EXHAUSTED. NEVER IN MY LIFE had I been so exhausted. As I walked down Main Street toward Second Chances, past all the colorful signs for Summer Fest, I prayed that Tammy would have some coffee on. Clearly, partying in Nashville until two a.m., then driving the two hours home, only to get up at eight for a nine o’clock shift, was not a good plan.
“Hey, Cecilia!”
Fiona jogged up from behind and fell into step with me. She looked way too awake and perky in her wide-legged jeans and gauzy top. And was it just me, or was she wearing her ponytail a bit higher these days?
“Did you have fun last night? What was it like? Was Blake Ralston there?”
I yawned hugely, doing a very bad job of hiding it behind my hand. “He was, but I didn’t meet him.”
“Oh my God, still! You were in the same room with him!? That’s insane!”
We crossed Peach and I glanced at the message painted on the wall of the Book Nook. Ever since my first day in Sweetbriar, I’d felt as if the daily words of wisdom—painted over each night and replaced with a new inspiration by a mysterious, anonymous artist—were speaking directly to me. Today’s missive read:
YOU GOTTA DO WHAT YOU GOTTA DO, UNTIL YOU DECIDE YOU DON’T GOTTA DO IT ANYMORE.
Huh. Wasn’t quite sure what to do with that one.
“Anyway, here. Could you hand these out to some people today? Whenever you have a chance.”
She handed me a stack of rainbow-colored flyers. Across the top of each was the headline “Fiona Taylor for Sweetbriar Summer Princess!”
“Oh my gosh! It’s actually happening! This is so great, Fiona.”
“Thanks. It’s all about the unexpected, right? And no one I know would expect me to do this.”
Printed underneath the headline was a full-color picture of a smiling Fiona . . . and me. I vaguely remembered Britta taking it the night we’d gone to see the Firebrand Three a couple of weeks ago and I’d had a panic attack right after, worried she’d post it on Instagram or something and my mother would find me. But both Britta and Fiona had promised it would never leave their phones—thinking I was totally wasted, because why else would I be begging them to keep a perfectly fine photo under wraps. And now, here it was.
And it was weird. At least, it seemed weird to me. Campaign posters normally featured a picture of the candidate. Alone. Unless he or she had a running mate.
Huh. I wondered who my mother was going to choose as her running mate. If she made it past the primaries, anyway. Thinking of my mom made me realize I’d yet to check my phone this morning, and when I did I had four missed calls—two from Tash and two from my mother. All from the last ten minutes.
I adjusted my bag on my shoulder, making sure the mood boards I’d thrown together for the gala yesterday afternoon weren’t getting smushed. I was both excited and terrified to show them at the meeting later today.
“Great picture, huh?” Fiona said, leaning her chin on my shoulder.
“It is, actually,” I said. “But—”
The door to Second Chances opened and Tammy stuck her head out. “Cecilia! There you are! I have to talk to you, hon!”
In the window of the shop, blocking out our latest display of summer dresses, was a huge poster of a smiling Shelby, her hair back in a tortoiseshell headband as she smiled prettily out at the world. SHELBY TANAKA! YOUR SWEETBRIAR SUMMER PRINCESS!
“Sheesh. Jumping the gun a little, isn’t she?” Fiona griped, and crossed her arms over her stomach.
“Power of suggestion,” I told her. “Girl knows her psychology.”
Fiona looked crestfallen.
“Sorry. I’ll definitely hand these out,” I promised her, shoving the flyers in my bag along with my phone, which was currently vibrating. “I gotta get to work. See you later.”
“You bet! Come by the diner for lunch!”
Fiona pulled me into a quick hug, then bounded off down the street, handing out flyers to everyone in her path. I’d never seen her so peppy, and I was happy for her. She was trying something new. And so was I. Or I would be once I attended the gala meeting this afternoon. I hoped our new opportunities worked out for the both of us.
The bells tinkled overhead as I walked into Second Chances, and the scent of fresh coffee hit me square in the face. I placed my bag carefully inside the door of the back room and trudged past a beaming Tammy, directly into the office to fill my favorite cup—the one that read PERFECT TENNESSEE.
“You okay there, Fiddler?” Tammy asked me.
“Just in need of caffeine,” I told her.
She leaned up against the office doorjamb. “Well, when you’re out partying like a rock star all night . . . ,” she joked lightly.
“You heard about that, huh?” I asked, and took a sip of my coffee, black.
“Oh, hon, the whole world has heard about it.”
Tammy fished her phone out of the pocket of her colorful muumuu-style dress and hit the screen a few times before showing it to me. On it was a perfectly posed, beautifully lit photo of me and Jasper from last night’s epic red-carpet walk. It must have been taken somewhere near the theater, after I’d gotten a bit used to all the lights and the screaming, because my smile didn’t appear to be particularly strained. If one looked closely, however, they would have been able to see how tightly I was clutching Jasper’s jacket.
Still, I had to say, we looked pretty cute together.
“Where was that posted?” I asked.
“This one? This is on the record company’s Instagram. It already has two hundred and fifty thousand likes.”
“What!?” I shrieked as I set down the coffee mug and grabbed the phone. I scrolled down and saw that she was right—250K and counting. Unfortunately, I also saw some of the comments.
He is so effing hot! I would take him home to meet mama.
Why would he tie himself down when he could get so much play right now? And to that uptight bitch? For serious?
Jasilia? Horrible. Who came up with that crap?
There’s no way these two last.
Ugh! How big is this girl’s forehead? Is that where she keeps her ego?
My stomach turned. I handed back the phone and turned away from Tammy.
It doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. They don’t know you. They don’t know him. And they never will.
I picked up my coffee again and slowly took a long, bolstering sip.
“So, what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked.
Tammy’s eyes lit up. “Well! Come take a look at this!”
I followed her through the door and saw that she had several blueprints stacked up on the counter, their edges curling under. Curiosity officially piqued.
“What are these for?” I asked.
“These are my original plans for the Tanner Street School,” Tammy said, beaming. “Remember I told you? How I was going to turn it into studio space?”
My curiosity was suddenly tainted by suspicion. And maybe a smidge of dread.
“Well, I was thinking maybe you could introduce me to your mother and I could show her the blueprints!” Tammy announced, lifting a palm. “If she likes what she sees, we could come up with a plan for when she returns the school to the town. She could put in a good word for me with the mayor and the planning board.”
Right. So dread it was.
“What do you think?”
“Maybe . . . ,” I said.
“Maybe? You don’t think she’d like them?”
“No! I mean, I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about blueprints, so . . .”
Tammy’s face registered confusion and then disappointment. What was wrong with me? Tammy was my friend. She gave me a job when I needed one and helped me discover my talent for styling clothes. She’d even gone out of her way to get me that information on TSoD. Shouldn’t helping her be my knee-jerk response?
It was just . . . I didn’t like this feeling. This feeling that she was using me to get to my mother—to get something she wanted. Our friendship now felt tainted somehow.
But then, I had gotten her daughter arrested, so maybe I owed her one.
Ugh. Why was this all so hard?
“If you don’t feel comfortable . . .” Tammy began to roll up the plans.
“No!” I blurted. “I mean, yes. Of course I’ll show them to my mother.”
My face felt hot, and somewhere inside I felt angry at Tammy for putting me in this position. Because yes, it did make me feel uncomfortable. And honestly, knowing my mother, she’d probably brush the whole thing off as something she couldn’t focus on right now. And I’d be the one who had to break the news to Tammy. But page two of the Montgomery Family Handbook, if it existed, would have read, Make sure to repay every favor with a favor.
“You will?” Tammy asked.
“Of course I will.” I took the plans from her and placed them next to my bag in the stockroom, ignoring the fact that my phone was—yet again—vibrating. Then I turned to Tammy and tried to smile. “That’s what friends are for.”
* * *
“Oh, hey! I’m glad you’re here,” I said as I walked into my mother’s conference room that afternoon. My heart was pounding in my throat, but I pushed through, thanks to a whopping dose of adrenaline. “I wanted to show you some ideas I came up with for the décor.”
I placed my bag down at the end of the gleaming oak table and started to pull out my mood boards. My mother was typing on her phone while a minion I’d never met placed folders, legal pads, and pens at each of eight places.
“Put those away, Cecilia. You won’t be needing them today,” my mother said with a sniff.
I paused with my favorite color scheme in my hands. It was all oranges, purples, and golds to represent the Tennessee sunrise. I had photos, swatches of fabrics I’d grabbed from the discard bin at Second Chances, and even a few choices of font style for the menus and place cards.
“But I spent half my day yesterday working on this.”
“Perhaps you did, but this is a budgetary meeting. No one is going to want to look at your little art project here.”
I sat down hard in one of the leather chairs around the table, and suddenly I felt exhausted all over again—maybe even worse than I’d felt that morning. The room we were in had once been the teacher’s lounge. It had been cleared of most of its furniture, but there was still an old tin NO SMOKING sign in the corner and the Tanner Street School Code of Conduct hung on the wall near the door. It went out of focus as I stared at it. After the awkward blueprint question, I had spent most of the day fielding more questions from Tammy about my childhood—and fudging the truth all over the place so she wouldn’t think I felt sorry for myself (she was so starry-eyed about the Montgomerys, I just couldn’t do that to her). When we weren’t talking about what the Montgomerys ate for Sunday brunch or where we summered or who had the best clothes, we were dealing with “customers” who were clearly just tourists who had somehow found out where I worked. I couldn’t get used to people staring at me while trying to look like they weren’t staring at me, and all morning I’d felt on edge. At least some of them had made actual purchases, so it wasn’t all for naught.
And in between all of this, I’d been sneaking little moments to add to my mood boards, to perfect them, to make them so dazzling, my mother couldn’t deny me. Except that she just had. Without even looking at them.
“So . . . what does one do at a budgetary meeting?” I asked quietly.
“You’re going to set the budget, so that you can hire some vendors right away,” my mother said.
“Wait,” I said, my brain suddenly catching up. “I’m going to set the budget?”
“You and your team.” My mother moved over to the window to look out at the workers in the courtyard, who were flattening the ground using a machine that made enough noise to wake the dead.
“You’re not staying?” I asked.
And since when am I in charge of the budget? I wondered. I thought I was just coming up with suggestions to make the gala “more Sweetbriar.” Thus the Tennessee-inspired mood boards.
“I have meetings, Cecilia,” my mother replied, in a tone that made it clear that her meetings were real meetings, unlike this meeting she was forcing me to attend. “Where’s Jasper? I thought he was coming today with some suggestions for musical acts.”
Yeah. I thought he was coming too, I thought. But it’s probably a good thing he’s not, since I don’t think he has any suggestions for musical acts. And also, the last five minutes would just have given him more fuel for his Anti-Rebecca Montgomery campaign. What had he said again? Don’t let her push me around? So far, no good.
Jasper had been called in to the studio to rework one of his tracks. He’d told me he’d be here as soon as he could, but Gary Benson’s house was at least fifteen minutes outside of town. Once he got there, did what he needed to do, and drove back, we’d be done. At least I was seeing him tonight. We had plans to watch a mindless action movie and stuff our faces with Jimmy’s dim sum. What I wouldn’t give to be there right now.
“I told you, he’s not going to be able to come to every meeting. He’s busy making appearances and recording his album.” I checked my phone and saw he’d texted me a photo. He was standing in front of a mic with a pair of huge headphones on and an expression of giddy disbelief on his face. “He has a life.”
Unlike me.
“Right. And isn’t that life meant to include you?”
Ouch. Was your mother really supposed to try to hit you where it hurt?
“Well, he wouldn’t have to be doing as much as he is if you hadn’t had him arrested for no reason,” I said, my face burning from the effort of talking back to her.
The door opened, and in filed Tash, followed by the six other people on the planning committee. They were all chatting in low tones, looking chipper and ready after what had probably been a short work lunch of kale and flaxseed salads. These people were all about the superfoods.
“You know, Cecilia,” my mother said, as if no one else was there, “you’re going to have to get over that eventually. I only did what I did in direct response to your actions. If you want to act like a child, you should be ready to accept the consequences.”
The happy chatter died. One of the men had paused with his butt halfway to his chair, and when he saw me looking at him, he fell into it, making the springs squeak. Tash smirked as she opened her folder on the table.
If you don’t want me to act like a child, maybe you should stop treating me like one, I thought, but of course didn’t say.
“Oh, and one other thing,” she said, as she slipped her suit jacket off the chair behind her desk. “We all saw the photos of you two from that event last night. If you’re going to parade yourself around like that, I expect you to make use of your makeup artist and stylist. We want to make sure you project the proper image.”
“I told them to work with her last night, but she sent them away,” Tash tattled like a toddler.
My fingers curled around the edges of my legal pad. If I karate chopped her with it, would my mother’s bodyguards barrel in here and tackle me to the ground?
“Well, now that you’re all here, I’ll let you get down to work,” my mother said, checking her watch. “Cecilia, I want to see all of your plans by midday tomorrow. Don’t overspend.”
She patted Tash on the back, letting everyone know who was really in charge, and swept out of the room. Just when I thought she was gone, she was standing in the doorway again, looking almost regal as she tugged at the sleeves of her jacket.
“And I do find it interesting, Cecilia, that you were there for your boyfriend’s event last night, but he can’t be bothered to show up here for you.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she was gone before I could. Not that I had any idea what to say anyway. All eyes turned to gaze at me, some disdainful, others sympathetic. One woman looked downright pitying.
“Well, Cecilia,” Tash said finally, “why don’t you go ahead and let us know how you’d like to proceed?”
I had not one tiny clue. And I’d never felt like more of a child in my life.
* * *
Jasper was late. He’d never made it to campaign HQ, and now he was late for our chill dinner plans. That budget meeting had taken the life right out of me. All those facts and details and discounts and calling in favors. The lists and lists of potential local vendors. The twenty-minute-long debate over whether we should fly seafood in and if the benefits would merit the cost. Was this really what these people talked about all day?
Meanwhile, I’d barely been able to keep myself awake and had only survived by looking forward to seeing Jasper tonight. But clearly he had not been looking forward to seeing me. Otherwise, he would have been on time.
My foot bounced and my legs crossed tightly as I sat on his couch and pointed the remote at his flatscreen TV. The takeout from Jimmy’s was laid out on the coffee table, the sauces congealing, and there was nothing to watch. At least, I was pretty sure there was nothing to watch. My brain hadn’t registered much as I scrolled through the channels again and again and again.
I knew I should be on my computer, answering e-mails from Tash and going over the list of potential musical acts she’d compiled for me and Jasper, or sifting through the roughly twenty-five sample menus she’d sent from local caterers so that I could at least have it narrowed down for my meeting with my mom tomorrow, but I just didn’t feel like it. I knew I wouldn’t be able to concentrate, and trying to decide between bison and regular old beef was just not something that interested me. Especially not when I was starving and trying very hard not to eat the delectable food that was right in front of me.
The digital clock clicked off another minute and I blew out a sigh.
He told you he was going to be busy, I reminded myself. Right now his life is not his own.
But did he really not have five seconds to shoot off a text?
Finally, I heard a heavy footfall on the porch and a second later, his key in the lock. Part of me wanted to stand up to greet him, but the angry part of me—the larger part of me—kept me rooted to the spot. The TV landed on a cooking show and I left it there, glaring at the screen.
Immature, I know. But I was exhausted. And annoyed. And between Tammy, and my mother, and Tash, and three hours of fighting over how much to spend on décor versus music versus food versus bathroom attendants and always being voted down, I was feeling used and unappreciated.
“Hey! There’s my girl!”
Jasper launched himself over the back of the couch and basically tackled me into it, my head coming to rest on the arm. He laid a big closed-mouth kiss on me, then cupped the top of his hat with his hand, tossed it across the room, and deepened the kiss.
Wow. Someone was in a good mood. I pressed my hands into his chest and pushed him back. He grinned. This boy was really not picking up on my body language.
“Guess what?” he said, sitting up. “I got over a thousand new Twitter followers today!”
He flashed his phone’s screen at me so quickly, I didn’t see a thing.
“And the record label Instagram told their followers to follow me, so now my Instagram is blowing up too. It’s ridiculous!”
He leaned into me and held out the phone for a selfie. “Smile!”
I did not smile. Jasper did not notice.
He sat up again and started typing. “What’s your screen name? I’ll tag you!”
His thumbs paused and he looked over at me, the picture of blue-eyed obliviousness.
“Um, I’m not on Instagram. Up until a month ago no one was allowed to know what I looked like, remember?”
A tiny shadow passed through Jasper’s eyes, at a blink-and-you-might-miss-it speed. “Right. Sorry. Forgot about that for a second.”
He tapped the phone a couple more times and then, apparently satisfied with whatever he’d posted, shoved it into his back pocket.
“You should join. Now that you’re out as the real you, I mean.” Jasper reached forward for a wonton noodle and crunched into it. “You’d probably get, like, a million followers.”
“Not even a little bit interested.”
I pushed myself up off the couch and walked into the kitchen, needing to put some distance between me and the social media maven. It was like he’d forgotten who I was—why I was even here. I realized his career might make him famous, but I never thought he’d get so excited about fame itself. I’d thought he was about the music, not about the followers.
I, for one, didn’t want followers. I didn’t need a million more people tracking my every move more than they already did. I just wanted friends. People I could trust. And I’d thought I found that here. But now, I was starting to wonder.
“Everything okay, Red Sox?”
I yanked open the fridge and studied the contents, as if that was the reason for my getting up in the first place. His use of my nickname had melted my armor—just a touch.
“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.” I popped open a seltzer and took a swig. “And the only thing that got me through it was looking forward to tonight, but I’ve been sitting here for half an hour. Alone.”
Jasper’s shoulders slumped. “Right. Dang it. I’m sorry. I tried to leave on time, but they kept calling me back in to finish this or sign that. By the time I got out of there, I didn’t even realize how much time had gotten away from me.”
He took a step closer to me and I stared at the top of the can I was holding, unable to meet his eye.
“You could have texted,” I said.
“You’re right. I will. Next time I promise I will.”
I gave him a semi-sarcastic look and he raised his palms.
“Not that there’s gonna be a next time! No siree. I’ll never neglect my woman again, I swear!”
“Your woman? Wow! I feel so special.”
Jasper grinned, took the can from my hand, and put it aside before pulling me to him, waist to waist. “Do you now?” he said, lowering his voice.
“Well . . . almost,” I replied.
And then he kissed me. And this time, there was no mistaking my body language.
* * *
The following afternoon, while Jasper was boarding a plane from Nashville to Austin, I was facedown on my bed, passed out. I had thought about going with him, but we’d been up half the night, and I was so tired, and he’d told me there was no point since he’d really just be performing and then coming home, so I’d been happy to have the night off. After a tense meeting with my mother during which she’d made it clear how unimpressed she was by the fact that I’d whittled a list of caterers down from twenty-two to ten—and didn’t have any clue which musical acts might be available to play—I’d come home to take a nap.
I woke up when my phone rang at exactly ten p.m., groggy, disheveled, and feeling like something only distantly related to human. As I looked around for my phone, I caught a glance in the mirror, which was new and hung above the rows of beauty products Max had left for me. There was a deep sleep crease in my face and my right eyeball felt dry, while my left was tearing. When I finally found my phone beneath my pillow, I noticed that the pillowcase was dotted with drool. If my mother could see me now.
And speaking of whom . . . guess whose face was on my phone? My heart skipped a double beat as I answered. Earlier that day I’d left my mood boards with my mother and she’d promised to take a look.
“Hi, Mom!” I said brightly.
“Hello, Cecilia.” She paused. “You sound funny. Are you coming down with something? Because Doctor Chen is on staff now, so if you need to see someone—”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I said. “What’s up? Did you have a chance to look at the materials I left for you?”
There was a sigh. A not-good sigh. “I did, and Cecilia, I have to say, these color schemes are not going to work.”
Blunt as always.
“What? But they’re so beautiful and . . . and outside the box,” I replied, sitting up straight. “No one is going to expect—”
“And that’s exactly the problem. This is a patriotic event, Cecilia. I’m running for president, not prom queen.”
I felt like I was going to be sick. I had already envisioned the entire event in my mind—the swaths of colorful fabric, the soft pink lighting, the elegant champagne glasses and gold flatware. I’d practically had my portfolio laid out already.
“I know, Mom, but you said you wanted some local flair and I—”
“So throw some Tennessee purple irises in the centerpiece, get me some traditional bunting, and call it a day. I’m not asking you to reinvent the wheel here.”
My grip on the phone tightened as I saw all my hopes and dreams crumble before me. I couldn’t submit a bunch of pictures of red, white, and blue bunting and substandard flower arrangements to the Tennessee School of Design. They’d dump me right into the reject pile. So much for killing two birds with one stone.
“I just . . . I thought you’d want something a little different. A little more sophisticated?” I still clung to the hope that I could turn this in my favor.
There was a long pause. “Cecilia, please just do as I ask.”
I swallowed hard. “Fine,” I said. “Whatever you say.”
Then I hung up without saying good-bye.
The apartment was silent. Tears pricked my eyes. I forced myself up and shuffled out of my room, because if I didn’t move I was going to scream. There was a note on the kitchen counter.
We’re at The Roadhouse if you want to join us! B & F
The Roadhouse? How many bars did this town have? I glanced at my distorted reflection in the refrigerator door, irritated that my eyes were now rimmed in red. But getting the hell out of here suddenly seemed like a good plan—the only plan. I was full of pent-up anger and I needed to do something before I exploded. Could I possibly make myself look human again?
But then, I had so much to do, and I’d just napped six hours, so I did have some energy.
I should really try to work on my essay for the application. Except that seemed sort of pointless now. Or look through the Harvard materials? Ugh, no thank you. Work on this new, boring, entirely inside-the-box concept for the gala? I’d rather bang my head against the wall.
A fist pounded on my door. I was so startled, I yelped.
“Cecilia? You okay?”
It was Duncan. I opened the door and he strode in, wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts, his dark hair flopping over one eye.
“What’s up? You look like the walking dead.”
“Thanks,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“Sorry . . . did you just wake up?”
“Kind of.” I sat at the island and pulled out my phone again. One text from Jasper letting me know he’d arrived okay. It had come in four hours ago.
“So, listen, I’m headed out to this party and I thought you might want to come,” Duncan said.
“Party?” I asked, my interest piqued.
“Yeah, the soccer league I play in? We have this big party every summer to welcome new recruits. It’s out at the old mill and it’s kind of a big deal.”
I bit my lip and tried to hide the sleep crease behind my hand. “I don’t know, Duncan. I’m kind of tired. . . .”
But even as I said it, I could feel myself warming to the plan. It would take me five minutes to throw together ideas for the party my mom wanted—staid and traditional and bland. And everything else could wait until tomorrow. It was ten o’clock, after all. Way past time to have a life.
“Come on, Lia! I’ve barely seen you since you’ve been back. And we definitely haven’t done anything fun,” Duncan argued. “Unless you count me pretending to be your security escort for five minutes fun.”
I looked at him from the corner of my eye. “You are a very talented bringer of guilt, you know that?”
Duncan grinned. “I try. But seriously, why else did you run away from home if it wasn’t to sow some wild oats or whatever? When was the last time you actually had a good time?”
I narrowed my eyes. He was right. I honestly couldn’t remember. Between my mom and the gala and Tash and her e-mails and almost having a panic attack on the red carpet the other night, I really hadn’t relaxed. At all.
“I’m in,” I said, standing up.
Duncan’s eyebrows shot up. “You are?”
I tossed my phone into my bag, which was sitting on the couch where I’d dropped it earlier, then headed off for my freshly organized and color-coded closet.
“Yeah. Just give me ten minutes.”