Page 2 of The County Fair Queen

"Time to sparkle, Philly, sparkle," Jordan said. Apparently, everyone was hellbent on shattering the last of my dwindling patience. Rather than threaten him with yet another termination—his seventh of the month—I gave him a pass. He was quotingValley of the Dolls, after all, and my life's ambition was to be a modern-day Neely O'Hara. Well, minus the addiction issues. From what I'd seen on the endless journey from London to East Texas, Brenda/Carole seemed to have the addict role filled. I'd seen her dry-swallow a handful of downers and two uppers during liftoff. God knew what she took for the landing.

"Jordy?" I whispered, hopefully low enough that the microphones wouldn't pick it up.

Jordan's hand slid into mine, and he gave me a squeeze. "I promise you, Phillip, you have this."

"But what if—"

"No." Jordan spun to face me and gripped my hand even tighter. "We're not doing this. What do we say to the cycles of self-doubt?"

I closed my eyes and breathed out through my nose, the way Jordy had shown me. "I am Phillip Firecracker; I was in the biggest-selling boy band of the early aughties."

"And?"

"And I'm worthy."

"Damn right, you are." Without warning, Jordan wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. "I'm really proud of you for taking this risk. I know it's scary, but I'm right here with you and I'm not going anywhere." His lips pressed wetly against my neck, but rather than scold him for slobbering on me like a madman, I returned his unbearable hug, squeezing as tight as I could manage.

I opened my eyes to a wondrous sight; Jordan's beaming grin, shining out love like a spotlight. "Thank you. I needed that." I reached up and patted my shoulder. "Papadop, come." Then braced for impact as my cat's nails clicked against the sticky linoleum floors. When he reached me, Mr. Papadopoulos lunged upward, his talons piercing through my jeans as he vaulted up the length of my leg. When he finished his ascent, he rested on my shoulder, hissing at the empty air in front of us.

The moment I stepped out of the janitor's closet, I was accosted by the crew's unforgiving spotlight. I winced, hoping I didn't look terrible under the harsh lighting, then pushed my shame aside and walked forward with my head held high. Well, as high as one can hold their head when they've got a murderous cat perched on their shoulder and a sweat-drenched shirt clinging to every nook and cranny.

The small-town airport smelled just as terrible as our tomb had, somehow with even more fumes from the industrial-strength floor cleaner filling the air. The only people in the room were Jordan Miller, myself, and three airport employees at the terminal. One of those employees happened to be our pilot from earlier—Danvers Davenport—a strange name for a terribly strange man. In the small commuter plane, I'd been seated right beside him in the cockpit. Despite my repeated pleas, he'd paid more attention to my crotch than the flashing lights on the plane's console. Honestly, it was a wonder we'd survived the trip. It was also a wonder that he turned me down when I'd asked for his number.

Danvers' eyes dropped to my crotch, and he traced his lips with his tongue.

No. He had his chance.

As we made our way through baggage claim—which was simply an overworked employee carting ten oversized bags on his back—Jordan paused mid-stride. He lifted his hand daintily in the direction of an oversized wall decal that said LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE.

"This place is trash.T-r-a-s-h,Trash!"

"Dial it down, Faye Dunaway," I groaned, leaning in until I was right against his ear.

"I don't know who that is."

I flagged him off with the flick of my wrist. The harried showrunner waved at us, motioning for us to stop once we reached a check-in counter. Ahead of us, there was an archway obstructing my view into the main lobby. At our side, Danvers, the diabolical dick tease, was helping himself to one of the complimentary dust-dry danishes sitting on the check-in counter. The camera crew were still focusing on me, so I scowled at Danvers before staring directly into the camera, blinking slowly. In my mind, I'd thought it would be a fun littleParks andRecreation-adjacent moment where I could break the fourth wall and insult the hillbilly residents for comedic flair. The look the cameraman gave me told me that wasn't the case.

"Alright," Brenda/Carole shouted from the lobby. "We're ready when you are, Phil."

"You've got this," Jordan said with a smile.

Once we made it past the archway, I paused, gripping Jordan's wrist for dear life. There was a small space sectioned off with a red velvet rope, but instead of fans queueing behind it, only disappointment stood stagnant. Despite being told there was a plethora of Phillip's Firecrackers waiting for me, the room was empty. No one had come. Not a single soul. It stung. For God's sake, my own father hadn't even shown up.

It was a disaster. A damned mess of a situation. Still, Brenda/Carole was staring at me intensely, motioning for me to continue filming. Assuming they could simply CGI in non-existent fans during post-production, I pushed down the self-sabotaging thoughts and did what I did best: I put on a show.

Staring into the vacant space where gaggles of thirty-somethings should have been, I gave them my trademark smile—open-mouthed, my teeth not touching—waving ridiculously at my 'public.' Jordan bumped my shoulder with his, trying to get my attention, but I had an endless sea of imaginary fans waiting for me, and they took precedence. Pointing at a vacant space near the double doors, I gave one of myfansa wink and a pointed thumbs-up, clicking my tongue against my cheek.

"What the hell are you doing?" Jordan said.

I waved again, this time to an invisible onlooker by the vending machines. A janitor walked into the path of my wave, and he stared at me curiously. Our eyes met, and he slowly pulled out an earbud before cocking his head to the side. He returned my wave, along with a genuine, albeit terribly confused, smile. The double doors slid open, and a gust of humidTexas heat barreled into the airport, like a sauna located in the innermost depths of hell.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear: there were two souls in this world I hated. One of those was Brian O'Hare, my former bandmate and closet case ex-boyfriend, the other was Rivers Rivera. The man with matching names. The state champion quarterback. Muscadine King. My former science class partner. Owner of an ass sculpted by the gods themselves. Yes, Rivers held many titles, but only one of them mattered.

The boy who ran.

I eyed Brenda/Carole, hoping to get her attention, wanting to demand she have Rivers forcefully removed from the airport, but she was too busy filling her oversized vape with bright, ruby-red juice to notice. The man responsible for holding the boom mic above our heads glared at me before mouthing for us to keep moving. I didn't have the faintest idea what I was supposed to do, so I focused my attention on Jordan, hoping if I ignored Rivers long enough, he would leave.

"Is our driver here?"

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