Chapter 2
Cherry parked on the street, as close as she could get to the concert venue—a small club in an industrial part of downtown
Omaha. It was raining and already dark.
Maybe it was foolish to go out at night by herself like this. Cherry should at least tell her sisters where she was going,
to be safe. (Though that always seemed less like a protective measure than a way to streamline the process later when people
were looking for your body.)
Cherry’s sisters were still blowing up the group chat—and they’d also started texting her individually, to ask why she wasn’t
replying. Cherry continued to ignore them. She shoved the phone and her wallet into her pocket and got out of the car, sprinting
for the club door.
The young guy taking tickets barely looked at her when he checked her ID. She hoped she was early enough to get a table. The
only seating in this place was at a few high-tops near the bar.
Cherry got inside and made a beeline for the last available table, hopping a little to get up onto a stool. Victory! she thought, then immediately felt foolish. (When had victory become a chair?) But she felt exhilarated, too, just to be here—to
be out.
She felt daring, to be out by herself.
She felt old . . . already . . . compared to everyone else here.
She felt fat. (Always.)
She felt kind of cute, in her dark jeans and gauzy olive-green sweater . . .
Cherry liked everything she was wearing tonight: Chunky baby blue leather boots that she’d ordered from Denmark. Dangly pink earrings made by a plastics artist she’d found online. A vintage heart-shaped locket that she wore with almost everything.
She had cute clothes—too many cute clothes, probably. She’d taken over their bedroom closet, and then the entire spare bedroom.
Tom had had to keep all his shoes and dress clothes in a closet downstairs. (He never made her feel bad about that.) (But
also he never wore dress clothes.)
Clothes were important to Cherry—her appearance was important. Every weekday morning, when she rode the elevator to her office
on the twelfth floor of the Western Alliance building, she took real satisfaction in seeing her reflection in the mirrored
brass doors.
Cherry had always been able to see herself clearly. She had a good eye, and she could turn it on herself. She knew what she
was working with.
Like—she had long, thick hair in a beautiful, unusual shade of chestnut brown, and she knew it. She had hazel eyes and thick
lashes. Really nice freckles across the bridge of her nose. Dimples. A good smile. Cherry knew all this about herself. She
could see it.
Also . . . she was fat.
Not fat like most women think they are. Cherry was actually fat. Objectively. And she knew it. She could say it out loud. She didn’t hide from it.
Cherry came from a long line of fat women. (There were three fat women lighting up her cell phone right now.) She’d been a
fat kid, then a fat teenager, and now she was a fat lady.
She knew how she looked, how people saw her—she thought about it constantly. Whatever else Cherry was thinking and doing (which
was a lot; if Cherry were a train car, she’d be the locomotive), she was also thinking about being fat.
Cherry was so used to thinking about being fat, she hardly even noticed that she was doing it. She was so used to thinking
about being fat, she never thought about it.
There was dog hair on her sleeve. She frowned and plucked it off.
More people were showing up for the concert now. Cherry watched them pour through the door. The crowd was younger than she was expecting. Weren’t these kids too young to know Goldenrod?
Maybe this was just the crowd for every concert here . . . Guys with patchy beards. Girls with blunt haircuts and tattoos
creeping up their necks and onto their cheeks. Everyone had tattoos now. Literally, everyone. Even soccer moms and elementary
school teachers. It must be difficult to be young and rebellious these days—you had to get a tattoo right across your face
if you wanted to stand out. You had to wear clothes so deeply unflattering that no one over thirty would dare try it. The
girls at this concert were wearing what used to be called mom jeans. Waist-thickening, ass-flattening jeans. Mom jeans and
dad sneakers. Cherry didn’t have the heart for any of it. She was too old and fat to lean away from her strengths.
She wished that Stacia was here . . . or somebody.
In the old days, Cherry would have come to the concert with a big group of friends from work or school.
Your friendships change when you get married. And then they change again when everyone starts having kids. Cherry had been
left behind at the kid stage. And now Tom was gone, and it was worse than being left behind—it was like getting thrown back
to the start.
Maybe she needed younger friends.
She wasn’t the oldest person here, at least. There were even a few people she recognized, just from living in Omaha her whole life and showing
up in certain kinds of places.
She spotted a guy who used to work at the record store . . . back when Omaha had record stores. And a woman who used to work
for the newspaper, back when Omaha still had a real newspaper. Sometimes the world was so new, it made Cherry dizzy—and she
was only thirty-six. No wonder her mom always seemed confused.
Someone touched her shoulder. A young woman with short, unfortunate bangs wanted to know if Cherry needed the other chairs at her table. Cherry said she didn’t. The woman dragged them over to the bar for her friends.
Cherry watched them for a while—then realized she was staring at people like some sort of twentieth-century weirdo. She should
stare at her phone, like a normal person. She glanced over at the bar one more time—and right into the eyes of someone who
was watching her. A man. He smiled.
Cherry frowned. Was that . . .
It definitely was. She smiled, surprised. The man was already walking toward her. She smiled bigger.
“Russell Sutton!” she said as he stepped up to her table. “As I live and breathe.”
“Cherry, Cherry,” he said, grinning at her. “You’re a flashback—look at you.”
“Look at you,” Cherry said. She was looking at him. He looked . . .
Well, god, he looked the same way he always had. Like he’d dropped out of his mother’s womb with a good haircut and tortoiseshell
glasses. Like he was born with that smirk. Russell Sutton of the Fairacres Suttons. Talk about flashbacks. Talk about concussive blasts from the distant
past.
“What are you doing here?” Russ asked, smiling with all of his teeth, like he couldn’t help it.
Cherry laughed. It was a dumb question. “I came for the show.”
He leaned on the high-top table. A lock of brown hair fell onto his forehead. “You know what I mean. I haven’t seen you around
for generations. Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah, you?”
Russ shrugged and swept his hair back with his hand. “Ish. I came by myself—but you know, I know everyone here. You’re the fresh face, Cherry. Where have you even been?”
She laughed again. “Nowhere. Around. I still live in midtown. I still work for the railroad.”
“I didn’t know you worked for the railroad—what do you do?”
“I sit in an office and give orders.”
He laughed. “I’ll bet you’re good at that. You’re married, right? To that guy who does the cartoon? They’re making a movie,
isn’t that right?”
Cherry clenched her teeth. For just a second. She didn’t stop smiling. “That’s right—Thursday.”
He looked confused. “They’re making it on Thursday?”
“No,” she said. “That’s what it’s called. The comic. Thursday.”
“Oh.” Russ’s mouth quirked down on one side, sheepish. “Sorry. I’ve never actually read it.”
“That’s—” Cherry smiled for real. “That’s okay.” She shook her head. “And anyway, I’m actually . . .” She shook her head again
and flapped her left hand. “Divorced.”
Russ stood up a little. “Oh.”
“I mean, we’re getting a divorce.”
His face was serious. “I’m sorry, Cherry.”
“No, don’t be. It’s . . .” She waved her hand again. “You know.”
“I’ve been divorced for three years,” he said.
“Oh. Russ.” Cherry finally stopped smiling. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugged. “I lived.”
His eyes were soft. She smiled at him.
He leaned toward her and bumped his elbow against hers. “You’ll live.”
She laughed a little. “Thanks.”
“Do you want a drink?”
Cherry looked over at the bar. “Yeah, but I don’t want to lose my seat.”
“I’ll get you something,” he said. “What do you want?”
She bit her lips, humming. “Nah. I’d just have to go to the bathroom when the show starts, and then I’d lose my seat.”
“Oh my god,” Russ said. “Just tell me what you want. I’ll protect your seat all night, Grandma.”
She pointed at him. “Seriously, do you promise? I can’t stand through a concert.”
Russ made a face. “I’ve stood with you through several concerts, Cherry.”
“That’s the problem. I ruined myself with long nights in high heels.”
He grinned again, nostalgic. “Oh yeah, you did. You used to wear those little pin-up girl shoes.” He held up his thumb and
forefinger. “They made your feet look tiny.”
Cherry kicked his shin with her clunky boot. “I want a Coke Zero. And you have to come back in an hour to watch my seat while
I go to the bathroom.”
“I won’t leave your side,” Russ said, loping away from her toward the bar.
Cherry smiled after him. Then tried to shake it off. But her face still felt like it was smiling even with her lips pressed
together.
Russell Sutton. Who would have thought?