Page 38 of Over the Edge

“Eve, you know what I mean. You’re getting caught up in what other people think the album needs to be. Are you actually going to be happy with that?”

Her music is good, too good for her to be seeking out the opinions of idiots who’ve never written a day in their lives. Why can’t she see that?

“Do I have to remind you that it’s my album and not yours?” she asks, her smile twitching as if it’s an effort to maintain it.

“Are you going to let me disconnect your phone from the car?” I ask, twisting to check the road as I back out of the driveway, my hand landing on the back of her seat.

“How else will you continue to eavesdrop on integral moments in my life?” She sounds winded. When I turn back, I catch her staring at where my hand rests against the leather.

“So if I disconnect it, you’ll just add your phone back to the system?” My question has her focus snapping back to my face.

“Pretty much.”

The Gas Station has transformed the usual way it does on Tuesday nights. A podium stands at the far end just beyond the pool tables. Rows of metal folding chairs cover the checkered linoleum. Fifty or so people have already shown up and dozens more will trickle in throughout the night.

“What is this?” Evelyn hisses as we claim seats in the very back. Proceedings are already underway with Pat loudly reading tonight's agenda from her yellow legal pad.

“Town-Hall-trivia-night,” I say.

“Excuse you,” she replies as if I’ve just sneezed.

“What?”

Her eyes light up in amusement. “You just said a lot of words that make no sense strung together.”

“Because the businesses here stay open late most of the week, they close early on Tuesdays so they can come here for town hall meetings then trivia right after. It’s more efficient.” I maintain a hushed voice as Pat moves onto the first item on tonight’s agenda. “They used to have the meetings across town then trivia after, but attendance shot up the moment liquor was involved.”

The rumble of disgruntled voices rise around us. In response, Pat thwacks her gavel to silence the crowd. I’ve always thought it was a bit excessive, but it’s better than the whistle she used to use and way better than the attempts at incorporating a megaphone.

It’s been years since I’ve attended one of these. Usually, I only come up on weekends, unless Alina is in dire need of help with a repair and then I’m too preoccupied to spend time coming here. Still, I get the highlights. Every time I delete myself from the group chat designated for updates, I find myself added back against my will.

“Is Pat the mayor or something?” Evelyn’s eyes rove over the chaos around us. The energy could rival an auction house, even if they are only discussing the day to release seasonal flavors in town.

“High school gym teacher during the day. The mayor is mostly honorary.”

“Hmm.”

“Today is going to be mostly Love Letter festival stuff.”

“Oh, hell yeah,” she emphatically whispers back. “I planned my trip around making sure I could see it before I left.”

“Every year it’s the biggest fucking headache.”

“It can’t be that bad. I mean, it looks so fun. Or maybe, it being fun is the entire reason you hate it,” she remarks, cocking her head to the side in mock consideration.

“That's because you see the pretty final product for one day that takes months of prep,” I say. Hartsfall does well for a tourist town. Money is good year round. In the fall there’s the festival and the trees. In winter we are a good place for skiers to lodge, not too far from the slopes and bigger resorts. Spring and summer are nice enough. But the festival is the biggest draw. It often gives families the financial extra boost to buy things they’ve been putting off or save for the holidays. “Three years ago the gazebo caved in. We had twenty-four hours to replace the entire floor and did it all at night so it wouldn’t disrupt the tourists. Who needs a good night's sleep when the tourist might be a little inconvenienced?”

“There’s no way.”

“Yes,” I affirm, my voice rising.

“Thank you, Garrett, for stepping up and showing some festive spirit!” Pat bellows.

Evelyn shrinks into her folding chair. “Are we being reprimanded?”

“I have no fucking clue.” When my eyes lock with Pat’s, I know whatever’s happening is penance for me talking out of turn, even if we’re in the back of the building. This is exactly why I don’t come to town meetings.

Poppy, a redhead with springy curls who helps run the pottery studio and the inn in town, looks back from where she’s seated a row in front of us. “I think you just agreed to go up to the Barlowes’ and do the official wine tasting on Thursday.”

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