“We have a system,” Bonnie confirmed. “People are signing up for time slots, leading the cameramen on wild goose chases all over the place.”
“Especially the areas where the parking rates aren’t clearly visible,” Mac added with a wicked grin. “The meter maid sure has been busy writing all those tickets.”
Leaning forward in my seat, I tried to wrap my mind around this. “You’re telling me the town has, what? Banded together to fool the paparazzi and run them out of town? All for my benefit?”
“Well, yeah.” Mac shrugged. “You’re one of us, despite being allergic to the Kirby Falls Facebook group.”
“People care about you, Joan,” Bonnie said and reached out to pat my hand.
Los Angeles hadn’t gone as planned, and as a result, I’d brought trouble back to my hometown. It had been naïve to think the press wouldn’t figure out who I was or attribute that to where Ian had been for the last six months.
I didn’t like the idea of accepting help. It made me feel all twisted up inside, a combination of guilt and self-loathing—like I should have been able to handle all this nonsense myself without bothering anyone else. But this was my town, my community. And they were standing up for me.
I swallowed an unwelcome rush of emotion and bowled the worst game of my life.
That night, I went back to my too-quiet cabin and opened up my laptop.
The photographs weren’t difficult to find.
A handful of candid images from the night of the premiere. Me looking out of place and uncomfortable in a beautiful dress.
Speculation ranged far and wide. Some outlets reported that I was a family member who’d flown in from the Midwest to attend the premiere with Dorian, but I’d gotten ill upon arrival and been forced to leave. Another report hinted at a red-carpet argument. A photo of me looking wide-eyed and shocked accompanied an image of Ian, his jaw clenched, and his eyes narrowed.
It was easy to see how all of this had been twisted into fiction. I’d never look at another tabloid the same way again. Not a single one of thesegossip sites had the actual story, but that hadn’t stopped them from reporting it anyway.
Well, there had been one that had gotten close to real-life events. It was a website that boasted celebrity and entertainment news with all the top Hollywood headlines. They’d called me “Mrs. Robinson,” and speculated over my age. A body language “specialist” had examined the photos and noted my “discomfort around wealth and celebrities,” while they’d labeled Ian as “tense at the prospect of his worlds colliding.”
I didn’t read any more after that.
Instead, I navigated over to the Kirby Falls Facebook group to see what my friends had been up to.
True to their word, there was a post detailing my neighbors’ efforts to confuse and disrupt the photographers that had come to town. They had linked to a spreadsheet where folks who looked enough like me could sign up to go running through the community.
Gretchen Rose Tate had offered up an extra blond wig to anyone who needed it since the paparazzi still thought that was my hair color. She was currently taking the 6:30–7:00 a.m. spot before school every morning, pretending to be fake Joan with a ball cap and sunglasses, waving for the cameras as she ran a four-mile loop through downtown.
Others had reported the paparazzi’s interest in Ian, wondering if he was in town with me and where they might find us.
It made me curious as to whether Ian had been staying at the beach house in LA and avoiding going out in public. Well, with his upcoming press tour, things were sure to change. I figured the photographers in Kirby Falls would realize their efforts were wasted and they’d leave town once Ian popped up somewhere else.
Local residents had been doing their best to drive them out sooner, though.
Even Vera Sterling, the owner of the local bed-and-breakfast, had joined in, claiming a plumbing leak in several of the rented rooms that required her photographer guests to immediately vacate the premises.
I scrolled through comment after comment. People I’d grown up with, gone to church with, folks I’d known my whole life, all angered and frustrated by the way I’d been targeted and disrespected by the media. My neighbors were trying to protect me—to safeguard my home, my privacy, and my peace from outsiders looking to profit off my humiliation.
Pride and gratitude kept me rooted in place, reading and absorbing all their combined efforts. And woven through it all was Ian. He’d been replying to comments for the last three days, offering advice on dealing with the paparazzi and providing encouragement to my neighbors. The wild goose chase had been his idea, and the locals had run with it, literally.
His worry and concern were obvious. I couldn’t get over how present he was, how grateful he seemed to everyone for looking out for me.
This whole thing seemed so wild and unlikely, like the plot of aScooby-Dooepisode or aSweet Valley Highnovel. I was starring in my own Hallmark movie as my idyllic small town came together for a common goal. I guess that wasn’t too far off.
Still. I didn’t feel worthy of all that trouble. And I didn’t know how to go about repaying that sort of debt.
Those kinds of thoughts kept me up that night. I tossed and turned, unsure how to deal with my complicated emotions—the gratitude and the discomfort, the overwhelming sense of community and awe. And buried beneath it all, a sense of loss I could no longer ignore.
Three days later, I cautiously made my way to the grocery store for the first time in a week.
I was picking out bell peppers in the produce section when I caught sight of someone familiar disappearing behind an endcap.
