2. Fireworks and Fallout
Chapter two
Fireworks and Fallout
Chloe
“Just your luck, everyone decided to show up today.” Harper peeks out at the crowd, partially hidden in the dimly lit wings.
Figures. Nothing like a little public showdown to get everyone off their asses.
I lean back, pressed into the shadows. No need to look, I can already feel the town hall packed tighter than a pair of Spanx at Thanksgiving. And today? I’m the main course. Fabulous. Thanksgiving without the carbs, but twice the anxiety.
Breakfast at Lakeside Café wasn’t much better. Sylvie’s pancakes are legendary, but even their syrupy magic almost weren’t enough to stop me from nearly fork-stabbing someone.
“It’s up to us to preserve the unique community and unspoiled landscape that makes Bluepeak what it is,” I say, voice steady as my eyes dart over my notes. They’re basically useless with how bad my hands are shaking. Awesome. At this rate, I’ll drown right here in my own pit stains.
My palms are slick, my spine’s locked up, and my brain’s holding it together by a thread.
If I pass out, Harper will drag my lifeless body off stage.
Bestie perks. These are my people, they’ve always been my people, and Bluepeak is my home.
I shouldn’t be this nervous… right? So why do I feel like I’m about to walk on stage naked and forget how to speak?
Maybe because this is it. The moment I have to convince them the lodge, Crystal Heart Lake, the mountains, all of it, are worth fighting for before Stirling Tech turns this place into another overpriced tourist trap.
The fate of this entire town is currently riding on my sweaty, terrified ass. No pressure.
This isn’t stage fright. No, this is fury. Pure, unfiltered, burning rage. My throat’s tight, there’s sweat prickling the back of my neck, and my ribcage feels like it’s about to combust.
Seriously, who the hell does Stirling Tech think they are —waltzing into my town, tossing money around, acting like they own the place?
Corporate vultures with dollar signs for eyes and zero clue what makes Bluepeak special.
They don’t want to protect this place, they want to slap a shiny price tag on it and call it “progress.”
“ Bunch of money-hungry leeches ,” I mutter. Or maybe one giant, cocky, designer-wearing bully.
“Hey…” Harper’s hands land on my shoulders, squeezing hard enough to snap me out of my spiral. “Deep breaths, remember? Save the massacre for the podium.”
Massacre. Now there’s a tempting thought.
I suck in a shaky inhale, focusing on her clear blue eyes. Her lips curl into that signature wide, troublemaker smile, the one that says you’ve got this but also don’t screw it up.
Damn it. She’s right. I hate when she’s right.
“Thanks, Harp. I needed that,” I say, dragging out a sigh like it might expel the panic with it. “We wouldn’t want any casualties before the meeting even starts.”
She chuckles. “No, we wouldn’t want that at all. Unless they vote against you. Then it’s game on.”
Honestly? Not the worst idea.
That’s friendship. The real kind. I laugh too, the tight knot in my stomach loosening a little. Harper’s superpower is making the world feel less like it’s on fire. She’s basically human Xanax with better hair.
What more could I want in a best friend? Maybe someone who also smuggles in tequila for moments like these.
“You’re my rock, Harp. Have I ever told you that?”
She rolls her eyes, drops her hands from my shoulders, and twists her fiery red curls into a messy bun. “Save the sentimentalities for later. I’m awesome, we know this. But right now? Focus. We’ve got a rich prick to crush.”
Damn right we do.
“We shall.” I straighten up like I’ve been recruited by the posture police.
“That’s my girl,” she laughs, already closing the space between us. “Now, what the hell is going on with your hair?”
Before I can protest, Harper has me in her clutches, yanking pins from my carefully crafted bun.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
“I told you to go for approachable and trustworthy.” She shakes out my waves until they spill over my shoulders, a few rebellious chestnut strands flopping into my face.
Approachable? Since when did a damn hairstyle become a moral compass? I blow the strands away with a dramatic huff. “There’s nothing more trustworthy than a neat bun.”
“Nothing more boring and uptight, you mean.” Harper grins, already moving on from my hair to pop open the top two buttons of my shirt. One more, and we’re officially in ‘girls gone wild’ territory.
“There. Now you can breathe, and maybe distract the opposition with your tits.”
“Smartass.” I fold my speech and stuff it into the back pocket of my jeans. Keep it casual, stay friendly, and try not to turn this into a public execution. Harper’s exact words when she helped me pick my outfit.
In my head, casual meant a simple white button-down, skinny jeans, and my trusty white Converse. It screams ‘girl next door’ with a dash of ‘I’ll save your ass if it comes to that.’ The bun might’ve been overkill, I’ll admit. Half this crowd’s probably wondering why I didn’t show up in flannel.
“Maybe I should’ve gone with a ponytail.” I’m already grabbing the elastic from my wrist before Harper can argue. “Feels more… me.”
“Familiar?” She blinks, amusement all over her face. “Chloe, you basically learned to walk at the grocery store. They’ve seen it all.”
She’s not wrong. Everyone in here probably remembers my diaper days. But the ponytail’s staying, and I feel better for it. Doesn’t do much for the cement mixer in my stomach, though. Pretty sure the nervous shits are one bad thought away from showing up.
“I need them to hear me.” My nerves are doing their thing, but I grit my teeth through it. “Bluepeak isn’t just some line item on a spreadsheet. It’s our home, and I’m not letting a bunch of tech bros bulldoze it for profit.”
She holds up her hands, palms out. “You don’t have to preach to me. I’m with you, one hundred percent. You know that.”
Her support is as solid as ever, and it makes me smile. Harper’s the kind of friend who’d help you bury a body, no questions asked, no follow-ups. We’ve been inseparable since before we could talk and calling her my best friend doesn’t even come close. I wouldn’t have made it this far without her.
Someone claps way too early on the other side of the curtain, jolting me out of the moment.
My heart stutters, suddenly hyperaware that we’re about thirty seconds from go time.
The room buzzes—sharp, messy, unfriendly. Harper and I inch closer to the curtain hiding us.
Eli must’ve opened his mouth, because now people are on their feet, all talking at once. Perfect, just what I need, chaos before I even open my mouth. Exactly the confidence boost I needed.
“What’s going on?” I whisper. Please tell me they aren’t sharpening the pitchforks.
Harper shushes me, tilting her head, pointing her ear in the direction of the noise. Her brow creases, and she bites the inside of her lip, listening.
If she says we’re doomed, I’m going to pass out and save everyone the suspense.
When she turns to face me, she looks completely unfazed. Good. No impromptu execution… yet.
“He’s talking about new safety protocols.” Harper shrugs. “Wants to avoid what happened at last year’s festival. He’s calling to ban uncontrolled fireworks.”
Fireworks? Of course that’s the hill Eli wants to die on. “Are you kidding me?” I start pacing the tiny off-stage area. This is it. The day I go down in history as the girl who lost her shit over sparklers.
“Eli Cruz, thank you.” My dad’s voice booms from the microphone, dragging everyone back to order. Thank God, someone with common sense. A rare commodity in this town lately.
As a close advisor to Mayor Dawson, my dad takes town hall meetings more seriously than he takes the Super Bowl.
And trust me, nothing competes with how seriously he takes the Super Bowl.
But he’s not only enthusiastic. He’s good at this.
His natural way with people means he’s better than anyone at yanking back control when things go off the rails, which they always do.
“And for the last order of business today…” My dad’s voice filters through the wings, and a spike of adrenaline rushes through me.
Here we go. Showtime.
Harper loops her arm around my shoulders, steering me toward the stage. “You’ve got this.”
Sure. Got this. Just the tiny matter of saving the town and not puking in front of everyone.
I’m totally fine. I square my shoulders and take a deep breath, stepping onto the stage right as my dad says my name.
Let’s hope I don’t face-plant. That’s all I need, a face full of hardwood to really inspire confidence.
No applause. Only a hundred pairs of eyeballs drilling into me. Nothing like being judged by people who’ve known you since you were born. The quiet’s broken only by my footsteps and Harper’s heels tapping close behind.
“Mom says don’t forget you promised to come over for dinner tonight,” Dad mumbles out the corner of his mouth as he moves aside, flashing Harper a quick smile.
Oh good. Guilt-tripped over meatloaf while trying to stop a town-wide meltdown. Love that for me.
I set my speech on the podium and scan the waiting crowd. Okay, Chloe. No crying. No puking. No passing out.
Harper wasn’t kidding. Not an empty seat in the house. Laney, who warned me she’d be late, is crammed in the doorway. Her dark hair’s pinned up, neat but a little messy, like she didn’t have time to get it in place. You’d never guess she sprinted here.
When she catches my eye, she pumps her fist like I’m about to step into the ring. Feels about right.
“Thank you, Norman,” I say, nodding at Dad as he steps aside, probably already cooking up his next speech.