Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Colter
News of the library grant falling through had swept through our cast and crew on the group chat. I’d been watching the fallout all week in between fire and medical calls and maintenance around the station.
Gunner:
We could see if Bodie would arrest people for money.
Dean:
How is that supposed to work and be legal?
Gunner:
I mean, it wouldn’t be REAL jail, but people would pay to have other people locked up, and the lockees would either have to pay to get out or be bailed out by somebody.
Adalyn:
While I’d absolutely pay to see Dean behind bars, I think we’re already asking a lot of our community, and expecting folks to fake bail people out is a bit much.
Miss Glory:
We could flock people.
Monique:
What now?
Miss Glory:
Flocking. It’s another fundraiser that’s hilarious and vaguely feral. People pay to have other people’s yards filled with pink flamingos. They have to pay for removal and relocation to the next “recipient”. Similar concept, but more legal.
Miss Bea:
We could apply the same concept to bedazzling… Dorothy and I are ready with our rhinestones!
Bristol:
Not sure even the Sasspatch Society has enough sparkle to conquer this mountain, Miss Bea.
The discouragement hung over everyone like a heavy blanket, and I wondered how it would impact the show.
The first couple of rehearsals after the news hit had been absolutely dismal, with none of the energy we’d all been pouring in from the beginning.
Everyone needed a serious dose of hope, and so far, despite all the brainstorming and wild suggestions, no one had actually come up with a fundraiser that would realistically get us over the hump and close the gap the lost grant had created.
The mood in the theater was subdued and heavy when I arrived after spending the afternoon with Oakleigh at the park.
Swayze had been tied up with something mysterious and had texted she’d see me here instead of meeting up beforehand like we’d tentatively planned.
I was itching to see her. To touch her. Kiss her.
To take her back to bed and lose myself in her again.
It seemed I’d never get enough of her, like some kind of addiction I had no interest in breaking.
But we certainly had bigger issues than my raging libido and the constant pull I felt toward her.
I spotted her down front, talking animatedly to the Sasspatch Society, all of them huddled together like they were planning something. And was that IT guy Steve? What the hell was he doing here?
Before I could reach them to find out what was going on, the group split apart, and Uncle Dee moved up to center stage, clapping his hands sharply for attention like a seasoned stage director.
“People! People! Let’s settle down now,” he called out, his voice carrying easily through the space.
“Now, unquestionably, we’re all disappointed about the library grant falling through.
But that doesn’t change the fact that this show is important—even more important than it was before, if we’re being honest. Every single dollar we can raise will help, even if it doesn’t get us all the way there to our goal.
So I’m asking everyone to dig deep and find that energy you brought from the very beginning. ”
Rusty Rosenbloom, our Harry Bright, leaned forward in his chair, hands dangling between his knees, looking every bit as defeated as the rest of us. “It’s hard to hang on to hope when the problem is so huge, Dee. We’re talking about a massive shortfall.”
Blair and Swayze exchanged a look from where they sat near each other.
I couldn’t quite tell what Swayze was thinking, but I had years of experience reading Blair, and that particular look always spelled, if not outright trouble, then at least chaos.
Well-intentioned chaos, sure, but chaos nonetheless.
Swayze’s hands squeezed the arms of her chair once, twice, before she pushed to her feet with visible determination and joined Uncle Dee on the stage.
“I know it seems like a huge problem. An insurmountable one, even. And it is big—none of us are deluded about that reality. But it’s not hopeless.
That’s actually why Steve’s here tonight. ”
She gestured to where he sat on the front row, and he offered everyone a little wave, looking slightly uncomfortable with the sudden attention.
“We have serious constraints around audience size because of the physical size of this theater. There’s only so many seats, only so many shows we can reasonably do.
I’ve been working with Steve all week, pretty much every evening, to test whether we can actually livestream the performances, thus exponentially opening our audience pool beyond just Gibson Hollow and the surrounding area.
He assures me that he can make it work technically, and so far, our tests have gone absolutely flawlessly.
So I’ve worked with Monique on updating the theater’s website to add tickets to virtual versions of the show. ”
“I mean, it’s great that you’re thinking outside the box and all,” Dean said from the back, ever the pragmatist. “But is that really going to make that big of a dent? How many people are going to pay to watch a small town production online?”
Swayze’s hands knit together with uncharacteristic nerves, and my own stomach knotted in immediate response. What was she about to do? What had she done?
“It already has.” On a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, squaring them like she was preparing for battle. “It’s time that I came clean to all of you about something. In my former life, before I came to Gibson Hollow, I was a social media influencer.”
“Like Monique?” someone asked from the middle rows.
Her lips curved into a slight smile. “Very much like Monique, yes. But… a little bigger than that.”
They had no idea how much she was downplaying.
“The point is, I’m coming out of retirement in the name of this fundraiser.
I put a call out across all my channels to my followers, told them exactly what we’re doing here and why it matters.
We’ve already pre-sold over six thousand virtual tickets.
It’s enough to make up the entire difference in the lost grant funds, and Bristol has already spoken with the group responsible for the matching funds and secured their agreement to maintain the match to whatever total amount we manage to raise. ”
“Holy shit!” Gunner exclaimed, half rising from his seat. “Are you serious right now?”
Swayze’s smile was almost shy as she nodded, tucking a strand of caramel hair behind her ear.
The room absolutely exploded.
Everyone leapt to their feet almost simultaneously, erupting into cheers and shouts that rattled the rafters of the old theater.
Miss Glory launched into full-throated whoops while Miss Bea clutched Dorothy to her chest with tears already streaming down her weathered face.
Bristol threw her arms around Steve, nearly knocking him backward off his chair in her enthusiasm.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Swayze.
Color flooded her cheeks as the cast surged forward, engulfing her in a wave of gratitude and excitement and relief.
She fielded hugs and backslaps with a grace that spoke of years navigating crowds and public attention, but what struck me most powerfully was the light in her hazel eyes.
Not just happiness—though that was certainly there—but purpose. Real, genuine purpose.
This was what she’d been missing. What she’d lost when everything went sideways with her career. The ability to make a real, tangible difference, to use her platform for something that actually mattered beyond sponsored posts and brand deals.
She’d told me about her past, about the cancellation that had sent her running halfway around the world to Gibson Hollow. But watching her now, flushed with triumph and surrounded by people whose lives and dreams she’d just changed, I understood it on a completely different level.
This wasn’t just about raising money for the library. It was about her reclaiming herself, taking back the power she’d lost. And good for her for being brave enough to do it, to put herself back out there after everything that had happened.
Our eyes met across the chaos, and the smile she gave me was radiant, completely unguarded in a way I’d rarely seen from her.
Yeah. I was completely gone for this woman. Absolutely, irreversibly gone.
I made my way through the celebrating crowd to meet her on stage, pulling her in for a tight hug, wanting her to know I understood what this cost her. “Proud of you,” I murmured against her hair.
She squeezed me back, her arms wrapping firmly around my waist. “I’m kinda proud of me, too.”
Uncle Dee was the one who finally began the process of herding cats that was getting everyone back on track for the rehearsal we still needed to do.
As I wasn’t needed on stage for the first little bit, I took a seat in the front row to watch.
But as Bristol launched into the opening number, I pulled out my phone and did the thing I’ve been resisting from the moment I’d found out about Swayze’s influencer background. I looked her up.
The profile for @SwayzesSweetLife loaded, and the first punch of recognition slammed into me at the follower count: 3.2 million.
Jesus.
I scrolled. Each post was a carefully curated glimpse into a life I couldn’t have imagined.
Not the influencer facade of perfect angles and filtered sunsets, but something deeper.
A weaver in Morocco, hands flying across a loom, traditional patterns emerging from memory and muscle.
A classroom in rural India where Swayze sat cross-legged with children, all of them grinning at some shared joke.
The caption detailed the nonprofit bringing education to underserved communities and included donation links.
Post after post revealed the same pattern. Attention turned toward people who needed it, causes that mattered, small businesses struggling to survive. She’d used her reach like a spotlight, illuminating corners of the world most people never saw.
The comments numbered in the thousands on each one.
People thanking her for introducing them to organizations and individuals they now supported.
Others sharing their own experiences. A woman in Sydney wrote that she’d visited the refugee center Swayze had highlighted and now volunteered there weekly.
This wasn’t performative charity. This was real impact, quantifiable change.
I kept scrolling, working backward through time. Thailand, Vietnam, New Zealand. Each location brought new faces, new stories, new causes. An LGBTQ+ youth shelter in Auckland. A conservation project protecting sea turtles in Costa Rica. A women’s collective making sustainable fashion in Bangladesh.
My thumb paused on a video from maybe two years ago.
Swayze standing in what looked like a night market, the lights behind her turning everything golden.
Her smile was wide, unguarded, as she talked about the street food vendor beside her who’d supported his extended family for three decades with his recipes.
The camera panned to show the man, weathered and beaming, as Swayze attempted to describe the flavors in terms that made me hungry despite having eaten an hour ago.
The video had 400,000 likes. Nearly 10,000 comments.
I glanced up at the stage where she stood now, running through blocking with Bristol and Gunner. Same woman, different context. Here she wore jeans and a sweater that had seen better days, her hair in a messy knot, no makeup that I could detect. Still beautiful. Still magnetic.
But this—I looked back at my phone—this was her real world. Globe-spanning, impact-driven, touching millions.
And here I was in Gibson Hollow. Population 2,000 on a generous day. My biggest accomplishment this month was upgrading the smoke detectors at the elementary school and convincing Oakleigh that brushing her teeth twice daily was non-negotiable.
The thought twisted something uncomfortable in my chest.
I loved my life. Loved this town, my family, the work I did that kept people safe. Loved the rhythm of seasons here, the way everyone knew everyone, the roots that ran generations deep. It mattered. I knew it mattered.
But stacked against what she’d built? What she’d accomplished?
My world seemed about the size of a postage stamp.
She’d told me that part of her life was over. That she wanted something different now, something quieter. And I’d believed her because I wanted to believe her. Because the alternative meant accepting that eventually she’d remember what she’d left behind and realize Gibson Hollow couldn’t compete.
How long before she got restless? Before the smallness of this place started to chafe? Before she missed the impact she stood to make out there in the wider world?
I watched her laugh at something Uncle Dee said, that same unguarded joy I’d seen in her travel videos. She belonged here. I knew in my bones that she fit, that this place was good for her.
But did she belong here enough?
The doubt wormed deeper, irrational but persistent. She’d given up so much. Sacrificed a platform that had taken years to build because of one mistake that wasn’t even really hers. And now she was using that platform again—for us, for the library, for this town.
What happened when she remembered she could use it for so much more?