Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
CALLIE
Summer Festival arrives before I’m ready for it. Between tourists being crammed into our town like sardines and all the familiar faces I’ll see at the event, I’m somewhere between dread and excitement. It helps that Aspen and Lily are going to be with me for most of the night.
I rifle through my closet, pulling out clothing options.
For the first time in a long time, there are no hissed insults or vile names rushing through my head.
Picking out an outfit is simply deciding what to wear.
My fingers hesitate on a flowy yellow sundress, the fabric buttery-soft against my skin.
It’s not like I need to impress anyone in my hometown, but I haven’t been to this festival since high school.
“Maybe paired with those boots,” I murmur, setting the dress on the bed.
My phone chimes.
My chest threatens to crack before I even see who it’s from. Lately, the only texts I’ve been getting are threatening ones. I pick up the phone with numb fingers.
UNKNOWN
Come back and we can put this all behind us.
Don’t be stupid, Callie.
I’m getting fucking tired of you not responding.
My stomach hurts like I’ve swallowed broken glass. A tremor works through my hands, and my thumb trembles as it hovers over the screen. Every time I block a new number, Theo gets another. I don’t understand why he won’t leave me alone.
My eyes drift to the open laptop on my desk.
There’s a browser tab I can’t bring myself to close with an interview in the New York Arts Quarterly where my ex smiles with perfect teeth, explaining how deeply hurt he was when his “troubled ex-girlfriend” tried to claim his breakthrough collection as her own work.
I scroll through my notifications. There are three emails from people I once thought were friends. They all say things like: I always thought better of you. Theo is a great guy, I can’t believe you’d do this to him. One is a string of expletives.
A scream lodges in my throat. I stuff my fist against my mouth, catching it. It’s been a little over a month, but the wound is as raw as the day I arrived at that gallery opening to find my own work—my soul, practically—on display with his fucking name beneath each piece.
I glance at my phone again, Theo’s message burning through the screen.
He can’t hurt me if he can’t get to me. With a decisive swipe, I block this new number. My hand trembles as I toss the phone onto my bed, and I make a vow to get a new number after all.
The mirror on my childhood dresser shows a woman I’m not proud of. I should have stood up for myself instead of running. I should have told someone that night at the gallery that Theo stole my work.
But what does it matter what I say? What matters is what everyone else believes. Theo might be shit with money, but his family has connections, a reputation in the art world I never managed to build. Meanwhile, I’m bartending in the same town I grew up in.
I study one of my old pieces hanging on the wall, longing for that familiar feeling of inspiration, but I’m empty. The thought of picking up a brush makes my stomach twist. What’s the point? Nobody would believe it’s mine anyway.
My gaze moves to the festival dress laid out on the bed. Maybe I can’t reclaim my art right now, but I can reclaim something smaller. One evening at a stupid small-town festival where the biggest drama is supposed to be who made the best blueberry pie.
A fragile peace settles over my shoulders, but deep in my gut, I wonder if I’ll ever have true contentment. If I’ll ever paint again. If I’ll ever be anything more than a woman who fled a city with her tail between her legs, branded a thief by the man who stole everything from her.
The summer festival is in full swing by the time Aspen, Lily, and I arrive.
The fairgrounds buzz with laughter, music, and the clinking of beer bottles.
There is no beer garden at Summer Festival.
The coordinator worked with the town to designate the entire scrap of land for the liquor license.
The sweet scent of funnel cake and kettle corn drift through the air, making my mouth water.
Someone bumps into me.
“Sorry,” they mutter, but where there’s one, there’s twenty. There are so many people here, there’s hardly enough room to walk. I kind of hate that we host this festival during the height of tourist season. It’s suffocating, terrible, horrible, an absolute—
“This is amazing,” Lily says with a dreamy sigh. My friend has always had fantasies about being swept away by a handsome tourist. “The kissing booth is prime real estate this year. Front and center.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Remind me why you volunteered for that germ factory again?”
Lily grins and pops her hip. “Because I’m desperate to find love, and I’m hoping one of these strangers might be the one.” She shrugs. “That and I’m horny.”
“Oh my god.” Aspen laughs, covering her face. “You’re terrible.”
“I’m honest,” Lily counters. “Besides, it’s for charity. My lips are practically saving lives today.”
Ahead of us, a line has already formed at what appears to be another kissing booth. My stomach sours when I see who’s running it.
Penelope.
She’s perched on a stool like it’s a throne, her blonde hair styled in loose curls, lips painted a predatory red.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Aspen follows my stare and snorts. “Look at those poor souls waiting in line. Do you think they know they’re about to be devoured whole?”
“Right?” I cross my arms. “It’s like watching lambs line up for slaughter.”
Lily peers over and grimaces. “Great. Competition. Well, I better go claim my booth before she decides that one isn’t enough for her empire.” She gives us each a quick hug. “Come find me later!”
As Lily rushes off, Aspen and I continue watching Penelope’s show. She’s making each kiss into a performance, complete with hair flips and giggles that sound like they’ve been practiced in front of a mirror.
“How is she still single?” I wonder aloud. “You’d think some sucker would have put a ring on that nightmare by now.”
“Probably because she eats her mates after mating, like a black widow,” Aspen deadpans.
I snort-laugh, drawing a few glances our way. “God, I’ve missed you.”
Aspen’s expression softens. “You know I’ve got to head to my station soon, right? They put me at the ax throwing booth this year.” She hesitates. “Are you going to be okay? I know this is your first summer festival since, well, since everything.”
“I’m a big girl,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “Besides, I’ll be too busy pouring drinks to worry about ancient history.”
Aspen doesn’t look convinced. “Ugh. I’m all the way on the other side of the fairgrounds. The ax throwing stations are basically in Narnia this year because of the. . .” she makes air quotes, “‘safety concerns.’”
“Sharp flying objects are dangerous,” I tell her with a funny grin.
She blows out a breath. “Whatever. Come see me?”
I nod. “I’ll find you on my break.”
As Aspen reluctantly heads toward her station, I notice a group of men standing near the edge of the midway.
They stick out like sore thumbs—tailored pants, crisp button-ups with the sleeves rolled up to expose their forearms, watches that probably cost more than my car.
Definitely not Big Ridge locals. Honestly, they don’t even really look like the tourists we usually get.
The tallest with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass whispers something to his companions without taking his gaze off my friend.
I narrow my eyes. Something about their focused attention makes my protective instincts flare. Before I can investigate further, a familiar voice calls out behind me.
“There you are! It’s shot o’clock, baby girl!”
I turn to find my mother holding two tiny paper cups of what I’m guessing isn’t lemonade.
“Mom, it’s barely four in the afternoon.”
She presses the cup into my hand. “It’s tradition! First day of the summer festival means apple cider shots.” Her eyes twinkle. “With a kick.”
I sigh but take the cup. “You’re the only mom who actively encourages day drinking.”
“Honey, I’m the reason half these tourists come back year after year.” She throws back her shot with practiced ease and grins. “They come for the mountains but stay for Sally Mae’s special cider.”
I can’t help but smile as I down my own shot. The cinnamon-apple warmth slides down my throat, followed by the familiar burn of whatever whiskey Mom’s snuck into it this year.
“Strong,” I cough.
“Perfect,” she counters. “Happy tourists spend more money. More money means a better winter for everyone when they’re gone.
” She links her arm through mine. “Now come on, I need you to help me set up the rest of the cider station. We have cornhole tournaments starting in an hour, and those daddies get mighty thirsty watching their kids toss bean bags.”
As I let Mom lead me away, I glance over my shoulder. The men in their fancy clothes are gone, but something about them lingers in my mind like a question I can’t quite form.
Maybe it’s the shot hitting my empty stomach, but something tells me this summer festival is going to be different from any before it. Whether that’s good or bad remains to be seen.
For now, I’ll follow Mom and help get the tourists liquored up. After all, someone has to fuel this town’s economy, one overpriced shot at a time.
The drink making doesn’t stop. Disposable cup, pour, serve, smile, repeat.
My hands move automatically, and while this dinky drink station has nothing on The Bar, it’s set up logically.
Mom even makes a good bartender. I swear she’s forced Jager Bombs on every person she’s served.
I slide three tequila shots across to a group of smiling tourists who’ve clearly pre-gamed before arriving at the Summer Festival.
“Anything else I can get you?” I flash my best bartender smile.
One of the men leans forward, all confidence and swagger. “Your number would be nice.”