The room is small and narrow, with an angled ceiling that makes it feel shaped like a triangle. A hanging rod runs along the left wall, completely covered by dozens of garment bags, holding all my old pageant gowns. On the right side of the room, where the ceiling angles low toward the floor, there’s a little hatch door leading to a storage crawl space. It actually connects all the way back to my bedroom closet. As kids, we used to call it the Narnia Passage, and would regularly use it to sneak up on each other. I may or may nothave double-checked to make sure no one was lurking when I set myself up here yesterday. But it was just cobwebs and the wafting scent of mothballs.
Still, at least I have privacy. It’s better than camping out on the couch in the family room—where everyone hangs out and leaves chip crumbs—which was physically the last remaining option for places I could sleep.
Yesterday, after the parade, I came home to find my belongings stacked tidily in the central hallway, where my dad must have left them after clearing them out of Camp Bennet to make space for Nate.
For a minute I just stood there, looking left toward the front door, then right toward the back double doors on the lake side, feeling like a well-dressed vagabond with nowhere to go.
There was no way in hell I was going to be sharing a room with Cara. I thought about asking Linney if I could crash in her room, since her husband, Graham, won’t be here for a few days—then remembered my sister is a notorious snorer. So I hauled my stuff up to the former-playroom-turned-pageant-closet and dragged the air mattress out of storage.
Now, I sit up gingerly, careful not to smack my head against the eaves. My neck hurts, my eyes feel gritty, probably because I barely slept last night. A low, miserable groan escapes me. I grab my toiletry bag and drag myself to the yellow bathroom to survey the damage. Purple shadows under my eyes, pillow creases on my cheek. I sigh and dig around in my bag for my concealer.
I came home to rot beside the lake. I don’t want to spend my summer having to get made up every day because the human reminder of all my insecurities is living in my house. Even when I was engaged to Aaron, I still made sure I had a blowout before going over to spend the night, and I never stayed over unless I’d packed my fullkit for hair and makeup. I’m at home; I’m supposed to be able to lounge around in my sweats without worrying how greasy my hair is or whether my eyes are puffy.
But as I stare at my reflection, my instincts start to kick in. Pageant girls and reality stars know a thing or two about how to put on a show. Cara may have ousted me from the sanctuary of my bedroom, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me look anything less than perfect. I swipe on my version of war paint—some mascara and a bit of lip gloss—and brace myself to face whatever fresh new hell today has to offer.
The high-pitched voices of Mickey and Minnie Mouse drift toward me as I descend the back staircase into the mudroom off the kitchen. I find my mom grating frozen butter into a bowl of flour, which means biscuits are imminent.
“Morning, Nikki-Belle!” Mom says cheerfully as I enter. She used to say it to me every morning when she’d wake me up before school. “Sleep well?”
“Sort of,” I say. “What can I do to help?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I take a seat on one of the counter stools and let myself enjoy a moment of being taken care of by my mother. I can’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast—or even the last time I actually sat and ate breakfast. Usually, I just grab something to go on the way to a morning workout class.
“Did you see the Musgrove Real Estate float yesterday?” Mom asks. “Soimpressive.”
“Mm-mm, no. But I saw Patsy talking to Dad,” I say, remembering Mary Moore was helping him out with something. I never asked what, but I assume it was some sort of town function. Mary Moore moved to Atlanta but she’s always involved in what’s going on hereat home, and loves to be in everyone’s business. Just like my mother. They’re honestly a perfect pair.
“Well, I thought Mary Moore looked just stunning. You’d never know she has two kids.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Linney’shad two kids.”
“And she looks absolutely stunning too, Nikki. I was just trying to pay your old friend a compliment.”
“We aren’t really friends anymore,” I say, putting on the coffee.
Mom tsks. “That really is a shame. You two were like a couple of peas in a pod.”
“More like two princesses competing for a single crown,” I mutter, though I have to admit, in between all the jostling for attention and trophies, we did have some fun along the way too.
Before Mom can respond to the edge in my voice, Cooper comes galloping down the stairs. He beelines for Mom’s biscuit batter and goes to stick a finger in before Mom swats his hand away.
“Morning.” He spots me by the fridge. “Hey, Nikki, Cara says you slept in the closet last night?”
Condiment bottles rattle as I yank open the refrigerator door. “It’s not a closet,” I grumble. “And it’s… a sentimental room for me.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it.
“I’m more than happy to let our guest have her own privacy and her own space,” I say with the most false cheer I can muster. It’s not much.
“Well, that’s nice of you, sis,” Cooper says, and I honestly can’t tell if he even noticed I was being sarcastic. “Cara’s in the shower in the blue bathroom,” he adds, “and I’m going to run into town and grab donuts. Where’s Tripp? He blocked me in last night.”
“He and Pete are still sleeping,” Mom says. “You can take my car,sweetie.” She brushes the biscuits with melted butter and pops them into the oven. “The keys are in the bowl by the door.”
