Page 61 of Made for Mayhem

But not today.

Today, you’re going to ignore the paperwork sitting somewhere nearby. (Yes, I know you haven’t opened it yet. Don’t make that face.) You’re going to grab the gardening gloves in the bucket by the porch, pull some weeds, and breathe in the mountain air like we used to.

And you’re going to press play on the little stereo.

I love you, Daisy Winslow. Always have. Always will. You’re stronger than you think, and I tried my best to make sure you don’t have to do this alone.

To the moon,

V

A sob hiccuped out of me, but I smiled through the tears as I wiped the back of my hand across my face. My fingers trembled when I reached for the little CD player and popped the lid. Inside was a burned CD I vaguely remembered, Violet’s handwriting scrawled across the silver plastic.

The Anti-Frown.

Of course it was.

I let out a soft, broken laugh, remembering all the mix CDs she’d made over the years. Music had always been our escape hatch—something we could slip through together when everything else felt too heavy. I snapped the lid closed, and the player hummed as it whirred to life.

The opening notes of Footloose blasted through the room at full volume.

I ducked my head, grinning through watery eyes, and waited for the lyrics to kick in. My foot started tapping almost immediately, then my head followed, the beat tugging at me whether I wanted it to or not. I could see it so clearly—the summer Violet and I had memorized the dance, laughing our way through every wrong step.

When the chorus hit, something cracked open inside me just enough to let the pressure out.

I stood, the music thrumming through the studs and floorboards. The CD player was scuffed and ancient, but I scooped it up anyway and tucked it under my arm.

By the door sat a pair of Violet’s heart-shaped sunglasses and, like any good little sister, I claimed them as mine. The world tinted pink—too bright, a little ridiculous, and exactly what I needed.

Outside, the mountain air rushed against my cheeks, cool and sharp. I set the stereo on the porch railing and cranked the volume, letting the music spill out across the yard.

I kicked off my shoes and hopped down into the grass, toes curling as I threw my arms up and sang at the top of my lungs. I twirled, stumbled, laughed—and kept going. Tears streaked hot down my cheeks, but I didn’t stop. I just wiped them away with the heel of my hand and danced harder.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t even good. But for the first time in days, I could breathe.

Nothing about this place made sense without her. Not the house. Not the sun warming my shoulders. But the music did. And for a little while, it felt like Violet was right there with me, laughing and dancing as she always had.

When the chorus rolled around again, I didn’t slow down. I spun until I was dizzy, flinging my arms wide, singing with zero concern for pitch or dignity.

When the song ended, I sprinted back to the porch and smacked the CD player to start it again. This time, I went all in—every ridiculous, half-remembered move from that summer.

By the second chorus, my hair clung to my neck and my cheeks ached from smiling, and I didn’t care. I spun once more, then collapsed backward into the grass, staring up at the endless Colorado sky as the music played on.

For one long, impossible heartbeat, there was nothing but the sun, the breeze, the beat, and Violet’s ghost tangled up in all of it.

No court hearings.

No grief.

No next steps.

Just this.

The distant crunch of tires on gravel broke the spell sometime later. I propped myself up on my elbows, squinting toward the driveway as Emmy’s SUV came into view.

She slowed when she spotted me splayed out in the grass, music still blaring through the valley. When she parked and stepped out, her ponytail swung as she took me in with an amused grin.

“You good?” she asked, hands braced on the top of the door like she might need to call for backup.