Page 3 of The County Fair Queen

Jordan pointed to his right and stared silently at me. The only person in the room—production team and airport staff aside—was Rivers, so I wasn't really sure what he was getting at. There was no limo waiting by the sidewalk, and certainly no chauffeur standing in the wings to whisk us away. Only Rivers in a Muscadine Madness t-shirt and a pair of impossibly tight blue jeans. As if he could read my mind, God's gift to dark denim fumbled with something in his pocket, wedging his fingers into fabric so tight it looked to be painted on. Eventually, he fished out a piece of paper. With a cheeky grin, he unfolded it and held the sheet up to his chest.

Phillip Firecracker,it said, in black permanent marker. There were even five-point stars above eachi.

"Phillip," he greeted with a seemingly genuine smile. He was still holding on to the makeshift sign for dear life as I made my way toward him. Sensing my agitation, he took a step back. Then another. We continued the dance of predator and prey until there was no room left for Rivers to walk. His head hit the windowpane with a thud, and his face scrunched up in pain as he rubbed the back of his skull. I snatched the sign out of his hand and crumpled it, tossing it over my shoulder.

"Rivers," I said, hoping my voice conveyed the depths of my disdain. Unfortunately, it must not have, seeing as his smile returned in full force when our knuckles brushed together. He grabbed my hand without invitation and gave it a quick shake.

"Gosh, it sure is good to see you," he enthused. "Sorry about the dark circles." He ran a finger under his eye for dramatic flair. "I hardly slept last night, knowing I was going to pick you up today."

I turned back to Brenda/Carole. "Did you sign off on this? Was this your doing?"

"Phil, we really want to keep filming fluid. The fewer the interruptions, the better," she wheezed out.

"I don't care about your fucking fluids. You see this man right here? He's the single-worst soul that's ever existed. He puts Stalin to shame."

"Jesus Christ," Jordan groaned. "We've talked about this. You can't just compare people to Stalin."

"Oh, can't I? Tell me something. Have you ever been shoved upside down into a locker and left there for four hours? Did you have an entire football team use their bodies to spell out'Phillip Fletcher is a queer'during the homecoming game?"

Jordan's jaw practically hit the floor. "You did that?"

Rivers shook his head emphatically. "I didn't!"

"No," I admitted. "Well, I'm sure you thought about it, you goddamn sociopath." If the words had stung, he didn't letit show. Instead, he offered me a halfhearted smile. Ignoring our one-sided war, he pointed at a pickup truck blocking the airport's entrance.

"I know it's not one of those fancy pink Cadillacs you used to be obsessed with, but I promise, it's just as comfortable. Probably even more so."

"Pink Cadillacs?" Jordan said.

"He had a thing for them growing up. Used to draw them all over his notebooks in class. That's actually why I'm late. I've been trying to find one for weeks, but it's just been dead ends and disappointment. A lady named Sequoia Sandalwood messaged me today, saying she had one I could borrow. I should have known it was a setup. Half her messages were just heart-eye emojis. When I got to her farm, she kept talking to me about the art of butter churning and asking me how a face this pretty was still on the market."

"It's not that pretty," I grumbled. The words were clearly a lie. He may have been a terrible human being, but he was also one of the most attractive boys I'd ever met, and time hadn't done much to change that. His golden-brown skin seemed to shine under the camera crew's harsh lighting, and there wasn't a single blemish on it. Unlike me, he didn't have the beginnings of crow's feet, or the hint of a receding hairline. His brown eyes—so dark that it was difficult to tell where the irises ended and his pupils began—were just as puppylike as ever. Growing up, his hair hung past his shoulders, but now he kept it short, parted at the side. A bit too conservative for my liking, but somehow it suited him. His beard, cut short and sculpted to perfection, was a deep black with small patches of silver peppered throughout.

As much as it pained me to admit, Rivers was a bit of a babe.

"That's also the reason I couldn't get you a nice'welcome home'banner," he said. "I'd planned on heading out to Rinna's Crafts and Cutlery to pick one up for you, but by the time we'dgotten to the history of butter in the middle ages, it was already ten 'till. I had to feign tummy trouble and sneak out of the bathroom window just to get away."

"Rinna's Crafts and Cutlery?" I said, ignoring the rest of his ridiculous made-up excuse. I turned back toward Brenda/Carole. "If Lisa Rinna of Real Housewives fame has opened a craft store specializing in forks and spoons just to weasel her way into this series, I'm holding you personally responsible."

She approached like a bat out of hell, driving her finger into my chest with far more force than the situation called for. "What the hell is this? Crafts and cutlery? Kids being shoved in lockers? Our viewers expect to be entertained. This is Nostalgia Nation we're talking about. We're television's number seventeen source for your daily nostalgia needs. These people aren't tuning in to listen to you rant about Lisa Rinna and her decoupaged fucking forks." She reared back her arm before swinging it forward, delivering an emphatic uppercut to the air. "You gotta sparkle, Philly, sparkle!"

"Hey," Jordan said. "That was my line!"

"Can we please stop quotingValley of the Dollswithout getting permission? They'll sue," I said.

"Who is Lisa Rinna?" Rivers asked, offending me to my very core.

"Only the single-greatest reality television villain of all time," I said.

"You see?" Brenda/Carole said, flinging her arms in frustration. "This is what I have to deal with." She pointed at a woman holding an oversized suitcase, snapping her fingers repeatedly. The assistant's eyes blew wide before she propped her briefcase on top of the counter and rifled through its contents, stopping when she found an orange pill bottle. She shook out two pills and paused, eyeing the showrunner.Breathing shallowly, she nodded to herself and shook out another three pills before scurrying over to us.

"Here you go," she whispered as she stared at the floor.

"Thank god for Vicodin," Brenda/Carole popped all five pills into her mouth, dry swallowing them with ease. "I'm going to need these babies flowing like tap water by the end of this. I can already tell. Now," she said, fixing her gaze on me, "what I need from you is quality drama. No more of this Lisa Rinna blood feud. Nobody asked for that. No one wants it. We want more about your time in the band. What it felt like when you found out they reformed without you. As for you, Lake–"

"My name isn't Lake," he interjected, but all it earned him was a throaty growl.

"As I was saying,Lake.You've got this suave deer in headlights look going on. Play on that. Lean into the'small town man meets his idol'vibe you're throwing out. I want passion. I want angst. And God dammit, I want another Vicodin." Stalking away with her assistant, she let out a string of expletives that should never be repeated, and with that, Rivers led us out of the airport and into what I hoped would be the second act of my career.

---