Chapter 11
I WAKE UP WITH a cramped neck, in near-total darkness, completely disoriented. I’m so thrown off, I jolt to the side—and end up falling off the bed. Luckily, it’s less than a foot from the floor. Which is when I remember: I’m sleeping on an air mattress.
In a closet.
Okay, not a closet exactly. At some point, this tiny, windowless space between the sewing room and the attic stairs was actually a small playroom. But as we got older, and I got into the pageant scene in earnest, it became our costume closet.
The room is small and narrow, with an angled ceiling that makes it feel shaped like a triangle.
A hanging rod runs along the left wall, completely covered by dozens of garment bags, holding all my old pageant gowns.
On the right side of the room, where the ceiling angles low toward the floor, there’s a little hatch door leading to a storage crawl space.
It actually connects all the way back to my bedroom closet.
As kids, we used to call it the Narnia Passage, and would regularly use it to sneak up on each other.
I may or may not have double-checked to make sure no one was lurking when I set myself up here yesterday.
But it was just cobwebs and the wafting scent of mothballs.
Still, at least I have privacy. It’s better than camping out on the couch in the family room—where everyone hangs out and leaves chip crumbs—which was physically the last remaining option for places I could sleep.
Yesterday, after the parade, I came home to find my belongings stacked tidily in the central hallway, where my dad must have left them after clearing them out of Camp Bennet to make space for Nate.
For a minute I just stood there, looking left toward the front door, then right toward the back double doors on the lake side, feeling like a well-dressed vagabond with nowhere to go.
There was no way in hell I was going to be sharing a room with Cara.
I thought about asking Linney if I could crash in her room, since her husband, Graham, won’t be here for a few days—then remembered my sister is a notorious snorer.
So I hauled my stuff up to the former-playroom-turned-pageant-closet and dragged the air mattress out of storage.
Now, I sit up gingerly, careful not to smack my head against the eaves.
My neck hurts, my eyes feel gritty, probably because I barely slept last night.
A low, miserable groan escapes me. I grab my toiletry bag and drag myself to the yellow bathroom to survey the damage.
Purple shadows under my eyes, pillow creases on my cheek.
I sigh and dig around in my bag for my concealer.
I came home to rot beside the lake. I don’t want to spend my summer having to get made up every day because the human reminder of all my insecurities is living in my house.
Even when I was engaged to Aaron, I still made sure I had a blowout before going over to spend the night, and I never stayed over unless I’d packed my full kit for hair and makeup.
I’m at home; I’m supposed to be able to lounge around in my sweats without worrying how greasy my hair is or whether my eyes are puffy.
But as I stare at my reflection, my instincts start to kick in.
Pageant girls and reality stars know a thing or two about how to put on a show.
Cara may have ousted me from the sanctuary of my bedroom, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing me look anything less than perfect.
I swipe on my version of war paint—some mascara and a bit of lip gloss—and brace myself to face whatever fresh new hell today has to offer.
The high-pitched voices of Mickey and Minnie Mouse drift toward me as I descend the back staircase into the mudroom off the kitchen. I find my mom grating frozen butter into a bowl of flour, which means biscuits are imminent.
“Morning, Nikki-Belle!” Mom says cheerfully as I enter. She used to say it to me every morning when she’d wake me up before school. “Sleep well?”
“Sort of,” I say. “What can I do to help?”
“Oh, nothing.”
I take a seat on one of the counter stools and let myself enjoy a moment of being taken care of by my mother. I can’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast—or even the last time I actually sat and ate breakfast. Usually, I just grab something to go on the way to a morning workout class.
“Did you see the Musgrove Real Estate float yesterday?” Mom asks. “So impressive.”
“Mm-mm, no. But I saw Patsy talking to Dad,” I say, remembering Mary Moore was helping him out with something.
I never asked what, but I assume it was some sort of town function.
Mary Moore moved to Atlanta but she’s always involved in what’s going on here at home, and loves to be in everyone’s business.
Just like my mother. They’re honestly a perfect pair.
“Well, I thought Mary Moore looked just stunning. You’d never know she has two kids.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Linney’s had two kids.”
“And she looks absolutely stunning too, Nikki. I was just trying to pay your old friend a compliment.”
“We aren’t really friends anymore,” I say, putting on the coffee.
Mom tsks. “That really is a shame. You two were like a couple of peas in a pod.”
“More like two princesses competing for a single crown,” I mutter, though I have to admit, in between all the jostling for attention and trophies, we did have some fun along the way too.
Before Mom can respond to the edge in my voice, Cooper comes galloping down the stairs. He beelines for Mom’s biscuit batter and goes to stick a finger in before Mom swats his hand away.
“Morning.” He spots me by the fridge. “Hey, Nikki, Cara says you slept in the closet last night?”
Condiment bottles rattle as I yank open the refrigerator door. “It’s not a closet,” I grumble. “And it’s… a sentimental room for me.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, not buying it.
“I’m more than happy to let our guest have her own privacy and her own space,” I say with the most false cheer I can muster. It’s not much.
“Well, that’s nice of you, sis,” Cooper says, and I honestly can’t tell if he even noticed I was being sarcastic. “Cara’s in the shower in the blue bathroom,” he adds, “and I’m going to run into town and grab donuts. Where’s Tripp? He blocked me in last night.”
“He and Pete are still sleeping,” Mom says. “You can take my car, sweetie.” She brushes the biscuits with melted butter and pops them into the oven. “The keys are in the bowl by the door.”
Cooper grabs his wallet from the counter and heads for the back door.
“Coop, wait.” I dart after him, catching him in the mudroom.
“What’s up?”
I don’t know how long Cooper and I will have alone before the rest of the house starts waking up, so I get right to the point.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Do what? Get donuts?” he asks, seeming genuinely confused.
“Get married,” I hiss. “In a week.”
He still looks a little baffled, but offers me an easy smile. “It’s nine days. And it’s going to be great.”
I reach out and place a hand on his arm. “Cooper, I saw your face the other night when Mom sprang it on you.”
His jaw flexes. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”
“You’re getting dragged along. Mom just wants to put on a show—the cake, the photos. And Cara—”
He pulls his arm free, eyes flashing. “Can you just relax, Nikki? God. You are so wound up; you’re worse than Mom.”
Wow, rude. “But what if Cara is using you?” The words are sharper than I meant, but I can’t reel them back.
Cooper lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Do you hear yourself? You really think she’s hatching some evil plot?”
“You don’t know these kinds of people, Coop. I do.” I’ve seen the girls who orbit the edges of reality shows, desperate for an invite, for a hashtag, for their fifteen minutes of fame. “Doesn’t it seem a little convenient she just happened to meet you—of all people—in a bar?”
“It was fate,” Cooper mumbles. “That’s what Cara says. You can’t help who you fall in love with.”
Of course she does. I stop myself from rolling my eyes. “I’m only trying to protect you, Cooper.”
His gaze sharpens, cutting right through me. “Me? Or yourself?”
I freeze, heat crawling up the back of my neck. “What—no—I’m fine,” I say, even though that is exactly what I’m trying to do. And with good reason. But I want to protect my brother from potential damage too.
He studies me for a second, and then his expression softens. “Good.”
And with that, he turns and leaves.
As soon as he’s gone, I head back to the kitchen and run steaming hot water over my coffee mug. I happen to know that when someone uses too much hot water in the kitchen sink, it really messes with the water pressure in the blue bathroom upstairs.
She can try to take my brother, but she can’t take all the hot water.
When I finally shut off the faucet and turn around, I gasp and practically drop the mug. Nate’s standing there, leaning against the counter like he’s lived here all his life. He’s got that easy morning look—damp hair, scruffy jaw, T-shirt clinging in ways that should be illegal before noon.
I, meanwhile, am still in an old cheerleading shirt and tiny sleep shorts I’ve owned since high school.
My cheeks grow warm. I’ve paraded onstage in front of hundreds of people in nothing but a bathing suit, but those hundreds of people weren’t Nate, and I wasn’t wearing an outfit that looked like it shrank in the wash.
He smiles, and my mind flashes back, unhelpfully, to the feel of his lips on mine in the lake two nights ago.
I open my mouth to say good morning, but there’s a clatter to my left.
Nate’s on his feet beside Mom before I register that something is wrong.
The empty bowl of biscuit dough rocks back and forth on the floor beside the oven, and Mom is hanging onto the kitchen counter as if she can’t stand on her own.
He doesn’t touch her, but his hands are out, ready to support her if she stumbles again. “Are you okay, Mrs. Bennet?”