Chapter One
Bethany
“You coming?” I ignore the buzz-filled backstage air and direct my question to the quiet model with whom I’ve semi-bonded the last few days.
Head in hand, mascara dripping, eyes pointed to the table, she fights back a sniffle and waves a hand at me. “Go away, Bethany.” The chipped fingernail should be a clue, but I’m in my own world.
I fight the instinct to follow her instruction. Staying with her might imply that I care, and that’s the last impression I want to leave with her because I don’t. The fact she knows my name while I don’t know hers, even after spending fourteen hours a day with her the last two days, reminds me of who I am.
T.
That’s what I’ve been mentally calling her in my head, unable to bother to waste brain cells on the name of someone I fully expect to never see again after tonight.
“What the hell happened to your hair?” I shimmy next to her, out of the way of the chaos of other fashion models rushing to the stage a few feet away: heavily perfumed air, the swishing sounds of overly dramatic dresses meant to capture the attention of people who lack focus. A frantic assistant waves in our direction. The finale of our modeling show is about to begin, a final strut down the catwalk to draw to a close a fashion show that started with so much promise but has devolved into yet another mess.
Is the entire industry this chaotic, or does it just follow me?
“Wisteria,” T replies through gritted teeth and tearstained eyes, her makeup ruined beyond repair. One word. One name. She doesn’t need to say any more.
“That bitch.” I bite my lower lip and lift my chin toward the curtain in search of the tiny model with the larger-than-life attitude. Wisteria, or W, as I call her, has been mistreating nearly every model at the show this week. She connected with the fashion designer during rehearsals, kicking off a set of romantic rumors that were confirmed after the first night of shows. Each night, she’s grown more obnoxious as she’s gotten every preferred featured outfit, walking slot, and highlight. Hers is the only name mentioned by the designer in the two dozen interviews with the media thus far.
T points to the honeycomb of hair that sticks out in every direction. “She decided at the last minute that she wanted my wig for the finale. And Henri agreed. She ripped it off my head.”
I close my eyes and see red, the familiar anger boiling up in my veins. I’m on the other side of the world in Paris, a million miles away from my hometown of Spring Hills, Illinois, yet the bullies still dominate my space.
No more.
My manicured fingers land on T’s shoulder. “Lift your head up. Don’t let them see you cry. Karma is a bitch and my best friend. Don’t go anywhere.” Anger fuels my feet as I strut in thousand-dollar heels, knowing I’m about to do something stupid again. But I don’t care. I’m Bethany Cardinal. I may not remember their names, but they certainly will remember mine.
The assistant points toward the stage and mumbles words in French I don’t understand. Two years of French lessons never prepared me to decipher the language in the cadence and thick accents Parisians speak. I nod, the gist easy enough to pick up. Hurry up before you ruin our show.
I step through the curtain, and my long, lean, dark leg peeks out from the dangerous slit of the beautiful green-and-gold evening gown I’m wearing. It’s a dangerous dress, which hugs every one of my curves, the envy of most of the paper-thin models on the catwalk. I take my place next to the other half-dozen models on the stage and try to control my breathing.
The emcee appears center stage and pumps up the crowd for the final catwalk. His excited voice fades into the background as I stare out at the audience. VIPs line the front rows of seats: celebrities, sports figures, politicians, and musicians from across Europe. Industry types sit right behind them, the bread and butter of the event, the ones who will be writing articles, blog posts, and social media clickbait that will raise the profile of the designer, Henri. This is his most ambitious collection, and word is, success this week may finally get him a featured slot at Fashion Week in New York next fall.
I wait. If I were smarter, I would reevaluate what I’m about to do. If I were wiser, I’d listen to the little voice in my head that warns me that I’ve built up a following and a brand and have a lot to lose. But I’m not smarter. Just older. Twenty-seven years old, to be exact. Old enough to know bullies exist in all shapes and forms. Old enough to know you can’t ignore them and pray they go away.
“Dans un original d’Henri, je vous donne Béthanie.” The emcee calling my name snaps me back to reality. My feet move on autopilot. Strutting down the catwalk is second nature to me these days. This is all I’ve done for the last three years. An unexpected career that would shock anyone who knew me ten years ago.
The buzz in the air electrifies, and the photographers rush forward and fill the air with flashing lights. It’s a buzz unlike the reception the other models receive. That’s not my ego speaking—it’s been evident all week. Which makes Henri’s decision to feature W even more infuriating.
I’m a unicorn of sorts, an African American model with a huge European following, who isn’t light skinned or thin. I celebrate my curves and give off a carefree attitude because I don’t. Care, that is. I pause at the front of the rectangular stage, give enough attitude and attention to the featured sponsor table, and spin.
On my return trip, I spot her.
W.
She’s holding a bouquet in her thin arms. The three-pound bouquet was too heavy for her to hold for longer than two seconds, which is why Henri stands next to her. He waits for me to take my position next to the other models at the back of the stage before planting kisses on W’s cheeks. He hands the flowers to his assistant and leads the applause for W as if he had personally discovered her years ago and groomed her for this moment.
She takes the unearned reward and begins the world’s slowest catwalk. Wars have been fought in less time than it takes for her to milk this moment. She works her way down the line of models, blowing air-kisses along the way. I count down each greeting, my fingers balling into fists by my side with each fake hug until it’s finally my turn, and I’ve formed a complete fist.
“You have no right to that wig. Or this final walk,” I grunt toward her, expecting her to crack.
She doesn’t. “Too bad you can’t do anything about it. Henri isn’t a fan of dark chocolate.” Her words are delivered with a deadly smile, one the audience will interpret as friendly. A practiced cruelty that reveals to me she’s been a bully for a lot longer than this week.
The side-eye I’ve perfected is wasted on the back of her head as she breaks protocol. She spins and performs a second strut down the catwalk, an unjustified moment in the spotlight that triggers me.
Enough.
Without thinking, I stride behind her. The audience knows what I’m going to do before I do. Their shocked faces barely register as my focus remains on W ahead of me. She must either sense my presence or must read their faces because she spins to face me. Her arms rise in defense, and a tiny squeak escapes from her throat. Gone is the arrogance from a moment ago. If I had any self-restraint, I would take this small victory and escape. But once I see red, I lose control.
My hand flies forward, grabbing a handful of hair. I rip W’s wig off her head. I prepare for a fight, but bullies don’t fight back. Not when they’re confronted. She cowers, stumbling backward away from me. But I’m not done.
Not yet.
I swing the wig in her face. That’s when I feel it. My momentum is halted, a pair of strong arms around my waist pulling me in the opposite direction.
Security.
I’m lifted in the air as I helicopter my arms and legs toward a retreating W. She’s out of the danger zone but doesn’t realize it. She steps back blindly and falls off the stage. I wait for the sound of bones cracking, but all I hear are excited words in French. She’s landed in the lap of the star of the French soccer team.
Chaos explodes all around me as two other security guards appear next to me, alongside the event coordinator.
He yells toward the guards. “Get her out of here.” Then, he directs his anger at me. “Don’t bother to change. You’re fired.”
A security guard on each elbow and one behind me do little to dampen my mood. I know there will be a price to pay, and I suspect my manager is already blowing up my phone. But I have no regrets.
A familiar face pops in front of me, and security attempts to push her aside. T. “Bethany? What the hell was that?” Curiosity fills her voice as if she’s speaking to a person who has lost their mind. She wouldn’t be far off. Bullies and I have a long, sordid history.
Security pushes me toward the exit, but not before I answer T. I twist to face her, my line delivered with a half laugh, half smirk. “That, my dear, was karma.”
Chapter TwoLincoln
“Spill!” I ignore the plea of Mrs. Jackson, her third attempt at getting me to reveal the secret ingredients I use in my interpretation of a GooGoo Cluster. “My nephew lives in Nashville, and this tastes better than the ones he had me try when I visited him.”
“You know I don’t share secrets.” I lean over her shoulder and top off her bottomless coffee cup. Black, just the way she likes it. I do give her a smirk and a wink to let her know there are no hard feelings.
The clusters are new, this month’s selection in my rotation of treats from around the United States. It’s the first time I’ve successfully worked with nougat, and Mrs. Jackson’s endorsement means a lot to me. Today marks the eighth day in a row it’s sold out.
“Hmmmff, I see you, Lincoln Busby. Someday, someone will get you to open up and share your secrets.” She laughs before stealing a sip. She closes her eyes and gets swept away in caffeine heaven. I lift my gaze and meet Mr. Jackson’s gaze from across the table. He gives me a quick nod and a smile. He’s witnessed this game before. He and his wife have been coming to the café longer than I can remember.
“You good?” I stand tall and hold up the coffeepot, quickly scanning the busy shop before returning my attention to him.
“In my favorite shop in town with my favorite lady. The best.” Mr. Jackson gives me the same line he does every morning. And every morning, it hits me right in the chest. I would call them out as the gold standard for loving relationships, but in this town of Spring Hills, there are so many wonderful examples. The Jacksons have been married for forty years and aren’t even in the top five in terms of longevity of couples who frequent the shop.
“Enjoy the rest of the day.” I say a quick goodbye and navigate a crowded aisle to Michelle’s table. She’s sitting with her dad. He suffers from early Alzheimer’s symptoms. His condition has worsened over the last year to the point that he loses track of minor details from his recent memory. He’s a proud man and doesn’t like accepting help.
“Here you go with your change, Mr. Haynes. Thank you for the generous tip.” I slip the billfold with nineteen dollars and fifty cents in front of him. His brows rise in confusion.
“Thank you for breakfast, Dad,” Michelle says, resting her hand on her dad’s. She offers him a broken smile, the strain of what she does for him evident to anyone who pays attention. They only come to the shop once or twice a week, but she and I have worked out a system. She slips me a twenty when I take their order. I return nineteen fifty to her dad as change when they finish their meal. Her dad is on a fixed income in the form of a disability check. It’s not enough even for our small town in the middle of Illinois. He’s too proud to accept money from his daughter, so this is the system she and I devised to give him the respect he’s earned and some dollars in his pocket.
Michelle and I were classmates in middle and high school. I only charge Michelle fifty cents for their meals, the compromise of a thirty-minute animated discussion when I offered to comp them. Her dad isn’t the only one with a stubborn streak.
“When did I pay?” Mr. Haynes rises from the chair, stuffing the bills into his pocket. I steady him by placing a hand on the back of his shoulder.
“You slipped it to me while talking about the Bulls game with Mish.” I divert his attention to the two subjects that always work: basketball and his daughter. His eyes immediately sparkle with a brightness it lacked a second ago.
“What a win. Did you catch the game?” It’s like a switch clicking on. His shoulders push back, the cadence of his voice speeds up, and his eyes twinkle with the joy of his younger days. “They may go all the way this year.”
I pick up the hint of vanilla before she appears next to me. Michelle. She pulls me into a side hug, a look of appreciation on her face. Her dad waves and strides toward the exit. “Thank you, Lincoln. You have no idea…”
I turn to face her. Long gone are the bright-blue eyes from high school. “You’re never alone, Mish. You do know that, right?”
She moved back home two years ago to care for her dad. She gave up everything. A promising career and a boyfriend who chose the comforts of a big city and a six-figure salary over her.
Her hands tighten against my waist, and she presses her cheek against my shoulder. I wrap my arm around her and let her take a breath, something I doubt she gets to do too often. “Lincoln?” She tips her head up. My name on her lips is spoken like they’ve taken the last bit of energy in her thin body.
She pauses, and I let her gather her thoughts. Thoughts which I can read. We’ve known each other most of our lives. It’s part of the package of growing up in a small town. “You know, to this day, only you and Dad call me Mish.” Another sad smile crosses her face. The words aren’t the ones she truly wants to say.
“It won’t always be that way.” I offer her the hope of a better tomorrow. It’s what she needs to hear. It’s what we all need to hear.
She releases me from the side hug but doesn’t move. “You’re a good man, Lincoln Busby.”
I nod and wait because there always is something that follows.
Her eyelids flutter as she steals a glance over her shoulder toward the door. Her father is chatting with a young couple who’s new to town. Before I realize it, she wraps her arms around my neck, her thin fingers holding on as if her life depends on it. Water builds behind her dim eyes, and my heart sinks just a little bit more.
She places a soft kiss on my cheek. I extend my arm, the one holding the hot coffeepot, careful not to scald her. “Hey, hey,” I whisper to her, fearful she’s about to suffer a meltdown in the middle of the morning rush.
Our café is called Spilling the Beans, a name my parents decided to lean into when they started the café decades ago, which acknowledged the buzz around town that we’re ground zero for gossip and rumors.
Michelle wouldn’t be the first person to have a meltdown here, but being the center of gossip is something she’s gone out of her way to avoid since her father’s diagnosis.
Her hand slips from around the back of my neck but lingers on my chest. I smell the chocolate and cinnamon from her morning muffin. “You’re so good with him. You have no idea how much what you do means to us.” Her voice hitches before she adds, “To me.”
Her admission lowers my guards, and I let slip out my own. “I got you, Mish. I know a thing or two about having the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
She tilts her head slightly, and I watch her spin at my response. Lincoln Busby never complains about anything. He has the perfect life, in the perfect town, with perfect parents. Her silence demands a response, so I give her one, one that’s expected from a guy like me.
“It’s nothing. I’m good.” She lowers her hands and pivots away. “Don’t forget to grab your to-go box I left for you at the counter.”
“We didn’t order…” She catches the look on my face and reads me like a good friend. “You are the sweetest. I wish…” She pauses and thinks better of a conversation she wouldn’t want to have within reach of prying ears. “I’m not sure I’ll make it to the ten-year high school reunion…” She pauses, both of us knowing the reason, but she whispers it anyway. “Dad.”
Our ten-year high school reunion is occurring in a few weeks, and I can’t wait. I’ve been looking forward to it for nearly a year, and Michelle could use the distraction. But I won’t pressure her about it just yet. She has enough on her mind, so I let her comment slide. “I hope you make it, but if you don’t, you’re not going to miss much. Just a bunch of kids who haven’t grown up embarrassing themselves on the dance floor. I’ll tag you in the videos.”
The corners of her lips curl up into a happy smile, a glimpse of the woman she once was. “I’d like that.” A soft scoff escapes from her lips. “Thanks.” She turns and glides toward the exit. She taps her father and points to the box of goodies on the counter with his name on it. His smile lights up the entire store. My gaze returns to her.
She bounces on her toes for a second, her focus on her dad. Seeing him taken care of and happy is what brings her joy. I understand that. Sacrifice. It’s the theme of living in a small town.
As they exit, I make my way behind the counter. I set the coffeepot on the stand next to the three others and check in on the cashier. The morning rush is winding down, and I point to the back office.
I disappear. Away from the noise. Away from the people to a place that brings me solitude.
My office.
I plop onto the desk chair and roll toward the laptop. It’s connected to a thirty-inch exterior monitor. My fingers type the web address before I can talk myself out of it. The Spring Hills High School reunion Facebook page. The group was created for alumni to post about the upcoming event.
I scroll through the most recent posts. Classmates booking tickets from London, New York, Florida, and California. Accomplished alumni now in med school, lawyers, powerful executives. Then there are the posts of kids. Classmates who have married and started families. So much has changed for so many in ten years.
I press my back into the chair and exhale. Change hasn’t happened to everyone. I’m in the same spot I was ten years ago, working in my parents’ café. The only change is that they’ve turned over the day-to-day reins to me. They get to travel and see the world these days. And I’m here in Spring Hills, waking up at four thirty every morning to run a café. This is all I’ve known, and all I’ve ever wanted.
It’s always been enough. It will always have to be.
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