Page 46 of Fairground

He said this mayoral election matters. That even if the role is mostly symbolic, it still sets the tone for the town. He said this place needs someone real, someone who gives a damn aboutdoing the right thing by our small town. Then he looked me straight in the eye and said he thought I was that person. And that… hit me.

Hard.

I didn’t expect it. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear someone say that I was the right person for this. Especially someone who’s only just met me. Especially when his own son is running too. But he wasn’t trying to play sides, he was just being honest and his authentic self. And that kind of faith, that quiet belief in me from someone like him... it landed somewhere deep.

Growing up, I was always trying to measure up to my older sister Laken in our parents’ eyes. Not just in smarts—since she was the one destined to be a doctor while I bounced between political internships, marketing jobs, and campaign work, trying to figure myself out—but also in beauty. It took years for me to come into my own and feel comfortable with my big green eyes and curvier shape, and even now, though I’m confident and have matured, I still hear that nagging voice in my mind every time I look in the mirror.

The first voice you hear as a child should lift you up, tell you you’re cherished, that you’re perfect as you are. Mine didn’t. My parents gave us everything we ever wanted—clothes, toys, an education, expensive family vacation cruises, and a safe place to live. They weren't abusive, but their words… those critical, cutting words… they stuck. They’re what taints my memories, and no amount of therapy has ever been able to silence them completely,

Sometimes I wonder what’s worse—the memory of how those words felt when I first heard them, or the way that they’ve shaped my inner voice, and I can’t distinguish between my actual feelings and what I’ve been told to believe.

We round another bend and finally a large, beautiful brick house comes into view which I assume is Colt and Molly’s. I haven’t met her yet, but Lydia’s told me enough to make me curious about the small town police officer who fell in love and captured the youngest Marshall’s heart.

Cash parks the golf cart next to a circular, stone fire pit and I hop off, grateful to be on solid ground again.

"I think I'm going to throw up."

He barks out a laugh as he shakes his head. “Wait right here. I’m going to grab us a couple blankets.” Then he jogs off towards the darkened house leaving me behind.

While he’s gone, I wander down toward the creek. It’s not very full right now, just a quiet ribbon of water running between dry banks and the slightest gurgling as it passes over rocks and twigs. I figure that’s normal for this time of year when the rain slows and the cold sets in. Thankfully, the ground isn’t muddy and it’s dry enough to sit on the dirt without worrying about a mess.

Cash returns a few minutes later with two blankets in hand. He spreads one out on the ground near the water and hands me the other. I wrap it around myself, grateful for the warmth, even though my jacket already does most of the job. He sits down beside me, so close that our shoulders brush. Even with the blanket bundled around me, he seems determined to share his warmth like he’s been doing all evening. The warmth of his family, food, and even his company. And this time I don't stiffen, I let him.

“So, this is Whitewood Creek,” he says with a smile.

“I like it. It’s not quite what I expected for a whole town to be named after it.”

“In the spring, it’s more like a river. We fish off it, and a lot of folks around here catch crawdads to eat. Kids float down it on tubes and spend their summer's cooling off in the lake that it connects to a few miles from here.”

“They float all the way past Colt’s place?”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “There’s a dam that forms in the spring when the water gets high enough. It stops before the farmstead’s property line. The lake stays full of visitors but out here the land is privately owned by us.”

“I see…”

He smiles softly, and we fall into silence, the babbling of the creek filling the space between us like a gentle melody as we both soak in the stillness of the night.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “what awkward shit did my dad say to you?”

I laugh and turn toward him. “Nothing. He’s… he’s a really nice guy. I can tell he loves his family and this town a lot.”

Cash nods, his smile warm. “I figured you two would get along.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Had a strong gut feeling and my gut hasn’t let me down yet.”

“Well, I wish I had that kind of support and relationship with my parents.”

His expression softens. “Hm… what’s your relationship like with them?”

“Non-existent. They gave me a good life, but you know… sometimes they were just so... critical. It was best for me to distance myself from them once I hit adulthood.”

He listens—really listens—his eyes locked on mine the entire time. A week ago, that kind of intensity might’ve made me squirm. But now? Now I like it. I like the way he makes me feel seen. Not just listened to, but heard. The weight of his attention is almost physical, warm and steady, like sunlight on bare skin. It’s too much and not enough all at once, so I drop my gaze, letting it settle on the water bottle in my hand instead, grounding myself in something small and safe like the slightest bit of condensation caught in the plastic grooves.

“I can’t imagine what they’d have to be critical about,” he says, his voice deeper now. “Seems like you’ve got your head on straight. Plus, you changed your whole life to help your sister with her kids.”

I laugh, but it’s less happy and more a bitter sound. “Compared to Laken, I’m a bumbling mess.”

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