Chapter Three
Chapter
Three
“Olive!” Ramona called from the kitchen as she sipped her coffee and worked a mini-crossword on her phone. “Isn’t Marley picking you up at eight?”
“I’m coming! Jesus!” a voice screeched from upstairs.
Ramona winced. Olive had graduated this past weekend—Ramona had made sure to wear waterproof mascara and took at least a hundred pictures—and this week marked a Clover Lake tradition where the graduates fluttered through town in different costumes as a symbol of their newly minted independence. During Grad Week, they went to movies and restaurants and the beach and got ice cream, all dressed up in the theme of the day. Despite all this frivolity, Olive seemed a bit on edge. Neither their dad nor Ramona could really put a finger on why—school was over, Olive had a full ride to Vanderbilt with her best friend, Marley, and she was only a few months from getting out of this backassward shoebox of a town , as Olive put it.
If anyone should be losing her shit a little, it was Ramona.
And she was.
Quietly, while she tried to think of a four-letter word for an unexpected blessing, her heart rate increasing the longer she listened to Olive stomp around upstairs.
“Good morning!” April trilled as she came in through the back door, just like she did most mornings. She lived on the next street over, bought her own house and everything like a real adult after college, a tiny sage-green bungalow with two feline roommates and walls covered in all manner of strange and beautiful art. Her parents still lived in the same house April had grown up in on the other side of town, still practiced medicine at Evans Family Medicine, but April, for all her love of Clover Lake, needed her own space.
She’d always needed more space than the Evanses knew how to give or create.
Her parents were one reason April loved astrology so vehemently—because Jacqueline and Preston Evans did not . They were people of science, doctors who moved their practice from San Francisco to Clover Lake for a quieter life for their only daughter. As April grew up, it became wildly clear that she was never going to be contained by their standards, their logic, their stoic and practical approach to life.
“Oh, thank god,” April said, beelining for the glass carafe that held Steven’s precious pour-over. He always made enough for both April and Ramona before he left for work during the regular school year, and for the past few years, he also taught summer school, which had just started up this week. April drained the last of the coffee into a mug with David Rose’s face on it, along with the admonition to eat glass. April held the mug close, steam curling into her face, and inhaled deeply. “Bless.”
Ramona laughed. “Just drink it already.”
“I’m enjoying this masterpiece.”
Ramona shook her head. She loved her dad’s coffee, but she also had had to make peace with the burnt flavor of the diner’s brew. During a double shift, one couldn’t be picky about their caffeine intake.
April cleared her throat after a sip. “Speaking of masterpieces—”
“I wasn’t.”
“Well, I was.”
Ramona clicked out of her crossword. “Here we go.”
“We need to get you on that movie set.”
Ramona sighed, opened her mouth to protest, but then Olive bounded into the room, her long brown hair flying behind her in two pigtails, her face covered in white makeup with each of her eyes smudged and streaked with red and blue paint, respectively, lips red and smeared. She wore a red-and-white baseball tee that read Daddy’s Lil Monster across the chest.
Ramona blinked at her. “What is happening right now?”
“Harley Quinn,” April said, popping a grape in her mouth from the bowl on the counter. “Badass.”
“Today’s theme is superhero day,” Olive said. “Marley is Puddin’. We’re meeting people at the Pancake Corner in Concord.”
“ Puddin’ ?” Ramona asked.
“Harley’s pet name for Joker,” April said.
Ramona sighed. “I’m officially old.”
“We knew that, puddin’,” April said.
Ramona flipped her off but laughed.
“What’s this about the movie set?” Olive asked as she took a sip of Ramona’s coffee.
“Nothing,” Ramona said.
“Everything,” April said, then proceeded to explain about Noelle Yang and Ramona’s dashed dreams. Olive narrowed her eyes as April waxed on, gaze flitting to her sister over and over.
Ramona’s chest tightened. Everything April was saying was essentially true—she did have dashed dreams and she had deferred her career plans, all of which Olive knew about—but she never wanted Olive to feel as though she was second place or a backup plan or, even worse, had ruined Ramona’s life.
Olive was Ramona’s life. The best part about it.
“Okay, she gets it,” Ramona said, cutting April off before her best friend’s excitement let something slip about Dylan Monroe. Not that Dylan mattered all that much—she was a blip in Ramona’s past, a firework in the sky lasting only seconds—but Ramona was already struggling against this tiny flicker of hope under her ribs ever since she’d learned about the movie and Noelle Yang coming to Clover Lake. And with Dylan Monroe soon to be strolling through town as well, she wasn’t quite sure how to feel about any of it.
“But do you ?” April said, frowning at Ramona. “Get it?”
“It’s not your job to reignite my career, Apes. Give me some time to process.”
“You’ve had twelve years of processing.”
“That’s a long time,” Olive said softly, and Ramona reached out and squeezed her hand, relieved when Olive squeezed back.
“Plus, it’s June—Pride Month!” April said. “All the queer deities are smiling down on you.”
Ramona huffed a laugh, then stood and took her empty mug to the sink. “What do you expect me to do? Camp out in front of Noelle’s trailer and most likely get arrested for harassment?”
“There are other ways to meet her,” Olive said. “Isn’t the café doing a lot with the movie? What about deliveries or catering or something?”
“Olive, you’re a genius,” April said, grabbing Olive’s face and kissing the top of her head.
“I know that,” Olive deadpanned, and god, Ramona loved her. Every choice she’d ever made for Olive was worth it…but she also couldn’t deny that little flicker near her heart was growing, brightening the dark places where she’d tucked away her own plans and visions for her life.
A few nights ago, she couldn’t sleep, that spark burning just enough to keep her awake. She’d taken her iPad and crept into the spare bedroom, the one with the daybed no one ever slept in, four different dress forms she had used for various genders and plus-size designs huddled in one corner, and the closet filled with Ramona’s creations from high school, from RISD, and from the few years after she first came back home from Rhode Island. She’d flipped on the red swing arm lamp on the drawing table she hadn’t used in years. Soft, warm light filled the room, and she sat on the edge of the bed, her iPad held tight to her chest. She eyed the closet, wary, like a monster lurked behind the honey-colored wooden doors.
It took her a good ten minutes, but she finally made herself stand and let that monster out.
And it was beautiful.
Sharp and hungry and eager for attention—smooth silks, colors in every shade, unique buttons and stitches, tartan and wool and chiffon, all lined up like scenes from Ramona’s dreams. Her heart fluttered like a kid with a crush, her fingers reaching out to drift over the things she’d created.
She loved clothes.
Always had, really. She could remember being as young as four and tucking herself into her mother’s closet, a walk-in filled with all manner of colors and fabrics and styles. She loved the textures under her fingertips, how her mother transformed depending on what she was wearing, everything from a simple pair of jeans and an old band tee to a sleek black suit to a floor-length dress the color of champagne. Clothes were art that one got to wear, got to present to the world and declare This is me without uttering a word.
After her mother left when Ramona was thirteen—taking a bit of Ramona’s sense of security and understanding of love and family with her—Ramona fell even deeper into fashion, finding solace in the creation and work that was just for her, retreating to this room after school or on weekends while baby Olive napped. What started as a hobby turned into a passion, an obsession really, oxygen while her tender family of three struggled to breathe, to get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other.
Clothes became Ramona’s mood ring, a way to express herself without saying anything out loud—she was never great with words, taking after her more reticent father. She wasn’t sure there even were words to describe what it felt like to be left by your own mother at thirteen.
What it still felt like, a lot of the time.
She hadn’t seen or heard from Rebecca Riley in eighteen years. And she didn’t want to—she’d long let go of the idea of having a mother, accepted the fact that the problem was Rebecca, not Ramona, not Olive.
But.
Feelings and facts rarely coincided, and if she let herself think about it just a bit too long, a knot formed in her throat, even at thirty-one years old. Which was why she didn’t think about it very much at all—what good would it do? She’d raised Olive. And Olive was incredible. She’d carried this family forward, she and her dad, and it no longer mattered what she’d had to give up to do it.
But as she’d stood in front of that closet, pulling out piece after piece of her heart and hanging them around the room, she felt like she was eighteen again, the whole world spread out before her.
Possibility.
It had been so long since she’d felt that word—really felt it—for herself. She felt it all the time for Olive, worked for it, sacrificed to make sure Olive had endless supplies of it.
And she’d succeeded.
And now…Ramona felt a hollowness inside her, a space Olive had carved out and nestled inside of for so many years, and she didn’t know what she needed to fill it once Olive left home.
Or did she?
Now, as she stood at the kitchen sink and gazed out the window of her father’s house at the cloudless June morning, she knew exactly what she needed. And what’s more, she wanted it, foolhardy as it was, a thirty-one-year-old waitress trying to restart a whole career in costume design. A laugh escaped her throat, her chest hitching with a few tears at the same time.
It was just so… unlikely .
But so was a queer romantic comedy coming to Clover Lake, and here they were.
She took a breath and turned around, resting her palms on the counter behind her to steady her shaking hands. Olive and April both stared at her, expressions expectant.
“Okay,” Ramona said. “Okay, let’s do it.”
And the battle cry April released could’ve woken the dead.
Thankfully, April had several morning appointments and Marley arrived to pick up Olive, so no one had time to hunker down and create the twenty-point plan April wanted to draft to restart Ramona’s sad little life , as she so eloquently put it. Ramona wasn’t sure how much she wanted Olive involved in the process anyway, as April seemed hell-bent on, well, framing it as restarting Ramona’s sad little life .
She walked to her shift at Clover Moon alone, glad for the fifteen minutes left to her own thoughts, but as soon as she turned off Birch and onto Lake Street, the world exploded. It was a gorgeous morning anyway—the trees green and lush and still hanging on to their spring blossoms as they got ready for summer, the sky a cerulean blue, the air sweet and fresh. There were even a few rainbow flags fluttering outside of businesses here and there, including the café. A perfect day, by all accounts, but the town itself was a riot of activity.
Chaos, Ramona would even say.
People crowded the sidewalks, their phones out and pointed toward the small green space in the center of the town square where white vans were parked with their back doors thrown open, all manner of film equipment smattering the area. People Ramona didn’t recognize with iPads in their hands and headsets over their ears milled about, calling out orders and huddling around cameras, inspecting the screens and adjusting knobs and buttons.
Ramona froze, her own curiosity creating a flurry inside her chest. She couldn’t help but look around for Noelle Yang’s iconic salt-and-pepper hair, for a rack of clothes, anything to do with costumes, but she didn’t spot anything of note.
At least not yet.
Just knowing Noelle Yang was somewhere in Clover Lake—or would be—was enough to make Ramona’s heart race against her ribs.
Her eyes scanned for another face too…ice-green eyes, pale skin…she realized she had no idea what color Dylan’s hair was right now as she had favored pastels here and there in the past. It was naturally brown, like chocolate or the bark of a maple tree in the rain, and—
Ramona pressed her lips together, tight enough to ache.
Dylan Monroe didn’t matter—she was just an actor, a wild one at that, and Ramona had more important things to focus on. Plans. Aspirations. Goals. And Dylan had nothing to do with any of that.
Nothing at all.
She hurried down the sidewalk toward Clover Moon, squeezing through the rubberneckers and offering up hellos when townsfolk greeted her. Inside the café was just as busy, everyone who’d come out to see the film move into town settling in for a cup of coffee and a plate of Owen’s whoopie pie crepes.
Ramona skirted around the tables, waving when she heard her name, finally making it behind the counter to where Owen was frothing milk at the espresso machine.
“Can you believe this?” he said, but he was smiling.
Owen was approaching fifty and blissfully married to his high school sweetheart and sported a trimmed gray-and-brown beard. His pale head was bald as a cue ball, and he was covered in tattoos, several of which April inked on for him in the last few years. Ramona’s favorite was the spray of wisteria curling down his right forearm to his wrist.
“I can’t,” Ramona said, tying on the apron embroidered with tiny sewing needles and spools of thread Olive had given her two Christmases ago. She clocked in at the register, then scanned the dining room for who might need what. “You want me to take section four?”
Owen topped off the drink he was working on with a foam heart and shook his head. “Not today, no.”
Ramona frowned. “But I always take section four.”
Owen set the mug on the bar, and the coffee was promptly whisked away by Beth, another server who’d started just a few months ago. Ramona smiled at her, then folded her arms at Owen.
“You’re up to something,” she said. “Did April talk to you?”
He laughed. “She talks at me all the time, but in this case, I’m not sure what you mean.”
Ramona sighed. Owen was family to her, an uncle or much older brother, if you will, but he also liked to wax on about Ramona not living up to her full potential and had threatened to fire her on more than one occasion just to get her to leave the proverbial nest.
“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail. “There’s just a lot going on.”
He nodded. “Well, I hate to add to your load, but I’ve got something I need you to do for me.”
She let her arms flop to her sides. “See? Up to something.”
He presented his palms. “It’s strictly business, I swear.”
“Fine. What is it? You need me to find a new bread supplier again? I thought we were going to try to make it in-house?” She dug into her apron pocket and found her pen and order pad, popped off the pen cap, and scribbled on the first page to test the ink. “I told you a million times, I think fresh-baked—”
“It’s not the bread,” he said. “It’s the movie.”
She froze. “The movie.”
“Yeah, they’re going to be filming in the café here and there.”
“Marion mentioned that…” Ramona said, but trailed off as details about the actual story of As If You Didn’t Know flitted through her mind. She’d read the book, of course, and knew Dylan was playing Eloise, but other than a fake dating plot in a small town, she couldn’t remember much else. But now…
“There’s a character who’s a waitress,” Owen said.
Ramona stopped breathing.
“Eloise?” Owen said as he wiped down the stainless steel counter behind the espresso machine. “Is that her name?”
Ramona’s mouth dropped open to answer, but she couldn’t get out the word, the yes , and she was pretty sure her heart was slowing down or speeding up, she couldn’t exactly tell, but something was happening in the center of her chest and—
“Anyway, in addition to some scenes shot here in the café, the actor who’s playing the waitress wants some hands-on experience,” Owen went on. “Jack Monroe’s kid—god, I love Evenflow. You think he’ll come by the set?” He had a dreamy look in his eyes. He actually sighed before shaking his head. “His daughter wants to do method acting or something, I don’t know. But the studio is forking over enough money to hire that in-house baker you want so badly, and you’re a great trainer, so—”
“No,” Ramona said.
Owen’s brows went up. “No?”
“I just…I’m sorry, Owen, I don’t think I can—”
But right then, a swollen hush fell over the dining room as the bell over the door trilled, a harbinger of doom, and Ramona felt her blood freeze—surge, dry up, something —as she sensed everyone’s eyes lock onto whoever just walked inside.
Ramona’s back was to the door, but she swore to god, she could feel it—an energy she hadn’t experienced in eighteen years, but that still seemed familiar, fresh and wild and free.
“Hi, everyone,” a husky voice said. “Don’t stop eating on my account. That looks delicious.”
The diners laughed, then started talking again. Ramona saw a few patrons get up, phones at the ready for pictures, but Owen rushed to the door, asking everyone to give Dylan some room.
Dylan .
Give Dylan some room.
Ramona couldn’t seem to make herself turn around. Not yet. Of course, she’d known for three weeks that Dylan Monroe was playing Eloise. And she knew that they were going to film some scenes in Clover Moon, but none of that really clicked until this moment. Ramona hadn’t thought she’d even see Dylan—why would she? If filming was happening in the café, the studio would bring in trained extras for the patrons, for the other servers, wouldn’t they? She had no clue how movies worked on that end, had only ever been interested in costuming, but Ramona never imagined she’d be here, at her place of work, about to help Dylan Monroe serve coffee and french fries.
“Ramona?” Owen said from behind her. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Ramona counted to three. Then she took a deep breath and turned around, eyes locking with the ice-green gaze of the first person she’d ever kissed.
For a second, the world slowed down, just a blip of a moment as she and Dylan looked at each other, a small smile settling on Dylan’s lovely mouth, her head tilted just a little, those nearly transparent eyes narrowing as though she were trying to place Ramona.
Ramona, for her part, had completely stopped breathing, because goddammit, Dylan was gorgeous. Ramona had seen her only through screens for eighteen years, but she still recognized the girl she’d met at the lakeshore on that Fourth of July all those years ago. Her limbs weren’t as gangly, of course, and she looked a little less haunted than she had as a thirteen-year-old, the hollows in her cheeks filled out, full of health and radiance now, but it was her. Those eyes…that perfect rosebud mouth. The mouth that had smiled and laughed and made Ramona smile and laugh when she hadn’t thought she’d ever smile or laugh again. The mouth that had trembled just a little when Dylan had put her hands on Ramona’s waist and leaned in, her breath catching just before she—
“Hi,” Dylan said, sticking out her hand. “I’m Dylan.”
Her tone was so professional, so staid and even rehearsed, Ramona couldn’t help but blink in confusion.
“I know,” she said, slipping her hand into Dylan’s and waiting for the light of recognition to flare in Dylan’s eyes.
And waited…and waited.
Dylan’s brows creased, and she released a tiny laugh as the moment stretched on.
Owen cleared his throat, patted Ramona on the shoulder. “This is my best server, Ramona. Makes a pretty mean honey whiskey pie too.”
“Is that so?” Dylan said politely. So, so politely. “I’ll have to try that.”
Ramona could only nod as it became apparent—embarrassingly, mortifyingly apparent—that Dylan had no memory of Ramona Riley.
Granted, they’d never shared their names. At the time, Dylan had thought it would be fun and mysterious to keep their names from each other. At least, their real names. She’d called Ramona “Cherry” for the night, because Ramona had worn a tee with a cherry pattern all over it, and Ramona had called Dylan “Lollipop,” because Dylan had had a green apple sucker in her mouth when she’d first approached Ramona on the beach, her lips tinged bright green.
Moreover, Ramona was one of those people who looked nothing like her younger self. Her hair had thickened with puberty, loose curls forming in her once stick-straight tresses, and she’d been a wiry kid, growing too tall, too fast. Now, she was wavy-haired and fat—a word she didn’t use negatively at all, just as a descriptor of her curvy body—and her face was covered in freckles that had also increased in number as she’d gotten older.
On top of all of that, she’d told a teenage Dylan that she too was a summer person, just visiting with her family. With her mom and dad and baby sister, a whole family. A normal family who vacationed by the lake every summer. She’d wanted to be someone different—not Ramona Riley of Clover Lake, whose own mother didn’t even want her—but someone else entirely, someone carefree and normal, whose biggest worry was whether or not she and her best friend would be in the same homeroom class come fall.
So, no, maybe there was no reason Dylan should remember her at all. She was Dylan Monroe . Child of icons, Hollywood starlet, everyone’s favorite villain, the wild girl on all the gossip sites, dater of gorgeous actors and musicians. The evening they had once shared a million years ago was like a nanosecond compared to all the things Dylan Monroe had done and seen and been.
“Right,” Ramona said, more to herself than to Dylan and Owen. “Right, well…” She swallowed around the sudden knot in her throat, a bowling ball by the feel of it, and pulled her hand from Dylan’s.
“How can I help you, Ms. Monroe?” she asked once she was sure her voice would come out steady.
“Oh, god, please call me Dylan,” Dylan said, smiling and tucking her hands into the back pockets of her light-wash jeans. She wore a cream-colored muscle tee that read Cool Banana on the front, along with a pair of rugged brown boots, pants cuffed just above the laces. “I’m just excited to dive in.” She waved at the dining room, eyes glittering with intrigue and a little trepidation.
“Have you ever worked in the service industry before?” Ramona asked, even though, of course, she knew the answer.
Dylan pressed her tongue to her top lip, then laughed. “Um, no, I can’t say that I have.” Her cheeks went a little red, as though the admission embarrassed her.
“Well, it’s pretty simple,” Ramona said, but then her phone buzzed in her back pocket. She didn’t like to leave texts unanswered, as it could be Olive, which Owen knew full well. “Excuse me one second.”
She fished out her phone, rolling her eyes when she saw the notification on the screen.
April: Dylan fucking Monroe is in your diner??????
She tucked her phone away again without answering, despite the perpetual buzzes against her ass. Damn small towns. News didn’t just travel fast, it moved like light, zinging through the atmosphere quicker than a blink.
“Sorry,” she said. “Where were we?”
“You were getting acquainted and then getting Dylan here an apron,” Owen said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He shook Dylan’s hand one more time, then whispered, “Don’t let her spill hot coffee on any customers, I beg you,” in Ramona’s ear before meandering deeper into the dining room to talk with patrons.
Ramona huffed a breath. A lawsuit would serve him right, springing Dylan Monroe on her like this. Not to mention the fact she’d be losing tips from her very generous regulars in section four.
She glanced at Dylan, who was still watching her with an interested expression. Ramona squirmed a bit, fluffed her fringe and adjusted her pink short-sleeve blouse, tiny lipstick tubes printed on the cotton, buttoned all the way to her neck. Her hair was in a high ponytail today, her dark jeans high-waisted and cuffed over a pair of high-top white sneakers.
“Um,” Ramona said. “So…first things first…”
But then, for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what was first, what was second or third either. She had no plan, no strategy here. She felt like a fumbling teenager.
“An apron,” Dylan said.
“Yes,” Ramona said, snapping her fingers. “An apron.”
She turned and headed toward the back, nodding for Dylan to follow her. In the employee break room—a large closet, really, with a few lockers and a mini-fridge filled with bottled water and Gatorade—Ramona plucked a plain sage-green apron from the wall hook, hoping it was clean, and handed it over to Dylan.
Dylan held it between her thumb and forefinger for a few seconds, long enough that Ramona wondered if she was going to have to teach her how to tie it on, but she finally slipped it over her head and, after a few struggles with the strings, tied it around her waist.
Ramona’s phone buzzed against her butt again. And again.
She sighed, plucking it out of her pocket.
April: You’re training her????
Ramona: Ok when did you plant cameras in the café and did you see when I picked my nose last week?
April: Can’t believe you didn’t wash your hands after
Ramona laughed, eyeing Dylan as she tried to figure out what to do with the long apron strings.
April: Seriously though, this is it
Ramona: What is it?
April: Your way in. To the movie. Noelle!!!
Ramona frowned, the realization of what April meant settling over her.
Noelle.
Dylan would be working with Noelle.
Dylan would be costumed, fitted, made up. She’d be on set. Obviously she’d be on set, but… she’d be on set .
Ramona’s thoughts swirled. She wasn’t a schemer like April. Should she simply ask Dylan for a favor? No, not now. Not yet.
They didn’t even know each other…
“I’m ready,” Dylan announced, then popped her hands on her hips. She’d pulled her long brown hair back into a ponytail as well, the apron tied tight around her slim frame. “How do I look?”
Adorable was the first word that popped into Ramona’s head, but she banished it like a ghost in a haunted mansion.
“Good” is what Ramona settled for, focused on her actual task. “Okay, let’s start with a tour, shall we?”
Dylan nodded vigorously, but Ramona caught a flash of nervousness behind her eyes, which was also adorable, which meant Ramona had to exorcise that word for the second time in thirty seconds. This did not bode well.
Her phone trilled again.
April: So how is she?? Does she remember you???? I mean, of course she does
Ramona’s chest went tight, and she felt her mouth tremble a little, something settling over her bones that made her feel small and young.
“Hey,” Dylan said, tapping her elbow. “You okay?”
Ramona tucked her phone away, shook her head to clear it. “Yeah!” Too bright, too loud. “Yeah,” she said more calmly. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Dylan smiled and they held each other’s gaze for a split second before Ramona yanked hers away, then focused on training her first kiss who didn’t remember her in the slightest how to effectively carry multiple plates of cheeseburgers and fries.