Chapter 3
“Honey, which top should I wear tonight?” I hold out two tops side by side, for her to see.
Meow.
“ Yep, you’re right,” I reply. “It goes best with my hair.” After a few scratches under her chin, I hang the black top back in my closet and lay out my favorite emerald green one. It really complements my auburn hair, and the swoop of the fabric down the back shows off my tattoo. It’s the only tattoo I’ve ever worked up the nerve to get, but it was totally worth the pain and I love any chance to show it off. It’s a bold sunflower design, but instead of a stem, a treble clef curls down my spine. It felt like a perfect mix of my favorite flower with my family's deep musical roots.
With my hair dryer humming loudly in my ears, I don’t realize Josie’s been trying to call until I look down to three missed calls and one text message.
Josie
Call me.
Well, that’s not super ominous or anything. I tap the call button, putting it on speaker. She picks up after four rings.
“Bad news. Jay started vomiting about an hour ago. Abby followed soon after, and my stomach is killing me. I think Abby caught it at the sleepover last night.”
It’s good that Josie isn’t FaceTiming me because I’d hate for her to see how my face just fell. We’re way past due for a night out together, a night we both desperately need. Between my hectic studio schedule and her Etsy orders, it’s been over two months since we’ve had a girls’ night out. Our lives have, quite literally, become bullet points on a to-do list with very little living in between. Obviously, she can’t help a stomach virus, and God knows I can’t afford to get sick, but I’m still disappointed. I wanted one night out with my best friend to have a little fun. Plus, my birthday was last week. After spending it alone with a slice of store bought cake, I’ve been looking forward to a late celebration with my best friend.
“No, Jo. It’s fine, I swear. There’s no way you could have prevented this. You stay home and take care of them. Do you need anything? Gatorade, crackers, Lysol?” She doesn’t have a lot of help, so even if she says no, I’ll be making a run to the grocery store.
“I think we’re good. I’ll scrounge up what we need,” she replies.
“Headed your way in fifteen.”
“Penny!”
“Josie!” I volley back. “I know good and well you probably have stale crackers and Lysol left over from 2020. I’ll run and grab a few things.”
She sighs but gives in after a second. “Fine. But next time we get together, I’ll buy the wine.”
“Deal. I’ll leave everything on the porch and text you.”
My hair is still damp, but I grab my purse and keys and head to the store. It only takes a few minutes to gather everything she might need, and I grab her a pack of paper towels and toilet paper at the last minute, too. You can never be too careful where a stomach virus is concerned. Once I’ve paid, I jump back in my car and head her way.
Smudge’s barking yaps can be heard as soon as I get out of my car, alerting Josie I’m here. Hooking the bags over my arms, I run up her steps, lay them on her porch swing, and head back to my car to text her.
Groceries are on your swing. Feel better soon, boo. Love you.
Josie
Thanks. BTW I definitely have it. Love you too.
Ugh. I’m sorry, Jo. Stay hydrated. Call me if you need anything else.
Hey, Jo?
Josie
Yeah?
Thanks, Chad.
Josie
lol Fucking Chad.
Chad is Josie’s ex-husband, otherwise known as the sperm donor. When he realized parenting was hard work, he just up and left. He worked out of town, and one day, he literally went to work and never came back. No letter, nothing. A month later, she was served with divorce papers. That’s why she has to handle stomach viruses—and everything else life throws at her—all on her own. We have an unspoken agreement that whenever something doesn’t go our way, we blame Chad, even if it's not remotely related to him.
Her hair dryer stops working? Thanks, Chad.
The drive-thru gets our order wrong? Fucking Chad.
Right as I’m pulling into my driveway my phone pings with an email notification. Glancing down, I see it’s from the BookMe app that I use to book musicians for studio time. I click it and the app opens up.
“Noooo,” I groan, resting my head against my headrest. A cancellation from my three-week booking is not what I need right now. This session would have covered a month of bills, with enough left over to do some much needed repairs on the studio. It seems like with every step forward I manage to take, two steps back immediately follow, and this dance is wearing on me.
In the note’s section of the cancellation notice, their manager explains that the lead singer had an emergency appendectomy. I blow out a breath, puffing my cheeks out. Okay, well, that’s understandable. What kind of person would I be if I was salty about an emergency surgery? They still paid the non-refundable deposit, but that’s nowhere near enough for all I have coming due.
When my dad passed away a few years ago, I took over the studio’s operations. He might have been one of the best in the industry, but he sure as hell didn’t know how to manage the books. I’m pretty sure he glanced at the bank account long enough to check if there was money for his drinks, and when that money dried up, he got desperate.
The foreclosure notice from the bank a week after his funeral was my first indication that the finances had gotten out of control. Dad let the operations of the studio fall through the cracks and in order to pay the bills (and I’m sure to sustain his alcohol addiction), he took out an equity loan against my childhood home—the home I’m currently living in—and I’ve been left scrambling for ways to repay it, pinching every cent that comes my way.
I quickly type out a note, wishing them good luck with the surgery and reminding them I’m always here if they choose to reschedule.
Now I really need that night out. It could always be a cheap night with no drinking. Karaoke Night at Old Town Tavern is always entertaining, for better or worse, and it would get me out of the house. I chew my thumbnail, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Screw this . I’ll go alone.
I climb from my car and head to my room to finish getting ready. My only choice is to pull my hair up into a ponytail since it’s air-dried into a wavy mess. Once I’ve wrangled it up and combed down my flyaways, I dig through my vanity drawer for a bandana to tie around it. Tilting my head to one side, I inspect my reflection. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do. Slipping my top over my head, I’m careful not to mess up my hair and I step into my favorite black skinny jeans. They have the perfect lift that makes my ass look great, if I do say so myself. With a swipe of lip gloss, I step back to inspect myself.
“You are a strong, independent woman, Penny Miller. You deserve a night out, and you will have a blast,” I say, jabbing my finger at my reflection.
Once I’ve grabbed my wristlet and keys by the door, I slip into my wedge sandals and drop a quick kiss on top of Honey’s head before heading down the sidewalk toward Main Street. I usually walk everywhere since my house is only a few blocks from the heart of downtown. A red Cardinal lands on the sidewalk in front of me and I smile, thinking about my sweet mama. I see you, mama.
When I approach I notice there aren’t many cars for a Friday night, but that won’t matter. You never really know what you’ll get with a night here. It all depends on the karaoke.
A tall man walks in ahead of me, and I run to catch up while the door is still open, but I’m not quite quick enough and it slams shut in my face. Asshole! Didn’t he see I was right behind him? Taking a deep breath, I open the door for myself because it's the year of our Lord 2025, and I don’t need a man opening a door for me. Making my way to the bar, I notice he’s pulled the brim of his hat down to shield his eyes and claimed the stool on the far end, away from everyone else. Weird.
I’ve known Sheila, the bartender, since I was a kid and she greets me warmly. “Penny! Ya doin’ all right? Haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Couldn’t be better!” I paste on the fake smile I’ve perfected for everyone in town, but it weighs a ton.
“I’ll give you a minute to decide what you want,” she says.
“Oh, no, I’m—” I start, but she’s already moved to Mr. Mysterious in the corner. They chat while she makes two drinks for him. I fix my eyes firmly on the baseball game that’s playing on the TV, but they seem to have a mind of their own. They keep drifting his way, and I have to drag them right back where they belong.
“Whatcha drinking tonight?” Sheila asks once she’s returned.
“I’ll take a soda, please.” I raise one shoulder up and let it fall. “I just needed to get out of the house.”
Sheila eyes me for a second. “If my memory’s correct, I saw on social media that your birthday was the other day. How about a drink of your choice on the house?”
“Well, okay. I’ll take a Cosmo. Thanks, Sheila.”
She smiles, but he interrupts once again, bringing her attention back to him. Rude asshole!
After several more minutes, Sheila finally fixes my drink and hands it over with a wink. “Enjoy!”
It’s delicious, and I sip on it to make it last longer. I’m not much of a drinker, usually opting for a glass of wine with Josie whenever we get together. Plus, I’m a lightweight.
It doesn’t take long for the karaoke to begin. Three girls who look to be in their early twenties step onstage and belt out “Goodbye Earl” by The Chicks. They’re having such a great time that I find my mood lifting ever so slightly.
A low, rumbly chuckle sounds from the far corner and I glance over to see Mr. Mysterious might be as amused by the performance as I am. With only his side profile showing I can’t be certain, but if I’m not mistaken the smallest sliver of a grin is on his face.
My heart kicks up like a snare drum, and I rub my chest in response. A freaking chuckle and one-fourth of a grin coming from someone who’s clearly inconsiderate—and sketchy as fuck, might I add—should not affect my heart rate. Absolutely not.
Also, why is there something oddly familiar about him that I can’t quite put my finger on? I study his profile trying to place him. It can’t be…can it? Surely not.