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I hover a fingertip over one of the satiny white leaves, mostly so I can break the stare he’s aiming at me like a laser beam.
“It’s probably insanity to buy one when it’s snowing this hard. I’m not even staying at my own place.” I smile at them before I realize my publicist would smack my mouth for giving details.
“Jessica,” the girl squeals, jumping up and down.
I tug Mr. Madison’s big black jacket down around my ankles before reaching in his huge pocket to grab my wallet out.
“That’s…not me,” I murmur, joking.
“God, she’s famous,” the girl says to the boy, scanning my four-roll pack of toilet paper. I pass her the plant.
“You’re a model too,” the boys says, “right?”
I struggle to suppress a cringe. “Yep. But really I’m a singer.”
“A singer?” the girl says.
I nod. “I have a record deal. My sound is somewhere between teenage Taylor Swift and old-school country. With a kind of bluesy undertone. Singing is my true passion.”
“Damn,” the boy says as the girl takes my cash. “You’re multi-talented.”
Heat tingles on my cheeks. Clearly, I’m 12.
The girl starts belting out a Taylor Swift song I recognize while the boy shuffles his feet. Thank God, I’m out of there not long after.
I step outside onto the cement walkway and am pummeled by fat snowflakes.
“Christ…”
I cross myself for taking the Lord’s name in vain—a habit I picked up from Elvie—then cast my eyes to my boots and shuffle carefully toward the SUV.
Which doesn’t crank.
Like, seriously. This thing will not crank.
“DAMMIT.”
Just my motherloving luck.
I set the gardenia in the passenger’s seat and try again a few times. Nothing.
“Ughh.”
I look at my phone, even though I know already it will have no more than one bar. This is Breckenridge. My service blows here. Probably everyone’s service blows here.
I could go inside, but Jamie got a new number recently, and I don’t know it. I’ve got Elvie’s memorized. And Mom and Dad’s. But how will they help if they don’t know Jamie’s new number either?
I let out a big sigh. Then I rip the pack of toilet paper open, stuff a roll in Mr. Madison’s huge pocket, and blink down at the gardenia in the passenger’s seat.
I think it will probably freeze or something if I leave it here all night. The Madisons—they may not care to come and get the car until tomorrow. Cars are nothing to them. Cheap. Almost like bicycles.
With the gardenia under one arm, tucked partway inside my long down coat, I point myself toward the Madisons’ place and start the trek back. I’m young and healthy. I’ve got snow shoes. There’s a full moon, too.
What could possibly go wrong?
* * *
Gwenna
