Page 69 of Famous for a Living

There are three restaurants in town and one is connected to a gas station. So. Naturally.

“One day he told me through a mouthful of eggs that I looked like a rabid coon in that place—”

“He’s always one for graceful compliments—”

“And that it was time to come with him. He was right.”

I laugh. “So you just did. You just walked out on your job.”

“I finished up the day, of course. If you haven’t noticed,” he says, a smile playing on his lips, “he’s a rather influential person. How else would you explain how he got you here?”

Which reminds me, just as I feel the heat creeping up my neck at his gaze, why I am here. Really here.

“Oh, right. Yes. About that. That’s what I was coming to ask you. I just heard that, apparently”—unbelievably, I want to add—“I have been brought here with the intention of saving the park. Is this true?”

Zaiah’s easy expression tightens. His smile fades ever so slightly. “There are those at the office who are putting stock in this plan, yes.”

“I can’t do it.”

“I’m not asking or expecting you to.”

“But there is a plan to shut down the park if you can’t attract more visitors?” I press.

He hesitates. “Yes.”

“And we have until . . .”

“March twenty-first is when they say they will look at our numbers and make an official decision.”

Barely eight weeks. Eight weeks to turn the park around and bring the numbers up. In the dead of winter.

I feel a rising sense of angst on their behalf. “What else are you guys trying to do, then? What else is part of your strategy?”

“Well . . . you’ve seen the T-shirts—”

T-shirts? Kevin’s T-shirts?

He can’t be serious.

“What about ads? Targeted online marketing.”

But of course. They can’t afford to fix the baseboard heat. How can they afford to throw money at some long-lead campaigns?

“And all of your jobs are on the line?” I look at our group in the distance. “Everyone’s?”

Uncle Terry has done this job over the course of decades. Decades. Would they transfer him to another park somewhere else? Just after he lost Aunt Claire? This is his home. This is his life.

Not to mention Zaiah’s. And Peggy’s. And even Mina’s and Jax’s and, who knows, maybe Kevin’s.

And for the second time this afternoon I am startled by Zaiah’s hands on me, startled by his touch. This time it’s gentle, just a single hand on my hands that have somehow, during the conversation, balled together and begun squeezing my soaked T-shirt.

“Cat. This isn’t your fight.”

I look up to him. Hold the wadded-up bottom of my shirt. “I know.”

“It’s not fair for anyone to put that expectation on you.”

I nod.