Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
“I can handle missing a meal, Mom.” I grin. “I did live in LA, remember?”
Her lips purse. “You got sick in LA. You called me from the hospital.”
“Once. And it was food poisoning from bad sushi.” I haven’t looked at raw fish the same since.
She inspects my face, satisfied with the makeup job, then brushes a thumb over my cheek anyway. “You look beautiful. They won’t know what hit them.”
Before I can answer, Casey slides into the hall, tapping away on her phone. “Text me if you see any celebrities,” she says without looking up. “Or if you get stuck in handcuffs or something. I want video.”
I groan reminding her. “I’m not a member of the club. I won’t be participating.”
She smirks. “Sure, Mistress Bardot.”
Then, in a sudden move that takes me by surprise, Casey reaches out and gives me a real, fierce hug. Not the drive-by, air-kiss nonsense she usually does, but a solid squeeze that says I’m glad you’re here, even if you’re a giant nerd. “Don’t let them push you around, okay?” she whispers.
I nod. “I won’t.”
As I walk out the door, my mother calls to me. “Be safe. Text when you’re on your way home no matter what time it is. I hate the idea of you walking home in the middle of the night.”
“I will,” I promise. My mother wanted me to take her car but I refused because I don’t mind walking and because it’s only a five minute walk in one of the safest cities in the country.
The night air is thick with lilacs and distant barbecue smoke as I step onto the porch. I take one last look at the house I’ve lived in since I was born and then head out.
No cameras, no red carpet. Just the click of my flats on sidewalk, and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something better than what I left behind.
Silver Spoon Falls doesn’t just have a regular old downtown. It has a “historic business district,” complete with brick sidewalks, trellised roses, and perfectly maintained brick buildings lining the street.
As I cross Main Street, I pass a hair salon with gold-plated scissors on the door, a family-run candy shop that only sells fudge in three flavors, and, sandwiched in between, a fancy art gallery.
I walk past a row of storefronts with perfect flower boxes and zero customers since it’s way after closing time.
Tonight the sky is pink with the kind of sunset that makes you forget about air pollution for five minutes. The scent of grilling meat and cut grass floats through the air, mixed with a humid tinge of chlorine from the public pool. At the corner, a group of teenagers loiter by a bench, eyeing me like they’ve never seen a grown woman in heels and spandex outside of the internet.
Past the town square, a trio of boutiques anchors the next block. One sells designer clothes to all the millionaires in town. The second, a “specialty stationery” shop, offers monogrammed notepaper for people who consider email beneath them. The third is a hardware store run by a man who still handwrites receipts and keeps a shotgun under the counter, just in case.
I slow as I reach the center of the square. Here, framed by white oaks and string lights, stands the infamous fountain. It’s older than the town itself, donated by a robber baron’s widow in the eighteen hundreds and rumored to grant “true love at first sight” to anyone brave enough to drink from it. Supposedly, the town water supply also has the fountain’s magical powers.
My mom believes in it, of course. She even dragged me and Casey here after Dad died, made us drink a Dixie cup of its lukewarm water and wish for happiness. I wished for a puppy and a drama teacher who wasn’t a total pervert. One out of two wasn’t bad.
Tonight, the fountain burbles quietly as I sit on its edge and let my mind drift. It’s been ages since I let myself hope for anything as outlandish as “true love at first sight.” At this point, I’d settle for “mutual tolerance at medium distance” and maybe some halfway decent takeout.
Still, as the sun drops behind the courthouse, I find myself making a wish. Not for love. For courage. For the kind of luck that doesn’t run out at the worst possible moment.
The bells in the square clang seven times telling me I’m late. I get up, brush my hands on my skirt, and take off down the street toward The Sterling Rope.
The club is right around the corner. There’s no line outside, no neon, just the faint shimmer of smoked glass and a discreet security camera blinking high above the door.
For a second, I consider bolting. I could go home, eat the chicken salad, and spend the rest of the night binging true crime with Casey. I could apply to the community college, get a certificate in something boring but safe, let my life shrink to fit the seams of this town like a hand-me-down jacket. Nobody would blame me. Least of all myself.