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The twang of a fiddle pulls out a happy memory. “Oh no, she didn’t.” I push out of Devon’s hand, a loud giggle escaping my lips as I step back to provide some distance.
The song kicks in, and the silly lyrics jump to the front of my head. “Dibidi ba didi dou dou. Di ba didi dou.” I raise my hands shoulder high, snapping them like a human claw. I spin and continue to sing along to the ridiculous song.
The look of confusion on Devon’s face is priceless. “Didi didldildidldidl houdihoudi dey dou.” I lose track of the lyrics, falling into a fit of giggles, realizing I have to address Devon’s raised shoulders filled with questions. So many questions.
“It’s Stacy.” I point to the speakers and recite another line of lyrics filled with gobbledygook. “When she was a toddler, I’d play this song for her.” My words fail to clarify for him.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Hamster Dance Song?” I swing my hips to the beat and wave Devon forward to join me. “You have no idea what you’ve been missing out on.”
I take his hands and repeat the nonsensical lyrics. “When Stacy graduated elementary school, I played this song at the party for her and her friends. That night, we made a pact. For the rest of our lives, no matter how old we were, no matter where we are, if we hear this song, we would sing and dance.”
I turn and give Devon my back. Hips swinging, I back up, not stopping until I feel him behind me. “I can’t believe that little troublemaker sent you this song. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
She knew. Stacey didn’t put the song on the playlist by accident. She knew how important tonight would be. The final fitting. The most important outfit. She knew I’d be freaking out and would need something to ease my mind. She also knew I’d be with Devon.
She wanted him to see this part of me. Not the focused on her job version of me he sees every morning in the café. Not the stressed, preparing for the pitch version that has consumed me all week. She wanted him to see the other side of me. The version of me I don’t let loose nearly enough. The silly woman who will sing in public in tongues to keep a promise to a nine-year-old. As if reading my mind, Devon’s hands press to my hips, his heated breath on my neck.
“What you and your sister have is the sweetest. Thank you for sharing another part of you. I’m loving this.”
My overactive mind hears the last three words, and I fast forward to the day future me hears him recite a variation of these words. For the first time in forever, I picture me in a relationship with the possibility of a forever.
“I can’t wait to discover all of your hidden layers.” I return and recite the next silly lyric from the song. It takes all my concentration to recall the long-ago lyrics.
Concentration I should have focused on Devon. If I had, I would have noticed him go silent with the mention of getting to know him. If I had, I would have noticed his hands drop from my waist. If I had, I would have turned and saw the look of a man who had no intentions of letting go the secrets he held.
If only I had, future me would have been spared the pain. If only I had.
Chapter Fifteen
Devon
One day.
I just need to survive one more day. Tomorrow is pitch day. Tomorrow is the last day I’ll ever have to keep my secret from Zara. Despite Marvin’s warning, my instincts tell me I’ve waited long enough. After we celebrate her pitch, I’m going to tell her everything.
Tomorrow.
My eyes find Zara, right where she always is, seated by the window, tapping on her laptop while stealing glances out the window. My gaze lingers for a few heartbeats. Long beats that let me appreciate the woman I so admire. I expect her to turn any moment, like she does a hundred times a day, but she doesn’t. I know the reason why—tomorrow.
I’m sure she’s lost in her head, visualizing the meeting. Her introduction, me walking in with the first outfit. She’s gone in circles ten times, picking out the introductory design. The outfit that will set the tone and capture the owner’s attention. I watched her swirl for an hour, only to land back where shestarted—the most logical place—the volleyball uniform the team will play in. She’s elevated the tank top and shorts to be both functional and fashionable. The tiny, intricate details are the hidden gem of the outfit. Each time you look at the uniform, you’ll discover another unique element that Zara has perfectly placed. A blue star sewn into the seam of the short. A reflective stripe the same color as the shorts, which when hit with a spotlight in a darkened arena, it will allow fans to follow the players’ movements like skeletons on Halloween.
I’ve overhead discussions on the backlots of Hollywood of people with their voices filled with awe, appreciation, and acknowledgement of working with special talents. And I now know how that feels. Zara is a special talent, and I feel honored to be able to play a tiny part in her journey to greatness.
Movement in front of me causes me to shift my attention to an arriving customer. A middle-aged woman with a head of massive wavy, red hair. It’s clearly a wig as I spot the edge of her brunette hair poking out from beneath it. Her skin is pancake white; her eyes hidden behind a large pair of sunglasses even though she’s indoors.
If this were L.A., I wouldn’t give her a second glance. But out here in Crestline, she’s an instant attraction. She grabs opposite forearms, points her left foot in front, twisting as if posing for a magazine cover. “I’ve heard about this place. Best cappuccino in Cincinnati.”
I feel my jaw droop, my mouth hanging open like a cartoon character, and my head swirls. Her line.
That line.
It can’t be.
My hand lands on the edge of the counter for balance as I wait for my vision to clear. Her large hands pat her crooked wig before lowering to open the single button holding her beige trench coat together. She flaps back each side of the coat behindher as if they’re wings, and she’s about to take flight. “Fill up one of those fancy thermoses. My boyfriend is in hot water, and I’m planning one of my marathon ‘constructive criticism’ sessions that will keep him simmering all night long.”
It’s her.
Standing in front of me with the world’s worst wig—Xenia.
