26
Brynn
“Isn’t She Lovely” croons through the speaker for the 347th time.
My cheeks hurt from smiling.
My arms hurt from the incessant, repetitive port de bras that Poppy keeps yelling about in a fake French accent as we are trying—and failing—to get this opening pageant number to the level “that is expected for a town celebrating seventy-five years of tradition.”
Her words, not mine.
This is all part of my deal with Sheldon. Follow his plan. No opinions. No objections. No funny business.
“Heels like this should be illegal,” Luce whispers as she chassés around me. “I considered taking them off, but with the looks Poppy keeps giving me, I feel oddly comforted by having two weapons strapped to my feet.”
Poppy shoots Luce a seething glare, as if she can tell from the other side of the stage that we’re talking about her.
One of the other contestants gets confused and thinks she is the object of Poppy’s wrath. She freezes in terror mid-chaîné turn, and the contestants behind her pile up like crashing dominoes.
There are sequins flying everywhere. A few screams. Some crying.
I sit down on one of the crates covered in decorative sparkly lobsters, welcoming the temporary break as everyone gets back on their feet.
Luce plops down beside me, removing one of her shoes. “Forget what I said. These things need to come off. I forgot being a beauty queen was so painful. I’m gonna need a whole lotta wine tomorrow. The sequins of my dress cut my underarms so badly that I have to hold my arms in a permanent port de bras.” She mocks Poppy’s French accent. “I can’t believe you signed me up for this.”
My head whips toward her. “You told me you wanted to enter.”
She laughs, knocking me with her elbow. “That was a joke. And yes, I enjoy willfully submitting to torture.” She leans back on her elbows and sighs. I find myself scanning her face, looking for any signs of last night’s trauma. She catches me doing it and rolls her eyes.
“I told you, I’m absolutely fine.”
She’s caught me doing this twice already. “Are you sure?”
She nods. “I’m a little tired and very embarrassed. I made a really stupid call.”
She did. And so did Spencer. And in typical Carson’s Cove fashion, the town has woken up as if nothing major happened. Even Main Street, with its perfect flower boxes, looks as if the events of last night’s storm are a distant memory.
“Ladies!” Poppy claps her hands. “Let’s take five. A few of you need some touch-ups.” She circles her face with her hand.
“Sloan.” She holds up her arm and beckons me with her fingers. “Come. I need to discuss something with you.”
I get to my feet with a groan.
Luce nudges one of her heels with her bare toe. “Just holler if you need backup. I got you.”
I laugh until I catch sight of Poppy watching us, and her expression makes me want to ask Luce if she doesn’t mind coming with me—just in case.
As I cross the stage, Poppy disappears into the wing. I follow her, and when I get close enough to talk, she grabs me by the wrist and pulls me into a dark corner.
“Why are you all, like, buddy-buddy with her?” Poppy’s tone is clipped.
I know exactly who she’s referring to, but try to play cool. “Who? Luce?”
“Uh, yes, Luce. I keep catching the two of you whispering.”
“We’re just talking—”
“No.” Poppy shakes her head. “We’re not going there. It’s not Luce and Sloan. It’s Poppy and Sloan. It’s always been Poppy and Sloan and it will always be Poppy and Sloan. Right?”
I open my mouth to argue, but the curtain of the wing begins to move and a man steps out from behind it.
Sheldon.
He has a black headset on and is carrying a clipboard as if he’s a stagehand.
I hate this.
All of it.
But a deal is a deal.
And I’m a woman of my word.
“Got it,” I tell Poppy. “BFFs. Forever.”
Poppy smiles, throwing her arms around me. “Love you, babe!” When she pulls away, she lowers her voice. “Okay, so the other reason I called you over here is to give you this.” She drags me into a dressing room, where there is a rolling rack with a single suit bag hanging from it. She unzips it slowly, revealing a floor-length gown in a deep midnight blue.
“I think you should wear this as your evening wear,” she says as I pull the gown fully out of the bag.
It’s a simple strapless mermaid silhouette. The material has tiny crystals sewn in that shimmer with any movement.
“You wore this when you won,” I tell her, touched by her thoughtfulness.
“Exactly,” she confirms. “It’s a miracle dress. It sucks you in at all the right places.” She pokes the soft folds of my stomach with her finger. “And it does a decent job of lifting the girls, but I strongly suggest you get a push-up bra. And maybe skip dinner tonight? You’re broader than I am, and you don’t want to look stuffed into the thing.” She smiles, squeezing my arm. “It’s amazing, right? It will look perfect with the crown.”
“It’s beautiful.” I nod, placing the gown back on the rack.
“Well, it’s made for a queen.” She lowers her voice. “But a true queen needs to look the part even when she’s not out on that stage. You know? Dress for the job you want and all?” She gestures to my disheveled hair and wrinkled dress from yesterday. “Maybe you should go home? Freshen up a bit? Then you can come back more like that picture-perfect girl we all love.”
She gives me an air kiss and heads back onto the stage.
I attempt and fail to smooth the creases from my outfit. Poppy was not wrong in her assessment that I could definitely use a shower and some clothes that aren’t from yesterday. The pageant practice breaks for lunch, and I slip out the front door of the town hall, heading down Main Street toward Sloan’s house. I pass the docks and beach. Both are so serenely picturesque that had last night not been imprinted so firmly on my memories, I could probably convince myself that it never even happened.
It was one of the worst and then best nights of my life.
My heart hurts from all of the emotional whiplash.
I still ache now, knowing that there’s only going to be more.
I’ve made a deal with the metaphorical and potentially even literal devil, but that deal is going to give Josh his dream.
My walk-and-sulk is interrupted as Bob the mailman steps into my path. “Morning, Sloan.” He tips his imaginary hat. “Lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
I nod and smile as we do that weird dance where we both step to the left and then to the right, still blocking each other’s path until I concede and cross the street.
As I hit the sidewalk, the grocer steps out from behind a giant pile of oranges. “Hi, Sloan,” he calls as the spray from his hose forces me back into the street.
“Hey, Sloan!” Two small children circle around me on their bikes.
“Morning, Sloan.”
“Howdy, Sloan.”
“There’s our girl.”
My stomach clenches into a tight knot.
This town is getting friendly, but this is next-level, start-of-a-horror-film weird.
I look around, suddenly more aware of my surroundings.
There are what feels like an abnormal number of people spanning this block. All outside. All sneaking glances at me and smiling.
My senses tingle with a warning. Something is up.
I reverse directions and head toward the shore, thinking the beach may be less populated. However, Doc Martin is blocking my path.
“Not that way, little lady.” Doc physically turns me by the shoulders, then steers me back into the middle of the street and over to a folding chair, where I’m forced to sit.
I look around at the sea of faces watching me, watching them, and unease grips my chest.
My thoughts are startled by a sound: a blaring of trumpets that make my blood curdle. The sound builds, becoming louder and louder as the pieces of exactly what is happening fall into place.
Oh god.
I desperately hope that I’m interpreting all of this wrong and that what is about to happen isn’t about to happen.
Then a Beyoncé-like voice comes in, and I know without any doubt that I am Carson’s Cove’s latest victim.
It’s a flash mob.
They come out of every nook and cranny. Out from behind flowerpots, parked cars, and even a sewer grate. Doc Martin, Lois, even elderly Pop. They’re gyrating. They’re port de bras-ing as what sounds like a knockoff, watered-down, censored-for-prime-time-television version of Queen Bey’s “Crazy in Love” is blasted from speakers that seem to be all over town.
Then the tubas come. A low buh-bum that shakes me all the way to the core.
Then the trumpets.
The drums.
It’s the entire Carson’s Cove High marching band.
And leading them—blond hair shining in the sun—is the former man of my dreams.
He’s a great dancer.
They’re all great dancers, actually.
There are lifts.
There are splits.
Everyone looks like they’ve spent years training on Broadway.
I’m still trapped. I can’t go. I can’t leave. All I can do is watch as Spencer dances his way toward me.
“Hey, Sloan.” Spencer walks perfectly in time to the music. “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you that I’m crazy about you. Ever since we shared that magical kiss the other night, I can’t get you out of my head. And I have an important question to ask you.”
My heart stops completely.
Tiny black specks linger at the corners of my vision. They start to close in as he drops to one knee.
Oh. My. God.
I am certain that I’m seconds away from fainting. Or throwing up. It’s fifty-fifty at this point.
But he doesn’t pull out a little black box.
Someone tosses him a brown paper bag.
The little black specks clear away enough that I can watch him pull out a sweater.
No, it’s a jacket.
Maroon and gold with a #18 stitched onto the leather sleeve. His basketball jacket from high school.
“I was hoping I could give you this. I should have done it years ago, and I’m sorry, but I’m hoping you’ll accept it now.”
My icy heart melts just enough to see the sweetness in his gesture. He clearly went to a lot of trouble here.
His hopeful eyes look up at me. They match the ocean perfectly, and as I hesitate, they flick from me to the crowd surrounding us.
They’re frozen in their final pose. One hand on their hip, the other raised triumphantly above their heads, punching the sky.
Everyone is watching us. Smiling. So hopeful. Doc. Pop. Lois. Even Poppy and the rest of the pageant contestants.
All of Carson’s Cove appears to be here.
Including Josh.
He’s at the back. On the sidewalk out front of the Bronze, next to Sherry. Neither appeared to have been part of the dancing.
Of all the eyes in the crowd watching me, it’s his I feel the most.
Waiting.
Josh is the one I want. I have no doubts. In fact, I have feelings that are so deep and serious that I need time alone to sort through and truly unpack them. But the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end as another gaze falls on me.
Sheldon is still in his pageant crew headset. Dressed all in black. And although he says nothing, his eyes communicate everything: This is what you wanted.
My heart actually aches as I meet Spencer’s eyes.
“I would love to wear your jacket,” I tell him, taking it from his hands.
The crowd cheers as I slip it on, the sleeves cracked and the wool scratchy.
Spencer picks me up and spins me in a circle.
I’m dizzy and nauseous as he sets me down.
I catch sight of Luce on the sidewalk as my vision stabilizes. She doesn’t look gleefully joyous like everyone else, or confused and sad like Josh. She just looks curious.
The crowd begins to disperse, and my eyes drift back to the spot in front of the Bronze, wondering how much of my plan I can communicate to Josh with just my eyes.
But the front stoop is empty.
And Josh is gone.