With a sigh, I swallow my pride. I’ll admit to Emy that she may be on to something, but I’m also going to play the all-the-people-I-love-are-dead card, so she’ll move on from this conversation post-haste.
I’m a soft girl, not a good one.
“Okay, so I’ve thought about him a few times. But I’d never act on it because he’s not interested. I’m not ruining a perfectly good friendship when most of my best friends are dead. So, can you please leave me in peace about this situation and help me sort all this stuff?”
Emy lets out a long, frustrated breath. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I love you, but this isn’t the solution.” I pick up theHatsbox and grab the inventory checklist.
Since Emy and Gus’s relationship took a more serious turn, my best friend’s focus has shifted to finding me “the one.” Which was tolerable until her “revelation” that Jack’s my endgame—a notion I like to call hogwash.
“Did you ask Greta about being Lydia?” Emy thankfully takes the hint that I need a subject change.
“Yes, I did.” I nod, pursing my lips. I’m one bonnet short. “And she can’t do it either and doesn’t know anyone interested.”
“I know someone,” Emy sings. “She’s super talented—”
“And needs to run the fair,” I snip back. I loathe derailed plans entirely, and yet here I am, derailed. Seriously, where is that bonnet?
I shuffle around the contents of another tossed-together box. Maybe it’s in here. A crinkle of paper draws my attention. My heart drops. I know exactly what this is, and if Emy sees it, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Discreetly, I reach into the box and slide the folded paper into my pocket. This thing should never be seen by another human. It proves I’m ridiculous and clueless about relationships.
It’s a product of my boredom, an always dangerous state of mind for me. When I’m bored, I think too little and say too much.
During my free time as Mary or other small characters at the fair, when it’s rainy and slow, I sometimes get bored and do silly things. Like, make “Aulie Desfleurs’s List for a Suitable Suitor.” Which is both a terrible name for a list and ammunition I don’t want Emy to have.
I’m sure she’d laugh at my desire for loyalty and dependability more than anything else on the list, but Gus has both characteristics in spades, so she can bite me.
“Okay, but how much stuff has to be completed the day of, anyway?” Emy asks, placing the missing hat on her head and assessing herself in the dressing mirror I’ll throw into the tent for character players during the fair.
It clashes with her indie band t-shirt, oversized cardigan, and leggings, but she still pulls it off. Emy could pull off just about anything with her confidence.
“A lot.” I sift through the following box. A tiny pug-sized bonnet I made in a weird late-night crafting session surfaces. I giggle and happily place it on my pug Willoughby’s head. His proud puss regards me unimpressed with his headwear as if to say,Madam, I am a gentleman, and you’ve put a lady’s bonnet on my head.
He blinks once. Twice.
“Oh, hush. You look charming,” I whisper. With a yawn, he moves to his bed in the corner. It’s the only place safe from the regency bomb that’s gone off in here.
“So, you need a helper.” Emy turns her body, bringing her full attention to me.
“I can’t hire one, and no one would want to volunteer for that this time of the year.”
“Hi. My name is Emy LaBranche, and I’m interested in the position of assistant. I have a BA in Business and own and operate a toy store. I’d love to talk to you about taking some responsibility off your shoulders so you can have some fun, too.” She extends her hand for a shake. As kind as her words sound, I’m not trusting them. Trusting them leads to me running around the fairground as a silly little thing. I accepted earlier today that in reality, I’ll probably end up stuck with the role of Lydia, but I don’t want to acknowledge it yet. Once I acknowledge it, panicking internally will be the next logical step and I’m too busy to be anxious. “Seriously, Lydia looks like she’s so much fun to play.”
“Youwant to do it, then?” I ask, trying to determine if the navy-colored Bicorne army hat in my hand should be Wickham’s or Captain Wentworth’s. I’m not as good with all the accuracy things as Bridget, but she’ll let me hear it if I mess up.
Emy smiles. “If you think you can talk Gus into playing Mr. Wickham, sure.”
There’s no way my stuffy brother would be interested in that.
But…Iamdesperate. I heard my ex-fiancé Tyler was back in town and even briefly entertained the thought of asking him. Maybe Ishouldtry to ask Gus. He loves me and hates Tyler, so I have that going for me, anyway.
I creak the door open. “Gus?”
“No.” His answer comes from the hollows of the living room.
“But I haven’t even asked yet.”
