Today is the first day that has really felt like summer. As I pedal back across Holm Square, I’m so glad I took the bike.
There are quite a few people enjoying the sunshine in the central town square. The park benches are full, and it’s not just the usual seniors who like to sit and feed the pigeons. Moms watch their toddlers splashing in the fountain, and a gaggle of giggling tweens is gathered near the gazebo. I recognize a tall, blonde girl showing off a trick on her skateboard. She’s the little sister of Georgia’s fiancé, Hudson Holm.
Things have really changed in Ephron since Hudson came back. He renovated his family’s old warehouses into live/work spaces, and then he turned his attention to sprucing up the area around Holm Square, including the building that houses the diner and Georgia’s shop.
But more importantly, and significantly for me, Hudson fell in love with my best friend.
Georgia deserves to be loved. Worshipped. As tough as I’ve had it, losing my mom as a teenager, Georgia has had it tougher.
Maybe it was because we both got to Ephron at the beginning of high school. Maybe it was because we’d both been orphans. Or maybe it was the forced proximity of the diner and the pet store, side-by-side neighbors. But Georgia and I bonded fast—and hard. She’s more than a best friend. She’s family. From heartache to fashion disasters, true love to true loss, she’s always been there for me and vice versa. We’ve done it all, toasted the toasts, and held each other’s hair.
But lately, less so.
Lately, Georgia’s life has revolved around her booming business and blossoming relationship with Hudson. It’s only natural. It’s not like she’s deliberately ditched me or anything. It’s just that I feel like I’ve gone from being her costar to being a bit player. Maybe if I had my shit more together—if I had a boyfriend, too, and a solid career—this wouldn’t be the case.
I notice an unfamiliar, old man in overalls strolling along Main Street. He waves at me as I pedal toward him and points toward an old car with tinted windows and California plates that is crawling slowly down the street behind me. I look back over my shoulder, doing a double take.
Is that the same paparazzo who was just talking to me in the diner?
The old man is waving me over with his cane. He looks super familiar, but I don’t think I’ve seen him in the diner. He’s wearing a flannel shirt with overalls, and he has on an old-fashioned, wool-brimmed cap that’s shading his face. It looks like there’s a pipe in his front pocket. As I slow to a stop, I catch a whiff of cherry tobacco.
“Can I help you, sir?” I ask.
“Is that car following you, young lady?” he asks, shaking his cane in the direction of the car.
I look back over my shoulder again. The car is stopped now, but I can make out the paparazzo through the windshield. It’s definitely him.
“Ugh,” I groan. “Actually, yes, I think he might be following me.”
“Huh,” the old man says. “Well, that’s not right.”
“It’s not me he’s interested in,” I reassure the old man. “He’s stalking some celebrities that I’m delivering food to. I was just headed over to the amphitheater now. He must have overheard when the order came in.”
“Celebrities, you say?” The old man looks tickled by this news. “Here in Ephron?”
“They’re part of the cast forA Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I say. “You ever heard of Titanium Man?”
“Can’t say that I have,” the old man laughs. “Sounds like a great name for an old guy like me with a hip replacement, though.”
I snort. “Something like that. Except, nothing like that. Oh, well. Thanks for letting me know I have a tail,” I say.
“Just you leave him to me.” The old guy nods and steps into the street, waving his cane wildly as he strides toward the car. I have to wonder if he has a titanium hip himself. He’s awfully spry and quick on his feet. The cane seems to be there mostly for show.
“Go on! Git!” he shouts sideways at me as he continues to advance toward the vehicle. “If you cut behind the apartments there and take the footpath to the community center, there’s no way he’ll catch up.”
“Thanks!” I say, smiling and pumping the pedals hard. As I turn the corner, I look back over my shoulder. The old guy is poking his cane in through the paparazzo’s open window. A funny, old motorcycle with a side car zooms by them, but neither of them seem to notice it as they argue. The shocked-looking paparazzo has his hands up in a gesture of complete and total surrender.
“Woo-hoo!” I let out a small whoop as I roll down the hill toward the gated entrance to the amphitheater.
There’s no way the paparazzo would have made it past security. But it still feels great to have shaken him like that.
It isn’t till I reach the gate that I realize there’s a fairly good chance Dean will be here, and I am going to have to give him an answer about taking the cast photos. I glance down at my stained apron, then use it up to wipe some sweat from my forehead. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms what a hot, sweaty mess I am.
Not at all how I pictured looking and feeling if I ever got the chance to meet Rafe Barzilay and Lorelei Dupont.
lorelei
I’m holdingon to a precious bundle, and someone—my momager—is trying to take it from me. I feel so weak and powerless to fend her off. But then I am morphing into Ember, sending flames from my fingertips, blasting the momager into the ether. Then I am sitting on the church steps, unwrapping the bundle. Layer after layer of faded fabric, and then, nothing. There’s nothing. I am alone. I curse in Kyrgyz, shouting one of the epithets from the movie. Rafe shows up with Orly and his mom, and the momager. They are all wearing Mickey hats. When I glance down, Rafe’s feet are covered with fur.
