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Cindy Ann glanced up from her cleaning job and wrinkled her nose in confusion. “Aren’t you boys a little old for sleepovers?”
My cheeks flamed. I had not had enough caffeine to deal with this maturely.
“He means they’re friends with benefits, Cindy Ann,” Ava explained. “They’re dating casually.”
“Oh. Well, in that case…” Cindy Ann stood with an eager smile. “You might be interested to know that there are nearly two hundred out-and-proud gay and bisexual men in the greater Thicket-Nuthatch area, in case you’re looking to upgrade to something more serious.”
“What? God, no. That’s—”
“It’s true,” Ava confirmed proudly, still swaying with her baby. “And the Thicket is also home to a well-respected charitable organization called Rainbows Over Tennessee, which helps support LGBTQIA+ youth, especially those who don’t have appropriate support at home.”
This speech sounded well rehearsed, which was confusing, but with the baby in my hands, it was hard to think clearly. “Okay?”
“Our own Tucker Johnson—that’s Cindy Ann’s son-in-law—founded the organization, and they do incredible work in our community and beyond. So incredible, in fact, that this year the Thicket Beautification Corps has decided to donate the proceeds of our annual SnoBall Fundraiser Dance to benefit Rainbows.”
“That sounds great, but I don’t understand what—?”
“—you need to do in order to get involved?” Cindy Ann beamed. “Oh, I hoped you’d feel that way. Parrish assured us you were the person for the job. You’re hired!” she announced excitedly.
“Hired?” I shook my head. “I’m sorry, as what?”
“As our event planner, sweetheart. That’s what you do for a living,” Cindy Ann said gently, like she worried maybe I’d forgotten.
She took the baby back from me at last.
“I don’t follow,” I said weakly. But I was very much afraid I did. And if I was being asked to produce a giant charity dance pro bono, with only three weeks to plan, there was literally no chance of it happening.
“Obviously, we’d never actually ask you to plan the event,” Ava explained, like she was inside my mind, hearing my thoughts. “Not this close to the date. But Lorraine Peevey, the lady who’s run the SnoBall committee for years, has… erm. Taken ill.”
Cindy Ann rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it sound dramatic, Ava honey. Truth is, Quinn, she went down to the Villages in Florida to visit her sister a couple weeks ago, and you know how it goes in those retirement communities. Swingers every-dang-where. Lorraine got herself a little too much free love, and now she’s on some expensive antibiotics.”
Cindy Ann snorted at her own joke, and damn if that didn’t make me like her even more.
“So, you’d just need me to…?” I trailed off.
“To coordinate vendors on the night and make sure there are no last-minute snafus,” Cindy Ann said. “And to keep us on schedule. If the dance floor’s not clear by the time the first SnoBall is thrown out, chaos ensues.”
“There are… there are actual balls being thrown?”
“Mmhmm. That’s the fundraising portion of the evening,” she explained, though her explanation only made things less clear. “We’ll go over everything Thursday. Seven p.m. sharp, Thicket Tavern. Okay?”
I rubbed my forehead. I really did not want another thing to be in charge of. But it seemed like most of the work was already done… and hadn’t I just been thinking how much I needed a distraction from Champ?
“I’ll be there,” I agreed.
Ava reached over and gave me an impulsive hug. “I’m so glad, Quinn. You and I are going to be friends, I just know it.”
My cheeks had to be violent red. I could feel them heating the air around me. “That would… that would be great.”
“And listen, sweetie,” Cindy Ann said kindly, “If Champ doesn’t come up to scratch and you need a plus-one, you just let me know. I’ve got connections.”
“A plus-one?” I frowned. “No, I don’t think—” I stopped myself. After five minutes of conversation, I already knew that Cindy Ann would not take kindly to me saying I’d go alone. “I’ll take care of it, I promise.”
“Good enough.” She patted my cheek maternally. “See you Thursday. And please tell your aunt Cherry I’ll phone her soon,” she threatened—I mean, called—over her shoulder as she walked away.
Oh, fuck.
I could just imagine Cindy Ann telling Cherry the tale of Champ and the Twenty-Eight Walks of Shame, embellishing every already embarrassing detail.
“Change of plans,” I told Hercules, who was still staring after little Beau Siegel like his one true love had left him. “No time for donuts. You and I are going home.”
The second we got inside, I hit Aunt Cherry’s number, and while Hercules wisely curled up in his bed by the front window, I paced the length of the showroom as the phone rang.
“Hello,” Cherry whispered. Her voice was hoarse, and instant worry made my stomach flip. Aunt Cherry was normally hale and hearty. I’d never known her to be sick for even a day.
