Page 2 of Fairground

Honestly, fall feels more like my New Year than spring or winter ever have.

Screw January and the frozen wasteland that can literally make your nipples feel like they’re going to snap off. Autumn is where it’s at. It’s a season of change, of letting go and starting over. AndI’ve decided it’s the perfect time to make some new resolutions. In fact, I made one just this morning: To be more optimistic about this temporary move and to give this small town a real chance.

Give it the old rodeo try or whatever they say in these parts.

Oh, look. The baristas are wearing uniforms with little black cats for Halloween. Cute.

“Hi there! Good morning!” they call out cheerfully.

“Howdy,” I respond automatically, because, of course, that’s what comes out of my mouth in a place where there isn’t a ranch for miles, and I'm dressed like I just stepped out of a high-end yoga wear catalog.

I'm blending in nicely.

Thankfully, my awkward greeting doesn’t faze the girl behind the counter. She just grins. “What can I get started for ya today, darling?”

“What’s on your seasonal menu?” I ask, channeling my inner spontaneous, small-town local who’s eager to accommodate.

It feels like the right move—like something a regular here would do. Someone who sees the changing seasons as a cue to orderwhatever the winds of fall inspire. Whatever the leaves of autumn bring. Whatever the pumpkins of paradise... pummel.

Or something like that.

She beams at me, all too happy to oblige.

Good call, Rae.

You’re killing this encounter.

“I’ve got just the pumpkin-spiced concoction for you,” the barista says then gets to work dumping things into various cups and shaking them up like she’s a bartender.

I settle onto one of the tall stools, propping my chin in my hand as I watch her work her magic. The question isn’t whether this drink will give me enough energy to wrestle my two nephews for the rest of the morning—it’s whether it’ll revive me or push me straight toward an early grave.

Either way, I’m chalking this up as a win. I’m earning brownie points with the town’s beloved barista, who somehow manages to wave at every single person who walks in behind me without missing a beat and I'm getting out of the house. Doing something new. Spreading my wings.

The patrons who are waiting behind me are patient despite the fact that my overly complicated autumn masterpiece is single handedly holding up the line.

Honestly, I’d be fuming if I were one of these people who came in hoping for a quick caffeine fix on the way to work, only to find thisdrink magicianperforming a full-on show for a single cup of what I hope is going to be seasonal goodness. But hey, if I’m the star of this little production, I’m not complaining. As long as it isn't me who's waiting.

When she finishes her aggressive shaking that reminds me of one of those shake weight commercial videos from back in the day – highly suggestive, but effective for muscle building I’ve been told – she pours it into a paper cup with a bright orange lid and pushes it towards me wearing a big smile.

“Here ya go darling.”

“Thank you.”

She waits, smiling, making zero moves to take the next guests order and I realize,oh... she wants me to taste it first to be sure I like it.

"We’ve got a policy here atWhitewood Creek Coffee and Eats,” the barista says with a bright smile and a wink. “If you don’t like the drink, we’ll whip you up something new—on the house. But for the record, no one’s evernot liked my drinks.”

Oh, great. No pressure at all. Just me, standing here in the middle of this quaint mom-and-pop shop, about to take a sip with half the town as my audience. Because if I don’t like it, I’m not just the newbie who ordered the most complicated drink on the menu and talk like I stepped out of a western movie—I’m also the first person in the freaking history of Whitewood Creek to hate one of her creations.

And then, as the cherry on top, I’d hold up the whole line while she remakes it, making everyone behind me late for work because the new girl in town needed her coffee perfect. Great way to make a first impression in a new town. I’d be theasshole. The coffee shop pariah.

Lovely.

Knowing I have no choice, and completely unprepared for what awaits me behind the rim of this lid, I smile and then press the cup to my lips, taking a hefty sip to get this viewing over with. The spices she dumped in, the orange dyes, the strong pumpkin flavor mixed with something else that tastes a hell of a lot like coconut, all of it falls into my throat and empty morning stomach like a torpedo of sugar.

I want to choke.

I want to throw up.

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