The morning goes so smoothly, I keep waiting for something to go wrong. Some disaster Cecil could lord over me. But nope. All good.
DK will be there for Diablo’s closing remarks at four, but he’s spending the day showing Neo around. His brother is always looking to scope out investment opportunities. There appears to be more to Neo than just F-boy swagger.
After lunch, I relieve Symone and make my rounds. A little girl—around eight or nine—standing in the ice cream line points at me and whispers, “Why’s her skin like that, Mommy?”
Her mother shushes her, mortified, and gives me an apologetic look. “That’s not polite, Keely.”
“It’s okay.” I crouch down to Keely’s height. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Rayne. Sounds like you’re curious about my skin?”
Her head bobs quickly up and down.
“It’s called vitiligo. You can’t catch it, and it doesn’t hurt.”
“How come you have it?”
“I don’t know,” I say with a small shrug. “It just means my body doesn’t make what it needs to keep my skin one color.”
“Do you get sad?”
“No.” I shake my head. “It’s just patches. Nothing that changes who I am or that stops me from doing anything I want. Like run for mayor.”
“I was hall monitor,” she announces proudly.
“Girl power.” I grin, holding up my hand for a high-five. She slaps it, giggling. “What kind of ice cream are you getting?”
“Cookies and cream.”
“Twins. That’s one of my favorites too. It was nice meeting you, Keely.”
“Okay.”
“That was so gracious of you,” her mom says with a palm to her chest.
“I don’t mind,” I tell her. Informing a child’s curiosity gives me a chance to dispel any fears about vitiligo. It’s the adults who hate and judge that I have no tolerance for.
“I think it’s wonderful you’re running for mayor,” she says. “We could use a fresh voice. A woman’s voice,” she adds. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your support.”
We exchange a few more words before I turn to leave, taking several steps before I come face to face with…
Hollis.
Chapter Twenty-One
Rayne
“Ray-Ray.”
He flashes that hundred-watt smile, but now I see it for what it is: cheap window dressing. He’s average height, stocky build, the same meticulously maintained goatee and fade as when I last saw him eight months ago. His handsome exterior is a jarring reminder that looks aren’t a reliable measure of character.
“Hollis,” I say, my voice clipped, ignoring the nickname I can’t believe I ever thought was cute coming out of his mouth.
Avoiding any prying eyes, I pivot toward the edge of the pavilion, away from the crowd.
He follows, his determined footsteps crunching in the sand behind me.
I stop in a pocket of half-shade and turn, squinting up at him. My skin feels clammy, a slick contrast to the ninety-degree heat pressing down on me. I don’t have to search my chest for a spark of anything. I already know there’s nothing left for this man but a mild spot of contempt.
