The night my entire life implodes in front of the whole town.
“I’m busy that night,” I say.
“No you’re not. I’ve seen your calendar.”
“I have a...thing.”
“What thing?”
“A business thing. Very important. Can’t be moved.”
Grayson squints at me. “You’re being weird. Weirder than usual, which is saying something.” He polishes off his hot dog and wipes his hands on a napkin. “Michelle specifically requested you for the planning committee.”
“That’s flattering.”
“She also said Jessica asked for you specifically.”
My heart does something acrobatic. “Jessica asked for me?”
“Apparently you two had some kind of moment at the library? She said you were ‘less insufferable than expected’ and might be ‘useful for heavy lifting.’” Grayson grins. “High praise from a woman who once called you ‘an expensive suit.’”
“Fine,” I hear myself say. “I’ll help.”
“Great. Meeting’s tomorrow at The Fiction Nook. Ten AM.” Grayson claps me on the shoulder. “Try not to be insufferable. Or do. Jessica seems to enjoy it.”
He disappears into the crowd before I can respond, leaving me alone with my rigged ring toss and the dawning realization that I’ve just volunteered to help plan the event that will destroy my life.
A kid walks up to the booth, clutching three dollars and looking determined. “I want the big shark.”
“The big shark requires five rings on five bottles,” I tell him. “That’s nearly impossible.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
“Have you?”
“My dad made me a practice setup in the backyard.” He hands over his money with a solemn expression. “I’m ready.”
I give him his rings, and he lands four out of five.
I give him the big shark anyway.
Like I said. Soft touch.
The sun is startingto set by the time I escape booth duty, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would be cliché if they weren’t so genuinely beautiful. The beach has transformed from daytime chaos to evening romance withcouples walking along the waterline, families spreading out picnic blankets for the fireworks, and the distant sound of a live band playing something vaguely patriotic from the boardwalk stage.
I should go home. Should check my email, review the letter that’s been burning a hole in my pocket since this morning, maybe have a quiet breakdown in private like a civilized person.
Instead, I buy a funnel cake and find a spot on the boardwalk railing to watch the sunset.
The letter is from Between the Lines. I picked it up this morning, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to open it because I already know what it says. Jessica mentioned the reveal event at the library yesterday. This letter is probably the formal invitation.
To my own unmasking.
I’m contemplating the pastry-to-existential-crisis ratio of my current situation when someone leans against the railing beside me.
“Funnel cake. Bold choice for a man in a black shirt.”
Of course it’s Jessica.
