Page 88 of Famous for a Living

No. It’s just a good ol’, passed-through-the-grapevine, everybody-hop-in-your-trucks-and-bring-your-casserole-for-the-potluck backcountry weekend.

Kind of like those street races in Grease. Only, apparently, with horses. And skis.

My fingers tingle, taking in the bright, shiny black Jeep among the rows of trucks covered in haystacks and blankets. People left and right hold steaming cups of coffee. Kids hold cups with hot cocoa. The perfectly ancient barn. The flickering orange of the flames. Horses everywhere. Cowboys in denim and boots and wide-brimmed hats abound. All on a crisp layer of snow.

If I had the time, I’d grab one of those hot cocoas the kids are running around with. Pop the lid off. Stuff it with an extra layer of marshmallows for a photo.

Instead I lean my elbow on the front of the Jeep, ensuring my red nails are front and center as my hand pulls back my shoulder-length curls and rests on the side of my neck.

Click.

Click.

I flip through the shots as people around me settle into their seats and a girl no older than thirteen begins a wobbly, “Oh, say, can you see?”

My white coat goes down to my knees, heat radiating from the shoulders of my sleeves down. My curls ripple neatly down my back beneath my snow bunny–white beanie. Mascara is extra thick and extra black in contrast, striking a match in my hazel eyes, making them almost glow. Signature red lipstick applied. Simple gold studs in ears.

Aside from the troubling lines around my eyes and my hands that keep looking like the Sahara Desert no matter how much moisturizer I apply, I look nice.

Good, even.

I would prefer to drop a decade, but I suppose this is the way it is.

I smile a little to myself as I hear my own thoughts.

I’m not perfectly accepting of my aging status—online purchases of miracle-working beauty regimens are a current weakness—but I do feel less of an edge out here.

Something about not being so surrounded by mirrors helps. And models. And mirrors and models at the same time.

I’ve seen Mina get ready for work, and there are days she doesn’t check herself in the mirror once. Once. Not even to brush her teeth. She just stands there, toothpaste on the precipice of overflowing from her mouth as she jabbers on about some kids’ hiking tour she wants to start or sings about tulips.

Not worried about her hair. Just living.

It’s rather freeing here. Taking off some of that pressure.

My phone rings.

It’s Mina, guaranteed about to tell me to hurry up.

I spot the haystack just as she’s setting a picnic blanket on it and she and Kevin sit. As I walk, I see Zaiah at the other end of the ring, someone tying a rope to his saddle. Uncle Terry, meanwhile, paces while on the phone behind him.

Zaiah’s wearing a tan cowboy hat and a matching denim jacket. It looks tough, worn at the elbows and along the sleeves, with the collar extending up to his Adam’s apple. He looks different.

What is it?

As if hearing my thoughts, he looks over, and we lock eyes.

His beard. He’s trimmed his beard.

Not entirely, but enough that it looks . . . well . . . really, really good.

He holds the reins lightly with one hand, the same casual confidence and familiarity as he had driving us around those icy roads my first night.

Then he gives me the slightest dip of his head. Smiles.

I give a little wave.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s come out to see the show.”