CHAPTER 1
COVEY
“Not now,” I say to the phone buzzing in my pocket as I dig for the keys to my front door. No matter what I do, they end up buried somewhere in the bottomless pit of my tote bag. It’s probably some spam caller anyway, looking to extend the warranty on my car or some other ridiculous sales pitch.
The buzzing stops, which at least takes some of the pressure off. I snag my keychain with a finger and yank it out. “Gotcha.” As soon as I get the key in the lock, my phone starts to buzz again. Who the hell needs me this badly?
If it’s an emergency, they should call someone else. Someone who can help. Me? I’m not great in urgent situations, probably due to my complete lack of practical skills—that or what my family likes to describe as frenetic energy.
Pushing inside, I drop my bags on the floor and toss my keys into the bowl on the entryway table. At least when Ileave, I won’t have to worry about finding them. That little dish has followed me around the world—literally—keeping my keys and other assorted items safe. It’s the only system that’s ever worked for me. If only there was an equivalent for tote bags.
My phone starts up again. “Fuck.” I groan and fish it out of my pocket.Mom. Great, so either someone’s dead or she wants to know my favorite color for socks. There’s no middle ground with her. She knows how to text but refuses to use it. For the best, probably, since when she does, they come out as a garbled mess of misspellings, autocorrect errors, and random emojis.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” Hopefully, the frustration in my voice doesn’t come through. At least when I lived in Europe, she scheduled times to call me, knowing that the time difference made random phone calls nearly impossible. Now that I live not only in the same time zone, but in the same town, she’s decided it’s an open invitation to call anytime. I love her, but it’s anabsence makes the heart grow fondersituation.
“Covey, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.” I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge, hoping dinner will magically appear.
“I just got home from rehearsal. What’s up?” I tense up for a minute, concerned that maybe this is one of thesomeone diedcalls.
“Are you still coming to dinner this weekend? Everyone’s excited about you being here. We haven’t seen you in forever.”
So, not a crisis.
For the record, forever is about three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I was last at my parents’ house.
The fridge shelves are a graveyard of fresh fruits and vegetables I bought with the best of intentions, but have letgo bad. Grocery shopping is on my list of things to do, but it keeps getting pushed to the bottom. Which means I’m stuck with leftovers. Again. “I’ll be there.” I put the phone on speaker and start the process of reheating my food. After a day of long dance rehearsals, I’m starving and exhausted. If I’m not careful, I’ll end up picking sleep over sustenance.
“And you’re bringing your mystery boyfriend?”
“Uh, I’m not sure he can make it.” He’d love to, but since he’s swamped these days. What with being imaginary and all.
“Oh, please try, Covey. You’ve told us so little about this man who’s taking up all your time.”
I mute the phone for a second so I can let out a groan. There’s no one to blame for this situation but myself. For years, I managed to stay off my family’swhen are you going to settle downradar by being an ocean away. It was the perfect arrangement.
Now, for the first time since my early teen years, I live in the same city as my parents. The Green Mountain Ballet Company offered me a contract, and I jumped at the chance to come home. Initially, I hesitated at the idea of moving back, but the slight pay increase and the opportunity to work with some incredible choreographers sold me on the deal. No downside. At least professionally.
What I didn’t anticipate was the interference from my family. The minute my plane landed, they started bugging me about settling down.Literally. It was on the drive from the airport to my rental house that the topic first came up. Give a guy a few days. Did they expect me to meet someone at baggage claim?
A month ago, in a moment of weakness, I invented a boyfriend.
“I’ll ask.”
“Ask extra nicely. It must be hard on your boyfriend towork around your schedule.” Another frequent topic of conversation. My work hours aren’t unpredictable, but they aren’t stable. Rehearsals, classes, and performances are scheduled well in advance, often with over a year of notice, but they aren’t on a set schedule. And it certainly isn’t a nine-to-five position. No one’s coming to see Swan Lake at two PM on a Wednesday.
“I’ll even say please,” I assure her as I pull my dinner from the microwave.
“Okay, well, I’ll tell everyone the two of you will be there. They’ll be looking forward to meeting him.”
“Me, too,” I mumble under my breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. See you Saturday.”
“Bye, Covey. Love you.”
“Love you, Mom.” I stare at the dark screen of my phone. There’s no way I’m going to come up with a boyfriend—fake or otherwise—by Saturday. If it was that easy, I’d already have one.
