And what she truly knew, more than anything, was that somepeople in this sleepy small town, some people that might only be passing through, one day—those unknown friendswouldwant a space like this. Might not just want it, butneedit.
She hauled in more things from her car. Her small toolbox, for a hammer and some nails. The things she’d need for tonight. Moved around the bags in her trunk until she got to the collapsed foot ladder. Back inside 12 Main Street, she emptied one of the tote bags until she found the flags.
Leaving it all on the ground for now, she picked up a flashlight and some cleaning supplies first. She’d made a pact with herself, weeks ago, that she’d take her time with all of this. Every single step. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right.
Thirty minutes later, the front picture window was wiped clean, the casing and the sills dusted. And Mae, for now, would continue on in privacy, protected from the eyes of Main Street through colorful sashes both soft and bold.
She stepped outside to snap a picture for Vik.
And then she locked the door and dug her phone out of her bag. Ignoring her notifications, she opened Jesus Herrera-Baptiste’s final playlist one more time.
She turned the volume all the way up. Placed the phone on the floor and pressed Play.
And as at Jesus’s death party, the first track made her laugh out loud.
She supposed she should have introduced herself to her neighbors before blasting Ricky Martin’s “La Copa de la Vida,” the official song of the 1998 World Cup. But really, if they were going to have to get to know Mae and Jesus anyway, this was the way to do it.
Mae contemplated getting more things from her car, or figuring out how to get upstairs, where she planned to sleep. But you couldn’t listen to 1998 Ricky Martin without shimmying at least a little.
And so Mae danced around the room she intended to make hers, to Ricky and then “Jumpin’ Jumpin’” by Destiny’s Child, which, naturally, followed as the second track, laughing softly to herself and feeling Jesus in the room with her all the while. Even if she didn’t truly believe in spirits lingering. Even if she knew he was gone.
Jesus’s death party playlist had been perfectly him, a mix of tracks from both his favorite queens like Bey and Taylor and his Latine kings: Don Omar, Marc Anthony, Manuel Turizo. And here and there, his favorite showtunes.
Jesus had shared the playlist at the same time he’d transferred his powers of attorney to Mae, after Steve’s heart attack. Like he knew. That he would tell his own body to let go, soon. To be with his corazón again.
She might not have truly believed in an afterlife herself, but Mae was somehow able to hold onto the hope of it, for them.
The playlist was exactly one hour long.“One hour of talking about how great I was! Make sure there’s lots of candy. Maybe some sparklers. And then you can all go get drunk or do whatever you want. Although it would mean a lot if you drank some piña coladas at Tropicale for me, if the mood struck you. Stick some googly eyes on the pineapples and pretend it’s my spirit.”
And they had, later. Stuck googly eyes on the pineapples.
And by god, theydidfeel like his spirit.
Until Alexei had eventually peeled the silly eyes from his, hiding them away inside his palm before he’d said in his quietly commanding way: “Okay. Go find Steve, now.”
And the patio of Tropicale had gone quiet, filled with that almost happy, reverent version of deeply sad.
Mae felt close to the same now. She had felt the distance, with every mile she’d rolled further from Portland earlier today. How far away she was now from her people. How truly alone she was, here in this empty storefront. But the music helped her inch closer to almost-happy. The music helped her be almost fully there.
And just as at the death party, it was when Judy appeared that things really got swinging.
All of their friends had been busy hugging, eating all of Jesus’s favorite snacks, laughing as they tried not to cry during the first twenty minutes of the party, held in the auditorium at the center. But when Judy Garland came in with “The Trolley Song,” somehow everyone started moving at once. As if they were all in St. Louis, Jesus at the front of the line, urging them to hop onboard.
They didn’tdance, exactly, as much as they escaped their grief for a moment to jump inside a musical instead, as Jesus would have wanted them to: arms outstretched, swinging each other by the elbows, dramatically singing along, swooning with hands held over hearts.
Mae was just as into it here, alone in Greyfin Bay. She fisted her hands in front of her neck, leaned her head back and closed her eyes as she spun. She threw off her sweater, shimmied out of her skirt. She always felt most comfortable when she was as close to naked as possible. She sang out loud to the ceiling of her future bookshop about how grand it was for Judy just then, holding his hand ‘til the end of the line, feeling every clang clang clang and zip zip zip and?—
A throat cleared, and Mae twirled toward the door.
five
Mae’s eyespopped open as she stumbled. She clutched at her chest, face aflame as Judy Garland faded and Janet Jackson’s “Together Again” began playing from the phone on the floor.
“What,” she gritted out, “are you doing here?”
Dell worked to keep his face blank.
He had not meant to interrupt her dance session. Had not meant to witness her…like this, body in motion, inside a private moment. Her skirt, along with the copper cardigan, had been abandoned on the floor, leaving every curve of her thighs, her ass, her hips and her belly on display in her leggings and threadbare T-shirt. The loss of the cardigan exposed the fact that one of her pale arms was inked with tattoos, covering almost every inch of skin he could see from wrist to sleeve: a mosaic of intricate black linework interspersed with spots of brightly colored flowers.
