Once our timers are set, Libby starts on brunch.
She’s been a vegetarian since she was little, and after Mom died, I became one too, by default. Financially, it didn’t make sense to buy two different versions of everything. Also, meat’s expensive. From a purely mathematical standpoint, vegetarianism made sense for two newly orphaned girls of twenty and sixteen.
Even after Libby moved in with Brendan, it stuck. During her aspiring-chef phase, she won him over to a plant-based diet. So while it’s tempeh frying in the pan beside the eggs she’s scrambling for us, it smells like bacon. Or at least enough like bacon to appeal to someone who hasn’t had the real thing in ten years.
When the timer goes off, Libby shoos me off to rinse, warning me not to look in the mirror “or else.”
Because I’m so bad at lying, I follow her orders, then take over the job of transferring brunch into the oven to keep warm while she rinses her dye.
With her hair wrapped in a towel, she takes me onto the deck to trim mine. Every few seconds, she makes an inauspicious “huh” sound.
“Really instilling confidence in me, Libby,” I say.
She snips some more at the front of my face. “It’s going to be fine.”
It sounds a little too much like she’s giving herself a pep talk for my liking. After I’ve chopped her hair into a long bob — most of it air-dried by now — we go inside for the big reveal.
After matching deep breaths, preparing our egos for a humbling, we step in front of the bathroom mirror together and take it in.
She’s given me feathery bangs somewhere between fringe and curtain, and somehow they make the ash-brown color read more Laurel Canyon free spirit than dirty dishwater.
“You really are sickeningly good at everything, you know that, right?” I say.
Libby doesn’t reply, and when my gaze cuts toward hers, a weight plummets through me. She’s staring at the reflection of her Pepto-Bismol-pink waves with tears welling in her eyes.
Shit. A huge and obvious misfire. Libby may generally favor a bold look, but I forgot to factor in how pregnancy tends to affect her self-image.
“It’ll start rinsing out in a few washes!” I say. “Or we can go back to the store and get a different color? Or find a good salon in Asheville — my treat. Really, this is an easy fix, Lib.”
The tears are reaching their breaking point now, ready to fall.
“I just remembered you begging Mom to let you get pink hair when you were in ninth grade,” I go on. “Remember? She wouldn’t let you, and you went on that hunger strike until she said you could do dip-dye?”
Libby turns to me, lip quivering. I have a split second to wonder if she’s about to attack me before her arms fling around my neck, her face burying into the side of my head. “I love it, Sissy,” she says, her sweet lemon-lavender scent engulfing me.
The roaring panic-storm settles in me. The tension dissolves from my shoulders. “I’m so glad,” I say, hugging her back. “And you really did an amazing job. I mean, I’m not sure what would ever possess a person to choose this color, but you made it work.”
She pulls back, frowning. “It’s as close to your natural color as I could find. I always loved your hair when we were kids.”
My heart squeezes tight, the back of my nose tingling like there’s too much of something building in my skull and it’s starting to seep out.
“Oh no,” she says, looking back into the mirror. “It just occurred to me: what am I supposed to say when Bea and Tala ask to dye theirs into unicorn tails? Or shave their heads entirely?”
“You say no,” I say. “And then, the next time I’m babysitting, I’ll hand over the dye and clippers. Afterward I’ll teach them how to roll a joint, like the sexy, cool, fun aunt I am.”
Libby snorts. “You wish you knew how to roll a joint. God, I miss weed. The maternity books never prepare you for how badly you’re going to miss weed.”
“Sounds like there’s a hole in the market,” I say. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“The Pothead’s Guide to Pregnancy,” Libby says.
“Marijuana Mommy,” I reply.
“And its companion, Doobie Daddies.”
“You know,” I say, “if you ever need to complain about your lack of weed, or pregnancy — or anything else — I’m here. Always.”
“Yep,” she says, eyes back on her reflection, fingers back in her hair. “I know.”
5
MY PHONE BUZZES with an incoming email, and Charlie’s name is bolded across the screen. The words distracted by two gin martinis and a platinum blond shark flash across my mind like a casino’s neon sign, part thrill, part warning.
I don’t want my work email to get flagged, but there are so many excerpts of this book I can’t unread. I’m in a horror movie and I won’t be freed of this curse until I’ve inflicted it on someone else.
Technically, Charlie already has my phone number from my email signature; the question is whether to invite him to use it.
Pro: Maybe there’d be a natural opening to mention I’m in Sunshine Falls, thus lowering the risk of an awkward run-in.
Con: Do I really want my professional nemesis texting me Bigfoot erotica?
Pro: Yes I do. I’m curious by nature, and at least this way, the exchange of information is happening over private channels rather than professional ones.
I type out my phone number and hit send.
By then it’s time for my check-in call with Dusty, a twenty-minute conversation that might as well just be me playing jock jams and running circles around her, chanting her name. I throw the word genius out a half dozen times, and by the time we hang up, I’ve convinced her to turn in the first chunk of her next book — even if it’s rough — so her editor, Sharon, can get started while Dusty finishes writing.
Afterward, I rejoin Libby where she’s primping in the bathroom, curling her freshly pink hair into soft ringlets. “Let’s walk to dinner,” she says. “My neck is sore from that last cab ride. Also it made me pee myself.”
“I remember,” I say. “It made you pee me too.”
She glances over my outfit. “You sure you want to wear those shoes?”
I’ve paired my black backless sheath with black mules, my widest heels. She’s in a daisy-print sundress from the nineties and white sandals.
“If you offer to lend me your Crocs again, I’m going to sue you for emotional damages.”
She balks. “After that comment, you don’t deserve my Crocs.”
On the hike down the hillside, I attempt to hide my struggle, but based on Libby’s gleeful smirk, she definitely notices that my heels keep puncturing the grass and spiking me into place.
The sun has gone down, but it’s still oppressively hot, and the mosquito population is raging. I’m used to rats — most run away at the sight of a person, and the rest basically just hold out tiny hats to beg for bits of pizza. Mosquitoes are worse. I’ve got six new red welts by the time we reach the edge of the town square.
Libby hasn’t gotten bitten once. She bats her lashes. “I must be too sweet for them.”
“Or maybe you’re pregnant with the Antichrist and they recognize you as their queen.”
She nods thoughtfully. “I could use the excitement, I guess.” She pauses at the very empty crosswalk and scans the equally desolate city center, her mouth shrinking as she considers it. “Huh,” she says finally. “It’s . . . sleepier than I expected.”
“Sleepy is good, right?” I say, a bit too eagerly. “Sleepy means relaxing.”