Page 61 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

I have to fix this. “Hey, by the way, Zach and I call each other sis and bro, but we’re not technically brother and sister. He watches out for me, you know, like a brother.”

“Okay. That’s cool.”

My relief is intense. I’ve fixed my mistake. I won’t do anything like that again.

And maybe, if this goes well, I won’t have to.

We arrive at the stage. A smattering of people sit on the risers to wait. We take a spot at the end of a row.

“Folks, we’ll get started in a moment,” one of the men says, clearly the baritone based on his voice.

Simon props a foot on the bench in front of us, and I realize I haven’t assessed his outfit. It didn’t even occur to me.

This is good. Maybe I’m already starting to shed my LA ways.

But the back of my head does the calculation.Old Navy shirt, $25. Levi’s 501 jeans, $55. Vans, $60.He’s going to spend more on food and drinks today than he did his clothes.

Stop it, Kelsey. Just stop. Be Alabama. Not California. Your dress was $25 at a Target in Birmingham circa 2018.

You can take the girl out of Hollywood, but it’s sure hard to take the Hollywood out of the girl.

Even so, I’m determined.

The shortest man of the four, somewhere in his midfifties, steps up. Instead of talking, he sings the words, “Are you ready?” His voice is higher than I expected as he holds out the last syllable.

More people come forward to sit down.

The second man arrives and adds his lower voice to the first. “Are you ready?”

Then the third walks to his mike, his sound even lower. “Are you ready?”

The last man is heavyset, his green vest stretching over a mint-striped shirt. His voice is incredibly low, and when he adds his deep “Are you ready?” the crowd starts to cheer.

They launch straight into a quick-tempo rendition of “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.”

Simon looks over at me with a huge smile, and we join in as the audience starts to sway in their seats. The voices resonate deep in my chest.

I feel happy.

It’s about time.

Chapter 20

ZACHERY’SSORDIDPICTUREPAST

As the sun starts to go down over Dillville’s damn Dillfest, I pull off my sunglasses. It looks ridiculous to keep wearing them, and besides, Kelsey is well handled.

In LA, getting recognized is no big deal. The paparazzi aren’t that interested in me unless I’m gussied up at a premiere with some rising star on my arm. Even if they spot me out alone, they only bother to take a couple of perfunctory photos that aren’t used anywhere, just stored in case I die unexpectedly or get embroiled in a scandal.

Here in Dillville, I go about my business for another good half hour before anyone does a double take. As I’m considering buying a beer, a man breaks out his phone, not to take a picture, not yet anyway, but to pull up my name on Google. I see him doing it.

No one else pays me any mind as I stride to the far end of the booths in hopes that he doesn’t make the connection. I end up back at the stage, currently empty, although quite a few people linger on the risers to wait on the next act.

Kelsey and herfellawere here earlier, and I made sure she was all right. So far, no red flags. They were having a toe-tapping good time.

Then I hear my name. “Zachery? Zachery Carter?”

I pull out my phone, pretending to be absorbed in something and not listening.

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