Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
The bride’s tent is nearly overflowing with people—mostly out-of-town guests. But I don’t mind. I’ve never been the center of attention at any Revival show for more than a few seconds. I do typically get cast as a scene starter, so I do have my moments, but that’s just it. They are literally moments. Just enough time to say something like, “There he is! That’s Collin Creed, the murderer!”
So I’ve made people gasp probably hundreds of times at this point. But these gasps were not about me. The focus was on the other person.
But right now, everyone in this tent is looking at me with sparkling eyes and shining smiles. Me. This whole day is about me.
And Amon Parrish made it happen.
“Look!” April is shoving the Revival News in my face. “You guys are on the front page!”
My eyes are dartin’ all over that page for a few seconds, trying to take it all in. The Harlow Parrish Wedding, the headline says. And it’s got pictures of us—both of which were taken during Collin and Lowyn’s big Revival party so we look extra special cute. There’s a whole fake story to go with it that I don’t have time to read, but I will be framing this page and puttin’ it up on a wall somewhere so I can look at it daily. My mouth drops open and I just shake my head as I look at April. “Who? How? Jim Bob was pissed about yesterday!”
“Apparently not, because this is quite special. You’re gonna have to frame it,” Lowyn says. Like she’s reading my mind. “Put it up on the wall and save it forever. Because this is your day, Rosie. It’s not fake.” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “No, ma’am. This is real.”
She hands me the paper and then I am pushed toward a chair and told to sit while they fuss over me, touching up my make-up and tucking stray bits of hair into my Juliet cap.
This is when the dream catches up to me. Not in the bad way, like you’re delusional and you suddenly wake up, but in the good way when you realize there’s more to this world and to this life than you thought. Because when I look at this fake article on the front page of this fake newspaper, I see so clearly how I ended up with a fake life filled with costumes and acting parts.
It’s in my blood.
I’m just… a performer.
And the fact that there is a word for me—‘performer’—it matters. It makes a difference. It means I’m not weird. It means I’m… artistic. Or something. I’m creative.
Lowyn purses her lips and says, “Pucker up, Rosie. Let me see if you’re glossy enough.”
To which I say, “Do you think I could write things like this?” while holding up the paper.
“What?” Lowyn looks a little startled. “What do you mean? Like articles?”
“No.” I get frustrated for a moment because I’m still trying to sort out what I mean. “Like… stories.”
Lowyn’s eyebrows go up. “Fiction?”
I snap my fingers and point at her. “Yes. That. Do you think I could write fiction?”
She makes a look of confusion. “Well… don’t you? I mean, isn’t that what the Busybody is?”
I lean back in my chair. “Yes. It is. But I mean… like books.” My voice goes low for that last word. Almost a whisper. Like I’m embarrassed to say it or maybe ashamed to think that maybe I could do something as big as writing a book.
“Books?” Lowyn looks a little taken aback.
Which doesn’t bode well. So I brace for it. I mean, I am a high school dropout, even if I did get that GED. I put up a hand. “Never mind. It’s a dumb idea. Single-mother high-school dropouts don’t become authors. That’s stupid.”
“Now hold on here.” Lowyn stands up and puts her hands on her hips. “You can do anything you put your mind to, Rosie Harlow. I mean, look at you. You run a printing press, you raised a very nice boy, you manage a semi-famous vintage store, and you still find time to help Bryn out during the lunch rush at the inn two days a week. If you think you can write a book, well, that book is as good as written.” Then she nods her head and smiles at me, like the whole matter is settled. “Now let’s get you fake-married so we can move on to the fake party. I’ve got my dancing shoes on and I might even have a drink to celebrate your fake happily ever after.”
Which makes me, and all the girls around me, laugh.
But as I get up and let them hustle and bustle me out of the bride’s tent and over towards the Revival tent, I have to wonder just how fake this is.