Page 104 of Prime Time Romance

It’s a small relief but a welcome one. “Thank you, Sherry. And if you ever need a hand, I’m happy to—”

Sherry stops me again, this time with a loud snort. “Honey, I’ve seen you in action. Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.”

She goes back to wiping down the bar as I head outside and walk to Sloan’s to put on a Poppy-approved sundress, then head toward the town hall for the last pageant practice.

It’s yet another beautiful, sunny day in Carson’s Cove, but it feels different.

Josh is gone.

It might just be a trick of the light, but Carson’s Cove looks different too. The paint on the door to the grocery store is chipped. Its color is more of a dull rust than a bright red. There are cracks in the sidewalk with tiny green weeds peeking through. The flowers in the curb boxes are wilting. They look how I feel. Sad. Uninspired. Homesick.

I don’t have time to mope though. I push open the front doors of the town hall. Every unmarried female between the ages of sixteen and thirty seems to be in some stage of pageant preparedness. Every available space is filled with sparkling evening gowns, string bikinis, hairspray, Red Bull, and duct tape. There’s even a Kirkland Signature box of plastic wrap.

I don’t want to know what it’s used for.

Poppy has us run through the opening number so many times that I start to lose count.

My feet are achy and raw from my too-high heels. It feels like I’ve come full circle. But there is no more Josh to pick me up and carry me home, both literally and figuratively.

So I channel all of it into earning the crown.

My cheeks ache from smiling. My stomach hurts from sucking in.

But it works.

I glide with the grace of a non-plastic swan.

I port de bras and pas de basque and chassé with an ease that makes Sandra Bullock look like an amateur.

I am pageant ready.

“Okay, ladies,” Poppy calls through her megaphone. “We have finished rehearsals. You will be ready to go on at seven p.m. sharp. Am I clear?”

There’s a low murmuring of agreement from the contestants.

Luce appears at my elbow; she uses me for balance as she removes her heels. “Good god, that feels good. I have no idea why I’m still wearing these puppies. It’s not like anyone can see me in the back.”

Poppy moved Luce’s spot in the opening number to the far back corner, far away from my front-and-center position. Not only did it put poor Luce out of the judges’ sight line, but it also made it almost impossible for the two of us to talk today.

Luce unzips her purse a third of the way, just enough for me to see the bottle of strawberry wine concealed inside.

“Want to get ready with me?” she asks. “I brought just enough to ease the pre-pageant jitters.”

“Heck yes,” I tell her, grabbing the suit bag with my dress from the rack.

She grabs her bag, and the two of us find an empty bathroom on the third floor, where we plug in our curling irons and alternate taking swigs of her strawberry wine, the entire time talking and laughing about nothing in particular.

I like Luce.

She tells funny stories about her farm animals as we curl our hair.

She says out loud all of my feelings about pantyhose and strapless bras. She’s a magician with a contour brush, but she doesn’t make me feel like I need it. We’re just having fun.

And it makes me feel that this is exactly what I’ve been missing. A friend. Someone who just gets me. Accepts me. Doesn’t want to use me for anything but simple companionship. And although I haven’t directly hurt Luce in the same way Sloan has, I’ve still judged her from behind the safety of my television screen.

“Okay.” Luce and her contour brush lean back. “You look amazing, but you need to tell me what the deal is with that face.”

I debate the best way to explain. “I’m just sorry. For all of it. All those years…”