1989
It all began the summer I told everyone to call me Tori Rose. When I had a secondhand guitar and a purse full of dreams.
It began when I knew two things absolutely:
I was stuck in Sunset Cove.
I wanted out.
David’s hands adjusted nervously around the waist of my floral dress as my moms took their thousandth photo. The corsage on my wrist itched, and I leaned back into him with a sigh, humming Dolly Parton.
Arms relaxing, he laughed. “What song’s that?”
“If you don’t know, maybe you shouldn’t be taking me to prom.”
I smirked over my shoulder. His green eyes lit up like spotlights. With tousled blond hair, a July tan, and his tie askew, he was still my beach-bro best friend. Just dressed up in a suit. A ridiculous silver suit. With a bow tie.
“One more,” Mama said (for the fifth time) as Mom waved the latest Polaroid, fanning herself in the evening sun. The broken pink sign over our inn winked, as always, across the too-empty parking lot with the r in Peters burned out.
“Tori, look here.” Mama laughed.
“We’re going to be late.” Usually a late entrance wouldn’t faze me, but the music was waiting.
“Hon, let them go,” Mom said.
Mama blinked, lowering the camera, smoothing a hand over her curls. “You’re so grown up.” Her dark skin and soft eyes made her look like one of the princesses from the fairytales she wrote.
Mom waved me over, the sea breeze sending her auburn braid across her pale cheeks. Somewhere in the distance, the waves left the shore as they hugged me goodbye.
“Be smart,” Mom said.
“Sing a song for me,” Mama said.
I nodded to both. I only agreed to one (but they didn’t need to know that).
“You too,” Mom said to David. “Have fun.”
“Yes, ma’ams.” He grinned and extended his elbow, all gentlemanly, to me. I shoved it away, giggling, and we took off.
My guitar bounced against my back with each stride. The inn fell behind us. It was the place my family had come back to this town to buy and run. I raced away from it like I’d wanted to since we arrived.
David jogged backward along the sidewalk, letting out a loud whoop and pumping his fist in the air. “Almost done! Prom, here we come!”
I sped to catch up, stumbling once when we passed the sign leading out of town. On it, the ocean was depicted in peeling paint.
Arced above the artwork: Welcome to Sunset Cove, where dreams rise. Your journey starts here.
I’d never seen a clearer lie. But little could happen in a place where only the tide changed and dreams set with the sun.
“Tori?” David skidded to a stop. “You coming?”
The sign sparked a fire in me. With graduation only a week away and prom tonight, I needed to find something more—how to rise for real.
“Yeah,” I said quickly, and I took his moment of concern to gain the lead.
Prom was at the Horizon. Our grad class was only fifty students, but they already spilled out the doors onto the street, which was filled with shops and wildflowers. This was the only good diner in town, and it was strung with winking fairy lights. The karaoke machine I ruled every Friday was front and center, but the stage was otherwise empty. The crowd was full.
Knee-length and floor-length dresses. Brightly colored suits. Dancing and singing to the boombox that barely made a sound over the crowd.
At least there was music.
I twirled into the masses. Winked David’s way and lured him onto the dance floor. It took less than a second for him to join.
We’d been best friends since we were five, until my family left to care for my grandma. A time marked by a couple lost letters and a stream of love songs at my fingertips. We fell right back together when I returned two months ago. The mischief in his eyes was the only interesting thing here. I put my hands on his hips, jiving to the music.
“Think that girl’s checking you out,” I teased, nodding my chin toward the back where a brunette was studying his (enthusiastic but awful) moves.
His fingers laced through mine, and he spun me. “Already got a date.” This time he winked. I wasn’t, really. We’d both agreed on that (though mostly me). There’d been this one time, right when I got back, that we’d kissed. A little tipsy. But I’d ended it. It wasn’t right. He was the past and he was this town. I told him I was ready to dance to the next song.
He needed to skip to a new track too.
“I’m going to see Linnea. Go talk.” I nudged him.
Rolling his eyes, he squeezed my fingers. I squeezed back and walked over to the counter where the owner’s daughter, Linnea, stood. She was a few years older than me. Pinning up her black hair, she waved before I even made it over.
“Tori Rose?” she said, and I loved her for it. She was one of the people here who saw me as what I was going to be.
Not Tori Peters. Tori Rose. The singer. The dreamer.
The star.
Rose was technically my middle name, but it ran deeper than that. In a town too gray to let the colors of the rainbow shine, my moms had their first date. Mom showed up at Mama’s door with a dozen pink roses, and Mama’s fairytale-loving heart knew she was the one. They’d run away together. In my family, roses were the start of an unapologetic love story. One that took the lead and pulled their hearts in its direction. One stronger than I’d ever seen. I wanted a love like that. To last. To guide me and hold me close. Music was the suitor I’d chosen.
Tori Rose seemed like a good start.
I leaned against the counter and asked Linnea, “Where’s the music?”
She gestured to the boombox David was bopping near, having already moved on from that girl. “Right there.”
“The live music?”
“Guy canceled last minute. I got someone else, but I dunno if he’ll show. Didn’t recognize him.”
Not recognizing someone in Sunset Cove was rarer than winning the lottery. “Oh yeah?”
Her eyes fell to my guitar. “You’re the only person I know who would lug that thing to prom. Tell you what, if he bails too, the stage is yours tonight.”
My heart soared. She returned to wiping the counter until I made my way back to David. Even without the band, I found my rhythm in every song. Linnea’s gaze kept darting to me, and I swore any second she was going to say go ahead.
The stage was mine. Even if it was in Sunset Cove, it was something.
Then the mic shrieked. Everyone looked to where a tall boy with brown ringlets tied into a low ponytail stood. He was fixing the mic stand (which was a head too low for him) and wincing at the feedback it expelled.
I studied his angular features. Blue eyes. Tanned skin. He was about our age. The hint of a tattoo was on the back of his neck that earned him a couple weird looks and my immediate admiration. Even though he’d shown up just in time to ruin my song, I wanted to get closer to see what was inked across him.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
“Your next crush?” David said.
“Oh, screw you.”
He chuckled, and I nudged him again.
Getting the mic to the right height, the singer spoke, “Hey y’all. Sorry for the delay.” He had a smooth Southern accent, and I exchanged a glance with David. Who was this? “Came with Cash here.” He patted the red acoustic on his back, a matching guitar pick between his fingers. Oh. He’d named his guitar after Johnny Cash. “I’m Patrick Rose. Thought I’d play you a song.”
Cheers echoed, but I didn’t move. “Did he just say Rose?”
Patrick Rose.
“Think it’s fate?” David asked.
Before I could answer, Patrick smiled at the karaoke machine and stepped in front of it. He played the opening chords of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” And he sang. His voice was a state of in-betweens, between high and low, gravelly and smooth. Even Linnea stopped what she was doing. It’s not like we hadn’t heard “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” a million times over—I swore Sunset Cove’s radio knew three songs, all of them by Journey—but it was just the way Patrick told the story. Like it was his.
As he finished the first chorus, I stepped forward. This song could be mine too.
The dancing had started when stilted silence disappeared. I didn’t hear anything but the music and crossed the room. I knew what I needed to do as if some cosmic force propelled me.
“What are you doing?” David asked. But he knew the answer as I reached the steps leading up the stage and took the other mic.
Patrick’s mouth went slack.
I swung my guitar to my front, fingers moving to frets.
He sobered quickly, rolling with it. Until I sang. I had a great voice. I knew it. Quickly and all too obviously, he knew it too. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else rolled their eyes, like people did when I was too loud in class or at parties. Oh well.
The song became separate from the prom. I pulled the mic closer, stepped to the edge of the stage, tossed my hair, and walked the line before turning back to Patrick. His eyes were only on mine. He was visibly shaken, unsteady in his sneakers on the rickety stage. Whether that was because we sounded so good or that I joined his song, I didn’t know.
I didn’t care.
The last of the chords faded without us breaking gaze, and applause came next. He crossed the stage to me.
Tori Rose took over every piece of Tori Peters as I extended a hand. He took it, shaking it, still looking me up and down.
“Patrick,” he said. “My name’s . . . Patrick Rose.”
“Nice to meet you, Patrick.”
“And . . .” He cleared his throat. “You are?”
“Tori,” I said, and the boombox interrupted our moment. Still, he watched. Now he was waiting. It thrilled me. But mystery left them all hooked, so I hopped down from the stage.
“Tori what?” he said after me.
I tossed a glance back over my shoulder. “Rose.”
By the time I got home I was half-drunk (Linnea left the counter unattended, and David and I served her secret stash of wine to the crowd). Meanwhile, the inn slept, its few patrons already in bed.
The room was dark. A lamp dwindled at the heart of the lobby. Mom would be asleep and Mama would be reading, bedroom door cracked open so I could crawl between them and tell them everything when I walked into the suite we’d claimed.
But I didn’t make it that far. I settled onto the bench of the ancient piano, and I propped my guitar beside me.
I recalled it all. The way his lips spoke fairytales and his eyes spoke much less chivalrous things. Sparks of moments. His smile. His voice. The hints of that tattoo, which I’d caught a peek at. It was as telling as his name. An intricate black rose.
Miracles didn’t happen in Sunset Cove. Fate didn’t rear its head here. But it had. This was a sign. I’d make it a sign.
Sliding the fallboard up, I stroked the piano’s keys. “Don’t Stop Believin’ ” came out, and the music wrapped around me. It always tempted me with something illicit. Every time I came running back to it. A story. A promise. A dream.
Closing my eyes, I whisper-sang. I couldn’t wake this town, but I felt woken up within it. Streetlights and midnight trains.
Anywhere. Exactly where I needed to be.
And, as if the universe was on my side, a voice joined me. I blinked and there he was. Patrick Rose. In a crisp T-shirt, acid-washed jeans, hair out of the ponytail, but his stranger’s face unmistakable.
His voice was gentler than I’d kept mine. He made his way across the lobby, and I held his gaze again. Our melodies wound together. I didn’t make a move until the song was over. The second it was, I stood to rest my arms atop the piano.
“You following me or something?” I stared through lowered lashes.
Two times.
One night.
Fate.
He nodded down the hall. “Crashing here, actually. I checked in right before prom. I didn’t know you were staying too.”
“We run the place.”
“Oh.”
“So you just thought you’d interrupt my song?” My painted nails tapped along C major.
He grinned, smile as charming as the rest of him. “Seemed only fair. You did interrupt mine first.”
“Oh yeah?” My heart beat a second too fast. “Well, song’s over. Goodnight then.” I let my shoulder brush his as I passed. Daring him to make the first move. His fingers gently touched mine.
“Tori, wait.”