“Did you see her dress?” Toni asks. “It looks so comfortable.”
I flatten the skirt of the dress. “Thank you. You two always make me feel better about myself.”
“Did you make this one too?”
I shake my head. “No. I don’t make my clothes that often, only when I find a nice fabric. It’s not hard to make a maxi dress or a long flouncy skirt.”
“It’s not hard for you,” Toni says, showing me her hands. “You’re crafty. I have two left hands and no energy to sew a button—let alone make a dress.”
I only smile because there’s not much I can say other than it keeps me busy, and I can make something that isn’t too restrictive. Unlike many people, I prefer to dress for comfort and not for fashion.
“It’s fun to sew,” I say.
“How was the ride from Luna Harbor to Seattle? That’s a long trip, almost three hours. You might as well live in Canada, girl,” Belinda says. “Last Saturday, I was telling my husband to take me to Luna Harbor. However, when he explained to me that the trip would take more than two hours, we agreed to wait until our next planned vacation.”
“It’s long, but I enjoy it.” The almost three-hour trip doesn’t feel like too much for me. Not when the price is to see Dad and spend some time with him. He’s the one who knows most of my secrets. Not the ones that might make him sad, but I can talk to him about the farm, the shop, and how I’m growing my business.
I dig into my tote and pull out a bag with lavender lollipops. “Here, for your grandchildren—and you.”
She grins. “You spoil us.”
“It’s just a little thing.” I brush away her praise. “I love to make candy. You’re actually doing me a favor because if you didn’t take them from me, I’d eat them all in one sitting.”
“You’re too modest. How’s the store going? I told my daughter you might be calling her to help with your website. You need to call her,” she reminds me as she gives me that motherly glare that says you-better-do-as-I-say-or-else.
“I keep forgetting,” I lie.
It’s not in my nature to ask for favors, and I can’t afford her daughter. I saw how much she charges per website, and that’s five thousand dollars I don’t have. The one I created is simple, and it’s enough for now. At least until I have the money to pay her daughter or another web designer. She already does a lot for me by taking care of Dad.
After chatting for a few more minutes, Toni says, “It’s time for us to leave. Thank you so much for bringing me the balm.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Belinda gives me another hug. “Be safe. We’ll see you next week.”
“See you next week,” I confirm and wave.
“I think Mom would’ve loved them,” I say to Dad once the door closes. I return to what I was doing before, applying balm and telling him everything that’s happened in Luna Harbor.
“I covered a couple of shifts at the sports bar. It was awkward since Iskander, Efren, and Fernando Cantú were there,” I say, sighing. “He’s coming soon. Manelik. I don’t want to see him or Myka. However, there’s nothing I can do to stop them from living in Luna Harbor. This feels like a train about to collide with another one. Worst of all, I’m tied to the tracks like in one of those old Western movies you loved to watch. I can’t stop them, and I can’t move. I don’t want to see them, but I guess in a town with fewer than six thousand people, it’s impossible to avoid the Cantús—or him.”
When I’m done with the balm, I put the container back inside my bag and pull out my tablet. “Well, let’s see where we left off last week. I think Johnathan Reich was about to enter the haunted house, wasn’t he?”
I begin to read, and for one second, I pretend his green eyes are open, staring at me with that loving fatherly look he used to give me when we had family game nights or he helped me study for a test. I enjoy these moments because I don’t know how long he has left with me. He has to rest, but what’s going to happen to me when he leaves?
Chapter Two
Manelik
Drops of sweat run down my forehead and back. The heat of the stage lights doesn’t help. I’m used to playing under these conditions, but it’s not as much fun when I’m not playing with my band, Too Far from Grace. My bandmates are what make our group special. We’re connected in a way I can’t describe. It’s as if our hearts and souls are linked by one big music sheet, and we play from there. Whenever we give an interview and they ask what makes our band different from the rest, Beacon, the frontman, comes up with something stupid. We can’t say we’re connected because no one would understand.
I can play well with other musicians, like I’m doing right now, but it doesn’t feel the same. Live concerts, the energy of the public, and the music are part of what completes my life. It makes me happy, but tonight, that’s not what’s fueling me. Though, I’m glad to be here and thankful that I was chosen among so many drummers to come to the All-Star Band Charity that the Decker family organizes every year.
Gage Rodin calls out, “I love you, Seattle, thank you for coming tonight,” and heads backstage. The rest of the musicians follow, and as usual, the drummer—that’d be me—plays a solo as the final act. Hopefully, this time it is the end. They’ve asked for an encore four times, and everyone has come back to the stage each time. Everyone thinks the vocalist does the hard work, but that’s a lie. The drummer does just as much.
As predicted, the chant begins, “Encore, encore, encore!”
Through my earpiece, I hear Byron Alasdair Langdon, my manager, say, “This is it, Mane. End it and head backstage.”
I finish it. I grab the autographed drumsticks I brought earlier, rise from my seat, and start tossing them toward the public.
“You need to stop bringing goodies for your fans. Do you know how much we can charge for that?” Lang, the greediest man in the world, asks through the earpiece. “I swear I’m going to leave you behind.”
I blow a few kisses and wave to the public before I leave. They love it when we give them a few extra minutes, and I love to do it for them.
Once I’m backstage, Lang walks to me and hands me a towel. “If you ever want to start a solo career, I’ll represent you.”
“Seriously, Lang?” Even though he has a long stuffy name, we all call him Lang. His mother hates the nickname, but he loves it. “You’re a manager, not an agent. Plus, I’d never leave my guys.”
“I could do both,” he offers, handing me another towel. “You ready to go for dinner?”
“Yo, Mane.” Gage approaches me. “You’re fucking amazing. If your band breaks up, I have a place for you.”
With a laugh, I shake my head. “I don’t think you can afford me.”
He shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t try.” He points toward the exit. “I’m heading toward the banquet. Are you going to be there?”
I nod, but if I’m honest, I’d rather go home.