Ava attends meetings for the Harlow Sustainability and Desert Preservation Committee with regularity, as any overachieving high school kid would. She only has a learner’s permit, so one of her parents ordinarily accompanies her. They typically wait in the car, though.
Harlow’s community center has a neutral look—sand-colored walls and laminate flooring—and attendees fill more than half of the metal folding chairs facing the podium. Ms. Willow, a stylish sixty-something who moved here for retirement, stands at the front of the room. Her waist-length braid sways as she guides discussions on fundraisers for trail maintenance and proposals for increasing the minimum wage for park workers.
I divide my interest: 99 percent to the people speaking and 1 percent to Max—2 percent tops. He doodles on the paper in his lap, the long veins in his hand flexing with the movement, but he keeps his attention on whoever is speaking. He doesn’t squirm around like he did in high school, and he’s not swimming in his clothes anymore, either. Grown-up Max is focused and self-assured, and even in simple tailored jeans and a Henley, he’s more stylish and put-together than anyone here. None of this meeting involves him, but he nods along as residents beg for better bike lanes and request more legible signage on trails. When two folks kick off a heated argument over a hundred-year-old cactus and whose property it rests on, Max catches my eye. He slips me a quiet smile that sends songbirds soaring in my stomach.
I whip my head to the front. The last thing I need to do is rouse forgotten feelings for someone who will be leaving soon. I forgot those feelings for a reason. Secret smiles across a room, or worse, almost kisses—none of that.
“Finally, we have…” Ms. Willow refers to her papers. “The November town hall. We intend to petition the lawmakers for revised zoning laws, restrictions commensurate with hotels, and limits on nonresident investments for short-term rentals. This will be our last chance this year to appeal for rules to preserve long-term housing and reduce environmental strain. I think we can all agree that we want to maintain the character and livability of our community. A lot of you might travel this summer, but I’d love to get a couple folks working on this.”
I sit up straighter and ignore how Max’s attention skips in my direction. Homeshares evade the taxes that hotels pay, so they can naturally charge less. Not to mention, they make prices for locals skyrocket. When Ms. Willow says she wants some volunteers to draft the petition before fall’s town hall, I see an opportunity to help The Mirage. She concludes the meeting, and I practically leap over to her.
“First person up here.” She chuckles while writing my name down on her legal pad. “Color me surprised.”
“It’s not just about The Mirage.” I pause as someone pats her on the shoulder and waves goodbye. “I’m concerned for Harlow. Sure, there’s new business, but is there infrastructure for that business? And these listings have no character, no consideration for sustainability, especially with recent developments, so—”
“My dear, save the impassioned speech for the proposal.” She trills a little laugh. “Just like your mom.”
I stand taller at the comparison. Eco-friendliness has been integral to The Mirage’s business model, and since taking over, I’ve invested in better insulation for guest rooms and LED lighting in common areas, and I switched us to bulk toiletries. I’ve also made sure to show up to these monthly meetings, just how my mom did, without fail. Ms. Willow’s right—if Mom were here, she’d give those councilors a piece of her mind.
“I’d like to help.” Dawn Liu sidles next to me, fresh-faced and eager, and I almost fall over. She documented her move from Portland to Harlow on her blog and YouTube channel. Dawn’s now a go-to resource for events in town and local businesses, including hotels. She stayed at The Mirage once, and that didn’t go well.
“Oh!” Ms. Willow scribbles Dawn’s name down—with more enthusiasm than she did mine, I note. “A celebrity could really help.”
She can’t be serious.
“I can cover this on my site and all my socials.”
“You two’ll work wonderfully together.” Ms. Willow rests a reassuring hand on my forearm. “I know you’re not so big on public speaking.”
I’m about to tell her it’s fine—that I don’t mind presenting in front of crowds if I have to, but Dawn talks over me. “Oh, yeah, no problem for me.” She points to herself. “Theater kid.”
“But you…” I pause when they both look at me, unsure how to encourage Ms. Willow to reconsider Dawn’s participation. “I didn’t know you were so passionate about the homeshares here.”
“I’m looking at buying a new home. I won’t bore you with the details,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “but I’m totally priced out after only two years of being here, even after a profit on my old property. Plus, sustainability in tourism is a big thing these days, and travel is my beat.”
My jaw tightens. All she wants is more views.
Ms. Willow jots down some notes and looks expectantly over my shoulder. “Will you be helping, too?”
“Oh, I’m the chaperone for that one.” Max steps forward, pointing to Ava across the room and then to me. “And I came to support Daze here.”
He gives Ms. Willow a dimpled smile. She extends her hand, which he shakes with a kind of suaveness I never saw in him growing up. I swear, her cheeks turn pink.
When Ms. Willow dashes over to say goodbye to someone, Dawn retrieves her cell phone from her cross-body shoulder bag. “We should probably exchange info, huh? Daisy or Daze?”
“Daisy.”
“The…” She snaps her fingers a few times. “The Mirage, right?”
I inhale to the count of four, but the sting from her barely remembering the hotel remains. Dawn buries her nose in her phone, entering my contact information. Max nudges me, luring me out of my negative thoughts. He mouths,You okay?to which I loosen up and nod.
“We should go big here,” Dawn says. “Interview business owners, and I can edit video footage. We’ll blow their minds so they really see what regulations we’re fighting for.”
Interviews? Footage? The suggestions make me lightheaded. I propose something else. “We could email them instead.”
“Unscripted is better. Best way to tug at heartstrings. Trust me. And a visual element would help.” She turns to Max. “Don’t you think?”
“Uh.” His eyes widen, and he looks back and forth between us. “Visual is good.”
