Page 48 of Loaded

Seren drops a hand on mine. “I’m sorry.”

She never pries. It’s just not her way. “I was a finalist for a jingle contest, but I lost.”

“Oh, Beebee. I wish you’d told me—I’d have come and cheered.”

“Emerson and Jake went,” I say. “But having them there when I didn’t win made it harder.” It feels nice to say that. I’m not sure if she’ll understand, but it’s true.

“I would have been proud if you’d gotten dead last.” She really would have been, I’m sure.

“I got first runner up,” I say. “I did win a five hundred dollar prize.”

Her eyes widen. “Bea! That’s wonderful. How many contestants were there?”

“A lot,” I say. “I should be happy, I know. But the woman who gave me the news told me that I should have won.” I grit my teeth.

Seren blinks. “I don’t understand. Was it political?”

I shrug. “Nah, I don’t think so.” I want to tell her—and I don’t. Talking about it hurts, but I think she’ll get it. So I explain what she said, and then I tell her how Easton was there, and what he said.

“Wait, Easton—Elizabeth’s brother?” Seren frowns. “Why would he go? Did he know another contestant?”

I sigh. “No, he came to support me. I ran into him at the Red Horse.”

Seren nods slowly. “Okay.”

“He asked me out, and I said no.”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t say anything.

“I—he was there on a date with some supermodel with these huge, fishy lips.” I pucker.

“That’s definitely not you.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Seren leans back, laughing as she drops her hands flat on the table. “I meant the fish lips.” She lifts both eyebrows. “You’re definitely lovely enough to be a supermodel, but you might need really, really tall shoes.”

That makes me laugh, too.

“But Bea, why was he there if you turned him down? And why would he tell you that the woman might be right? It feels. . .bizarrely overreaching.”

“We did get along pretty well when I took care of him on his failed date,” I say. “Miss Collagen USA left in the middle of the meal, and then he flirted reasonably well. And then. . .he set up a weekly board meeting at our restaurant, so I talked to him some then.”

“Oh?”

“And I might have led him to believe I might havesomesmall interest.”

“Okay.”

“But he’s wrong about the song things, and so was that Octavia woman.” I whip out my phone. “Look—one of them emailed me about this song-writing contest, and the other one texted me. Why do people think I don’t know what’s best for me?”

Seren drops her hand over mine again. “They care about you, and most people can’t see past their own damage to navigate someone else’s.”

It’s stuff like this—these profound things—Seren just drops them around like stray musical notes kind of pouring all over from a bucket full of sound. “I think they probably do care, but they want me to be successfulin the way they measure it. They don’t accept that whatIwant is also fine.”

“Are you sure that writing non-jingle songs isn’t what you want?”

That surprises me. Of all the people in the world, the last one I thought might side with them was Seren. “Wait, do you think they’re right?”

---