“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything.”
“Shut up.”
“No,” I say. “You’re wasting your time, Cy. And you’re making this into much bigger a deal than it needs to be. I’llmaybe end up going on a date with someone one time—at worst. No parking lots or abandoned buildings or shut-down theme parks. Okay?”
When he doesn’t respond, I sigh, softening the tiniest bit.
“I’ll be safe, okay?”
He mutters mutinously under his breath, which is my cue to exit the conversation.
“I have to go, Cy. This thing starts in an hour, and I still have some last-minute stuff to do.” Then, before he can protest, I say, “Bye!”
I toss the phone onto the plush chair in the changing room, staring at it to make sure Cyrus doesn’t somehow materialize in this little clothing boutique. It’s situated across the town square from the bookshop and the record shop, and I felt bad asking to use their dressing room when I was bringing my own outfit instead of buying anything, but they were great about it.
And I made the right choice, going back for the red dress. It still fits like a glove. It hits several inches above my knee, and the neckline is low but not too low. It hugs my curves just right, and the color is perfect, too.
I shouldn’t need clothes to make me feel good about myself. And for the most part, I don’t. But I do feel better, seeing my reflection—like I’m fitting my armor in place. I straighten up to my full height and then nod, looking around for where I put my shoes down.
There were several options I could have gone with for heels, but it didn’t take me long to settle on my tan pumps, sleek and clean and classy. They give me a few extra inches of height. And while I know I’m a hypocrite for caring about height when I hate that quality in men I date, I slip the shoes on anyway, feeling better as I do.
I just want to feel confident.
My hair, I decide, will stay down. My lips will be red. My mascara will be black.
And if I see Barf down there, smirking smugly like I think he might, I will ignore him—like I should have done all along. Mindy can have him. They might be very happy together.
But Bart and I never would have been. It’s too late to berate myself for getting attached. It happened. The best I can do now is move on, without lingering annoyance.
“All right,” I mutter, giving myself one last look in the mirror. “Good enough.”
Then I leave the changing room and head back out of the shop, weaving through the rows of shelves and into the town square.
It does look great, I’ll allow myself to say. Lucky’s town square just has a sense of charm that can’t be replicated, with the strands of light overhead and the paved stone beneath. Our quintessential small town shops lend an air of intimacy to the event, as do the booths their owners are setting up.
I wave at several of them as I pass, heading toward the stage that we spent the morning setting up. The last time there was a stage in this town square, we were putting on the Lucky Bicentennial Pageant, and India accidentally flashed the whole town.
There will be no repeats of that incident this evening.
“Could you move that a few feet up?” I call to my coworker who’s tacking the gauzy backdrop in place, an overlay to the red curtains already hung. The woman turns to look at me over her shoulder from the top of the ladder, and then she stretches up, lifting the sheer fabric higher.
“Here?” she calls back down to me.
“A little more—yeah, that’s good. Thank you, Hallie.” I keep moving, adjusting a few tablecloths as I weave through the tables, corralling our ticket-takers and going over their schedule,and then checking on the food preparation. When I’m satisfied that everything looks good—even Bart and Mindy, I can admit, dressed in a cute little couple outfit—I sigh, hopping up to sit on the stage for a moment.
It’s childish, but I’ve always loved to sit on counters and tables and whatever else is around. I swing my feet and cast another glance over the square.
It looks great. It looks really great, and the weather has cooperated beautifully. Everything should be good.
Hopping off the stage, I skirt past the group of sound people setting up speakers. Then I turn the sharp corner and run right into a giant—someone with a broad chest, a fresh scent, and gentle hands that steady me before stepping back.
Roman.
I know it’s him before I see his face, and when I glance up, it’s to find him looking faintly surprised.
Relief rushes through me at his appearance. He’s got on his classic business attire, tan pants and a blue button-up shirt with a suit coat, and that feeling in my chest grows.
