They exchange a look, the kind that saysaww, idiot in love, and for once, I don’t even care that I’m being teased.
I step back outside, tools slung over my shoulder, the cold air sharp against my skin. The mountains stand solid in the distance, dusted with ice and snow, unchanged and unbothered by any of this. It’s grounding. So is the weight of the hammer in my hand. So is the thought of May, waiting somewhere warm and bright and full of noise.
For the first time in years, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m chasing or running from. It feels like something I can build. Here. With my own two hands. I head toward town, already picturing the way May’s eyes are going to light up when I tell him.
Chapter Eleven
May
Wednesday nights at Sleigh Queen are always a little bit feral, but Drag Bingo cranks the chaos to eleven. The crowd’s half locals, half die-hard regulars from up and down the highway, with a handful of first-timers clutching their cards and eyeing the queens like we might breathe fire at any second. I don’t blame them. The ratio of hairspray to oxygen in here tonight could probably power a jet engine.
I work the room in my favorite electric blue sequin gown, the slit high enough to make even the most jaded old-timer at the bar give me an approving once-over. Patti’s got a mic on stage, a gold lamé caftan, and neon green oversized costume jewelry blinding in the stage lights, and she’s calling numbers with all the subtlety of an elephant in a china shop. “B-ten! That’s right, sugar, B as in ‘bend over and take it like a winner!’” The crowd howls, and someone in the back spills half their drink on the rainbow tablecloth.
Tonight’s theme is “Winter Ball.” The décor committee (read: Anna, Dixie, and a few of the baby queens who have too much time on their hands) went all out. Silver snowflakes dangle from the rafters, and fake frost is painted on every mirror. The main bar’s lit with alternating washes of pink and icy lavender, and the regulars have shown up in everything from full tuxesto light-up ugly sweaters. Someone’s dog is wearing a tutu. It’s ridiculous, and everything I love about Sleighbell Springs.
I sashay through the tables, balancing my bingo cage on one hip and a rhinestone-tipped pointer in the other, serving drag realness with a side of professional crowd control. At table four, one of the regulars, a fifty-something contractor everyone just calls Big Tim, makes a show of looking up my skirt every time I walk past, and I make a mental note to have T “accidentally” spill his drink the next time that table orders a round. Behind him, Felix and Dee are sniping at each other over a split prize from last week’s blackout round. Dee’s wig is at least a foot tall and covered in glitter snow, and every time she laughs, the entire thing shudders like a Christmas earthquake.
I love these people. Every loud, beautiful, inappropriate one of them.
I make my way to the front, heels clicking over the sticky tile, and Patti catches my eye. “Well, ya filthy animals, my number is up next, so little ol’ Patti O’Furniture needs to get herself ready! I know you’ll miss me. How about we have the Queen of Ceremonies call the next round?” she crows, waving me up like I’m a prize onThe Price Is Right. “Give it up for the Queen of Sleigh Queen herself, the reason half of you have a reason to live through January: May North!”
The room goes up, applause and catcalls echoing off the tin ceiling. I give a slow, theatrical curtsy, crown glittering under the lights. “You flatter me, darling. But you’re the real national treasure. I hear they’re putting your caftan in the Sleighbell Springs Museum after tonight. Right next to the taxidermy elk, under ‘oldest surviving dinosaur pelt,’” I tease with a cheeky grin.
Patti grins, perfect teeth gleaming. “Bitch, please. If I wanted to look preserved, I’d get my fillers done in Anchorage like you.”
The crowd loves it. They always do. It’s a script, sure, but it’sourscript, and I play my part to the hilt. I preen, flash a little leg for the crowd, and swing the cage for dramatic effect. “Okay, chickies. We’re on round five of our Winter Ball Drag Bingo, and the prize this round is a basket of handmade bath bombs, a fifty-dollar bar tab, and a date with Tucker. Don’t worry, the bath bombs smell better.”
Laughter. Teasing boos from Tucker, who flips me off from behind the bar.
I’m midway through announcing “O-sixty-nine. The scandal,” throwing an exaggerated wink at the crowd, when I feel it. A spark. A shift in the room.
Miles.
He walks in through the front door, his dark jacket dusted with snow, cheeks pink from the cold. He scans the room, searching, and when his gaze finds me, his entire expression softens into something that shoots straight through my chest.
Oh, hell. I nearly forget what number I just called.
He saunters toward the bar with that casual, confident stride of his, the one that says he knows exactly how many people are staring and he’s pretending not to care. He finds a stool, settles in like he’s got all night, and gives me a look that makes my knees wobble inside my rhinestone stilettos. I try to keep it professional. I really do. But Dixie, who’s taken over Patti’s mic while she gets ready, sighs dramatically through the sound system. “Well, someone’s got her man in the audience tonight. Should we start taking bets on how long she lasts before she jumps him?”
The audience loses it. I wave her off with a grin, blowing another kiss toward the bar, this one just for Miles. He catches it and presses it to his heart.
Christ, I’m a goner.
By the time we wrap the last round and Patti announces the winner, some sweet college kid from Montpelier who clearly didn’t know what they were getting into, I’m glowing. The crowd is buzzing with post-bingo energy, drinks are flowing, and Dee is leading a conga line that includes two firemen, a bachelorette, and someone in a reindeer onesie. I slip backstage to carefully pack away the bedazzled bingo cage and check myself in the mirror. Still flawless. Mascara intact, lipstick only slightly smudged. Perfect.
When I step back into the main bar, I scan for Miles and find him surrounded. Felix, Dee, Patti, and Anna have him fully cornered at the far end of the bar, leaning in, all talking at once. Miles looks equally amused and terrified, eyes wide, nodding like he’s not quite sure what the hell is happening.
“Y’all need hobbies,” I call out as I approach.
Like magic, the crowd parts. My queens scatter with practiced innocence, murmuring things like “we weren’t even doing anything” and “just asking questions.”
Sure, Jan.
I reach Miles, slide in between him and the bar, and pull him down into a kiss before he can say a word. It’s soft and slow, a little showy for the room, but more than that, it’s grounding. When I pull back, his lips are pink and curved into a smile.
“What was all that about?” I ask, jerking my head toward his retreating tormentors.
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just…teasing. Asking when I’m going to put a ring on it. Or at least get your name tattooed somewhere inappropriate.”
