“Right,” I say, suddenly realizing I haven’t stepped foot in my hometown in three years.
We fall quiet for a moment. It stretches out forjusttoo long.
“And you went to music school,” Maisy says with equal awe.
“I did.”
“I was actually at that show the other night. When you sang.”
I smirk through my shyness. “Did you ever imagine, in this reality, you’d see me on a stage?”
Her cheeks pinch up beneath her warm eyes with that signature dazzling smile. The one that made all of Bristol fawn over her, possibly still. The one that won her dozens of child-pageant trophies.
“You took off your old skin, and I took off mine, right?” she asks.
My eyes glisten at the memory. The healthiest breakup in the world.
“Right,” I say. “Though I don’t think being onstage is something I ever want to do again. I like the process of creating music, less the act of performing it.”
“Funnily enough,” Maisy says, grinning, “I had this weird feeling.”
“You weren’t blown away by my stage presence?”
“I got the sense you were counting down the seconds until it was over.” I laugh lightly and Maisy readjusts, her palm on the grass. In a smaller voice she adds, “I thought about texting you after. But I figured there was a small chance it was about me.”
My head cocks. “The song?” She nods, and I shake my head, though I get why she thought that. I suppose the theme of betrayal was more universal than I’d intended it to be. “That song is about Liam. It’s kind of a long story.”
She hums in acknowledgment. “I saw you two were dating other people.”
“We’re back together. Just recently. But things are—confusing.”
I don’t elaborate, and Maisy doesn’t pry. I may be happy to see her, but she’ll never be the person I want to talk about Liam with.
“I hope it works out. I want you to be happy, Paige.”
My head bobs softly. “I want that for you too, Mais.”
She perks up, her tiny shoulders straightening. “I am happy. These days I actually like myself. That feeling came the second I discovered that if I’mnotthe center of attention, life goes on, and in all likelihood, it goes on even better.”
“Wise,” I say.
Her smile is sly. “Don’t give me too much credit. I get power hungry during mock trial.”
My laugh is warm. Then I notice the tiny charm bracelet on her wrist. A silver car, just like the one she gave me, nestled among at least a dozen other charms. But it’s there.
“I didn’t realize you had one too,” I whisper, nodding at it.
“Oh, yeah. Well, home, you know?” She’s blushing now. Obviously, they’d been made as friendship bracelets. Maisy gave me mine the last time we saw each other in person, like she knew our friendship needed a commemorative tangibility.
I lift my jeans and show her the charm she gave me, which I transferred a few years ago to an anklet I never take off. “Home,” I repeat, smiling at her gently.
“The twin city,” she says.
“Country music’s birthplace,” I say.
Equally lame monikers. No wonder we claimed the far less official slogan,It’s Bristol, baby!, with such fervor.
We catch up a while longer about her classes, my summer on tour, but eventually, there’s a sort of mutual acknowledgment that we’ve reached the endpoint of this encounter being casual. There’s also an unsaid acknowledgment that casual is what it needs to be.
