Chapter 2
Charles Vincent Houseman III was a vacuum cleaner salesman, so skilled in his craft, he could sell prime rib to a vegan. But the second my Aunt Zilpha opened the door, he began to babble.
It was clear from where I stood in the kitchen that Aunt Z was smitten. Who knows how much of Uncle Charlie’s pitch made it to her ears? I just know something magical happened on our front porch that day, and in the two weeks that followed, Charles Vincent Houseman III made it into her heart.
The antique cuckoo clock Aunt Z picked up in Fredericksburg squawks the time, and I close my laptop. I’ve been up since five, dressed and ready since six. I went for casual with a gauzy white top, faded jeans, and my favorite embroidered blue leather cowboy boots that hit just below the knee.
I left my hair down, my face bare, and my chipped blue nail polish alone—something I’m regretting as I push back from the table and carry my plate to the sink.
“Too late now,” I whisper, looking out the kitchen window while waiting for the water to warm.
The magnolia tree Mama planted the year Ben and I were born sits just beyond the porch, its creamy blooms unfurling weeks ahead of schedule. There’s a bench beneath it now, a memorial of sorts that Uncle Charlie built. It’s where I go when I need to feel her presence.
But the truth is, she’s everywhere here. She loved this old farmhouse almost as much as she loved us.
The floor creaks, followed by Ben’s bone-deep yawn as he grabs his mug from the dishwasher. “You headin’ out soon?”
I check my phone and take a breath, anxiety creeping in. “You sure you wouldn’t rather spend your birthday week dancing with your sister than making goo-goo eyes at that dreamy Zachary?”
“Yeah, uh, I’m sure.” He fiddles with the coffee maker, his back to me. “I’m glad you’re doing this. It’s nice to see you getting out.”
It’ll be nice to get out.
Every single day, this is my life: up with Perkins’s rooster, see Ben off to school, maybe try to write. In another month, the B&B will open for summer, and I can add endless cleaning and laundry to that already exhilarating list.
“You nervous?” he asks.
I shrug. “I know I’ve got this. Mama made sure of it. But—and I’m not trying to make you feel bad here—what if they can’t use me because I don’t have a partner? I’m five ten. That’s pretty limiting.”
“Limiting? Just because you’re tall?”
I’m not just tall. I tower.
“Or worse, what if they pair me with some creepy guy? Some creepy short guy.”
“What if they pair you with the man of your dreams?”
“I think we can agree that the man of my dreams doesn’t hail from anywhere around here. They put the flyers at the filling station, for heaven’s sake. Odds are it’ll be me, the Moores, and Toothless Wally Middleton.”
“Wally’s got to be at least what, five eleven? Six foot?”
I narrow my eyes at my brother.
He grins, tossing me my keys. “I wish you and Toothless Wally the best.”
The parking lot is beginning to fill when I pull into Fisher Springs Dance Hall at twenty ’til eight. I park my 1966 Nightwatch Blue GTO on a patch of grass near the front and take one last glance in the rearview mirror before opening my door.
Ben and I inherited our mother’s thick blonde hair and “good skin,” but the dark circles under my eyes are all mine.
I dig through the glove compartment for the Merle Norman pressed powder compact Aunt Z insisted I carry, but rarely use, and dab a little under my eyes.
Aside from the mascara I put on this morning, it’s the only makeup I have on.
Aunt Z would be appalled.
I close the compact and put it back where I found it. Despite our many similarities, my Aunt Zilpha wouldn’t be caught dead without her face. I’m more like Mama in that regard, lucky if I remember lotion and ChapStick.
I sent my application and headshot, a 6 a.m. selfie, to the casting director this morning. All that’s left is my ID, which I grab from my wallet and shove into my back pocket before climbing out.
The unexpected quiet only amplifies the thrumming in my ears, and for the tenth time in as many minutes, I wish my brother were here.
Ben, Ben, Ben. Why must you insist on having a life of your own?
Truth is, he’s had a life of his own since he was four. I’m about to turn twenty-four and still haven’t figured out how to do the same.
Stop being ridiculous, I tell myself, then run through the list that kept me up half the night. The list that could change everything:
Dance your heart out and land a spot in the film
Meet and charm Graham Barrett
Score a coveted seat in his writing class
Get scooped up by his publisher, sell millions, casually win a Pulitzer
My hand lingers on the door handle. What are you doing? Do you really think you’re going to waltz your way into a prestigious writing class?
I’m debating getting back in the car when I hear my name.
“Maggie? Maggie Calhoun, is that you?”
My head whips around to find my best friend from high school—make that ex-best friend—striding toward me.
I close the door harder than I intend. “Constance?”
“Oh my God! It is you!” She stops just shy of hugging me, and thank heavens for that. “I can’t believe it.”
I force a smile. “Believe it.”
“I saw you turn into the parking lot and thought, No, it can’t be! But there’s only one person I know with a navy-blue muscle car, and sure enough!”
“Sure enough.” I cringe. Though accurate, the term “muscle car” makes it sound like my GTO has a penis, which she most certainly does not.
And it’s Nightwatch Blue, thank you very much.
“You here for the casting call?”
“I, uh, had nothing better to do,” I say, suddenly feeling stupid for even showing up. “What about—”
“You look good,” she cuts in. “You look…happy.”
“Yeah, um, you too.”
At barely five feet tall, she has to tip her head back to meet my eyes. Her hair is the same reddish-brown I remember, only shorter now, with soft layers instead of tight curls. Her makeup’s softer too—no sign of the cat eyes she used to paint on in high school.
Word is, the past few years haven’t been kind, but you’d never know it by looking at her.
“So what have you been up to?” she asks. “Still working at the B&B?”
“Running it, yes. You?”
“Little of this, little of that. You know how it is.” She shoots a glance over her shoulder. “Finally kicked Wade to the curb, the two-timing son of a bitch. Stayin’ with the folks while I figure things out.”
“I heard. I’m sorry.” There’s no love lost between us, but I don’t wish pain on anyone. “You’re better off.”
“Yeah, well, probably.” Her fingers drift to the bare skin where her ring used to be. I start to soften until she asks, “How’s Ben?” And just like that, my hackles go up. “Is he still—”
“Gay?” I cross my arms. “Last I checked.”
“I deserved that,” Constance says with just enough decency to sound sincere.
“Maggie, I know it’s probably too little too late, but I am sorry.
I was a stupid kid, and I…I let people get in my head.
Doesn’t matter now, I guess.” She gives me a small, rueful smile.
“And I was going to ask if Ben’s still in school.
Last I heard, he wanted to teach, and I sub sometimes for CISD.
I’ve made some friends. I could maybe, I don’t know, put in a good word? ”
“Thank you,” I say, voice low as I loosen my folded arms. “I’ll let him know.”
Constance looks down, thumbs worrying the hem of her shirt. “Maggie, when Ben came out…”
Really? We’re going there now?
“Ben never came out,” I correct her. “He was outed.”
And life as I knew it ceased to exist. Ben went on as if nothing had changed, when in reality, everything had. He was sad, but not so much for himself as for everyone else. “God, can you imagine?” he’d said. “Being stuck in your own head like that?”
And he was sad for me, because I didn’t share his strength or his sense of self-awareness. Losing my friends devastated me. I mourned them, especially Constance.
And within six months of my ostracism, I got to mourn my mother too.
“I know,” Constance says. “You were my best friend, and I abandoned you when you needed me most. And then when your mom—”
“Abandoned me?” I say sharply. “You ghosted me. What kind of person does that?” Heat prickles the back of my neck. “That snake pit of a high school turned on us—both of us—like we were diseased. And you just went right along with it.”
Her head comes up, eyes searching mine. “I know. I tried to see you. I wanted to fix things. But Ben said to give you space.”
“I wasn’t ready.” Silence presses in, the air between us stifling. I lean against my GTO, hands buried in my pockets. “Anyway, it was a long time ago. I’m sure we’re both different people now.”
Except that I’m exactly the same, only older.
A car door slams in the distance, and Constance smiles as she turns toward the sound. “Remember her?”
I squint into the morning sun and spot a teenage girl swinging a knapsack over her shoulder, catching her long auburn hair under the strap. “No way—is that Lollipop? She was what, six, the last time I saw her?”
“She’s fourteen now, and goes by Loretta, unless you have a death wish.” Constance turns a wide grin toward her sister. “Hey, Lollipop, look who it is!”
“Don’t call me that!” she shouts, boots crunching through the caliche as she kicks up dust. “Or I swear to God—” Her words cut off when she sees me. “Maggie May?”
“Hey, you. I can’t believe you remember me.”
“Of course I remember you.” She rises on her tiptoes to hug my neck. “My sister had pictures of you on her corkboard—until I stole it for my room and replaced them with ones of Holden Shaw.”
“Are y’all both auditioning?” I ask, glancing between them.
“Just me,” Loretta says. “I’m a huge fan. Like huge huge.”
I shrug. “I had to Google him. I’ve only seen the surfing movie, and that was over a year ago.”
“Coral Coast! That’s my favorite!” Loretta pretends to fan herself. “Holden Shaw in a wetsuit is…”
“Okaaay,” Constance says, cheeks turning red as she checks her watch. “I couldn’t care less about Holden Shaw, but if you miss this audition after all the hoops I jumped through to get you here…”
Loretta scrunches her freckled face. “Sorry, favorite sister and favorite sister’s best friend.” She hooks an arm through each of ours. “Shall we?”
Constance and I share a quick, uncomfortable glance before I wrench my gaze away. Then we head for the door side by side just like old times.
Except we both know it isn’t.