Page 15 of The County Fair Queen

He gagged behind me, and it took everything I had not to turn around and slap him. "Obviously, I'm not trying to get a hold of your little firecracker, Phillip."

"There's nothing little about my firecracker."

His hand cupped my bulge and gave it a squeeze. "I've seen it before, remember? Many times."

"It's perfectly average, you sadist," I said. His hand crept up, until it was resting against my stomach. We were quiet for a while, enjoying the sound of the autumn cicadas chirping out a gentle song. It was nice, their white noise. As I began driftingoff, he pulled me tighter against him, his grip firm, but not uncomfortable. Despite how our banter might have come across to others, he'd been there with me through the thick of it. When everyone else turned their back on me, Jordan remained, tried and true. Though we shared no romantic spark, we'd done this familiar dance frequently. Just two lonely souls clinging to each other for comfort.

"I'm proud of you, Phillip," he said, kissing my shoulder. "For taking this chance, I mean. I know it can't be easy to come back here."

"It hasn't been that bad, I guess."

"Still," he said. "Even if the series doesn't work out, I think you're really brave for taking the risk. And if it is a failure, you know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

I smiled. "Yeah, Jordy. I know." I placed my hand on top of his, weaving our fingers together. "Love you."

"Love you, too."

Chapter Four

METHODS TO MY MADNESS

When Jordy and I made it to the studio shortly after dawn, chaos was the only word to describe the scene laid out before us. Producers and stagehands were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. As we approached a set that was lit up like the Fourth of July, Brenda/Carole & Co. were in a heated confrontation with the local television crew. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but judging by the expression on Brenda/Carole's face, it couldn't have been good. The local news anchor—a woman I'd gone to school with named Siobhan Donahue—said something that seemed to set off our docuseries showrunner. Brenda/Carole scowled at Siobhan before throwing a handful of papers into the air, letting them fall like oversized raindrops. Siobhan was still arguing her case—whatever that may have been—as Brenda/Carole spun around on her heel and marched over to me.

"The woman is impossible," she said. "She's refusing to allow us to film because she's worried about a damn zit on her forehead. I told her we'd shoot from the left, but she seems hellbent on the idea that we're going to focus on it to humiliate her."

"Were you?" I asked.

Brenda/Carole took a hit off her vape, blowing a plume of lavender and vanilla scented water vapor in my face. "Hmph, I am now. I don't care if I have to wait outside the studio until midnight, I'm making it my personal mission to plaster that blemish all over as many shots as I can." I chuckled, feeling a connection with her for the first time. "Don't make that face. You look constipated when you smile." Pointing at a lonely looking sofa on set, she added "They're going to want you there. She said they'd be discussing the grape festival and what it's like coming home after all this time. I'm going to be honest with you, kid, it sounds like a snooze. So I need you to try to play up the drama somehow. They've agreed to let us use their footage for our series, and we need mayhem." She clapped a hand on my shoulder, guiding me toward the floral-print sofa. "We need to hook the viewers, Philly. Give us chaos. Give us confusion." Her neck craned in the direction of her terrified assistant. "And give me a Xanax."

As the assistant rooted through her oversized purse, Brenda/Carole shoved me down on the sofa and took a seat beside me.

"You're going to give her a nervous breakdown," I told her.

"Not before I give you some words of wisdom. You're a star, Philly. You might not be on Brian O'Hare's level at the moment, but you're about twenty notches higher on the celebrity food chain than some local news anchor. Don't let her walk all over you. This isyourcomeback, and if you allow her to control the narrative, this entire series is going to be DOA before productioneven wraps." She stood up and stared me in the eyes. "Who are you?"

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'who are you?'"

"Phillip?"

"Damn right. And what are you?"

"A gay man?" I wagered a guess.

"Wrong."

"Err… I'm pretty sure I am."

"What are you?" she repeated.

"A narcissist?" Jordan suggested as he approached.

"Choke on an active chainsaw," I hissed. "I'm a star?" I said to Brenda/Carole.

She nodded. "And I don't want to hear anything to the contrary—" Brenda/Carole was cut off by an unnecessarily loud bell chime, and the 'ON AIR' sign started flashing above us. She darted out of the camera's field of vision, barrel-rolling across the studio floor like she was starring in some low-budget action flick. As she slammed into one of our crew members, the man groaned, falling to the floor and smacking himself in the head with his camera.

"Good Morning, Tallulah," Siobhan said, walking into the shot.

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