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Why, oh why can’t I catch a break?
When I look back over the audience, the wide grin on his face has me fumbling my bells.
“Crap. Crap,” I whisper, righting myself just as a wave of dizziness takes over.
“You okay?” the woman beside me asks.
“Stellar.” My heart rate skyrockets. The full-body chills that have been plaguing me stop instantly, replaced by a heat that invades every inch of me.
He’s here.
He’s home.
There’s no time to freak out or speculate why he’s here as the gentle countdown from our conductor snags my attention back into the present, and I’m able to get myself back in control in time to begin our song. Through our set of four holiday songs, I’m off key a handful of times. My arms are shaking so badly by the end of the third song, I have no idea how I’m going to make it. At one point, I black out, muscle memory taking over to finish the song as the rest of me fights to stay upright.
When the final clang rings out, ending our performance, I’m not sure if it’s sweat or tears running down my face. The women beside me reach for my hands at the same time, and I let them lead me into a bow. If not for their help, I would have just crumpled forward and gone to sleep under the table.
The crowd around us cheers and claps. Faintly, I can hear the MC saying something, but I can’t make out what it is. I float to the stairs of the gazebo, unaware of what my body is doing, but I know I’m moving.
“Okay, Sickie McSickerson. It’s time for you to head home. I have no idea how you pulled off that performance, but you look as white as the Ghost of Christmas Past, and it’s not a color you can pull off.”
“Such a sweet talker, Gretch,” I squeak out.
“It’s all the sugar I eat in secret when Violet isn’t looking,” she jests, pulling me away from the crowd at the gazebo steps. “Noah is talking to the mayor over at the wine and beer advent calendar stand; he’ll be here in a second. Why don’t we–”
“Libby! Penny! Get over here, girls! They want to take our picture for the paper!”
The thought of capturing how I currently look and feel for the whole town to see doesn’t appeal to me.
“You go,” I tell Libby, trying not to sound like death run over and failing. “I need to get away from here. I saw Carter in the crowd, and I just can’t with him right now.”
“That’s perfect! Let’s get him to drive you home,” Gretchen suggests, twisting around in an unnatural way while looking for him.
“No!” I cry too fiercely. Adjusting my tone as best I can, I try again. “I mean, no. I’m fine to head in Noah’s direction. I really need to lie down.”
“Are you sure?”
“A thousand percent. Go get your pic taken. I’m done.”
“Fine. But I’ll be watching you waddle over to the stands. No detours, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am. Straight to Noah and his pending lecture on how I need to take better care of myself I go.”
She snorts at my comment but doesn’t correct me. Why would she? Gretchen knows her husband is all about balance. He’s going to take one look at me and know I’ve been pushing myself too hard.
Trudging back up the steps, I groan as I bend to grab my things from under the velvet-covered table. Yanking my extra scarf out of my bag takes an eternity as I pull and pull and pull until the stupid wool snake comes finally free. By the time I have it wrapped around my neck and the lower half of my face snug in the material, I’m dead tired.
Walking to the parking lot with Noah will take every last ounce of energy from me. I feel even worse thinking about the distance. What are the chances of convincing him to drag me and not think anything is wrong?
Probably zero. I start the arduous journey back to the booth area.
It’s only when I’m halfway across the field, my eyes drooping with exhaustion and my legs shaking, that I remember seeing Carter in the audience when I was performing. Or maybe I didn’t see him. Could it have been a waking nightmare, brought on by exhaustion? I’m not sure. Everything is getting a bit…hazy.
If he’s here, why didn’t anyone tell me he was back? I speak to Gigi on a daily basis, and Carter and I aren’t strangers. We’re friendly. Okay, maybe friendly isn’t the right word, more like frenemies but still, we text. Occasionally.
I guess I should have known he’d be home for the holidays.
Ugh, even as sick as I feel, thinking about Carter as just a friend churns my stomach. He is a walking fantasy come to life…the jerk. His dark hair is alwaysjustright, never too short or too long. It looks like silk and moves with hypnotizing skill in the wind. Which is annoying to know when I try really, really hard not to look at him too long.
