scenes were no more original, but I still overplayed my fear of the startling actors to both have more reason to snuggle on his arm and to slow us down, prolonging the experience.

Despite my playful stalling, we caught up to the pair in front of us halfway through the maze. They had encountered a sinister clown and the girl was refusing to move forward even an inch. Kyle waited politely for a hot second and then did something to fuel my daydreams for weeks – he lowered his arm, slightly pushing me off him, and then grabbed me by the hand to lead me past the couple into the next room. The second time our hands clasped that evening was no less satisfying than the first; I savored the sensation until an actor popped out at us, startling me enough for me to lose my grip.

I returned to Kyle’s arm for the final few rooms, though I held on more loosely than I did at the beginning of the attraction. I feared he would realize that I was not paying any attention to the surrounding haunt if I did not pull back a little, but he had not seemed to acknowledge any aspect of my behavior since the start of the evening. I wondered if that was intentional or if I was better at hiding my intentions than I realized – I hoped for the later. The thought of him judging me like he had the lackluster 3D maze petrified me. Kyle knew me better than anyone; he was always there for me and kind – in his own rough-around-the-edges way. I didn’t want to disappoint him. 

Walking through the hodge-podge of different themed rooms holding onto him, I pretended that his behavior was due to affection instead of a careless acquiescence. The maze could not have lasted long enough. I hoped that Kyle did not notice my intense disappointment as we rounded the final corner and walked back out to the comparatively brightly lit field.

It was almost ten o’clock so we would be too late to attend the movie screening back in Buffalo. It was time to head home and end the night. Kyle put forth no fanfare or even a comment about this. I did not mention it either. It was time for my daydreams to end and for us to walk back to normalcy – and a car that might or might not have sunk into a pool of mud.

I looked once more to the stars and silently thanked them for giving me even a brief glimpse of hope that evening by entertaining my wish. Kyle stared straight ahead, looking for the car. To an outside observer, everything continued as it had hours before. Within my heart, something had changed, and I mourned the loss of what had seemed a simple friendship; once I admitted my feelings to myself, I could not go back to the casual confidence I had previously while navigating our relationship. I would never be able to forget the moments of longing and hopeful wonder; the night would forever color my view of Kyle.

We got into the car and drove out of the field with little difficulty. Once home I dreamt of hayrides and the evening that could have been if the world was different.