Page 86 of Fairground

And the best part? Our little town, Whitewood Creek, gets to host it every single year for the state that we love most. It’s not just tradition—it’s survival. For so many of our local businesses, this event is a lifeline. The vendors who set up shop, the retailers who work overtime to stock their shelves, the bakers, farmers,and craftsmen—they rely on this week. The fair brings in people from all over the state and generates nearly 75% of their annual income.

But beyond the financial boost, it’s a celebration of who we are. The food we eat. The livestock we raise. The crafts we pour our hearts into. The home goods we bake, the music we love, the traditions we pass down.

I take it all in—the vibrant booths, the swirling rides, the pumpkin-orange glow of lights strung across the fairgrounds. It’s as if the entire town has been dipped in magic.

“It looks amazing. I’m honestly impressed,” my sister Regan says as she sidles up next to me, sliding her hands around my waist in a sisterly squeeze.

I grin and hug her back. Regan’s one of those people who rarely slows down, so the fact that she's taking a moment to breathe and appreciate all this feels like a victory for our family.

This is the first year our families have set up a booth, a food stand not far from where we're currently standing. The sign readsWhitewood Creek Farmstead Eats, and it’s already got a line halfway down the path. We’re serving eggs just about a thousand different ways for folks who came in from all over the state.

“It’s a hit,” she says, nudging me with her elbow. “Even the decorations that you and Rae agreed on look incredible.”

“Rae’s idea,” I reply, glancing up at the blend of spooky Halloween charm and good old-fashioned Americana.

The orange and black bunting is paired with stars and stripes, jack-o’-lanterns perched alongside wooden crates of apples and cornstalks tied with red-checkered ribbon. It’s a weird mashup, and yet it somehow works.

After weeks of back-and-forth deliberation—and nearly pissing Mrs. Mayberry off at every turn when we suggested our original plan, splitting the fair decorations in half. The first part of the week going with Americana and the second with a Spooky-spectacular—we finally landed on this. A mixture of southern tradition and eerie autumn vibes blended into one chaotic display.

As I look at it now, I can’t help but realize the decorations are almost symbolic—like a visual representation of Rae and me. Her love for all things dark, broody and autumn, meshed with my down-home, Whitewood Creek, Americana charm. Somehow, we’ve found a way to blend two very different worlds, and it feels like a win not just for the state fair but for us in our relationship too, because in my head, we're in one right now and we're meshing our lives together beautifully.

“Anyway,” I ask, turning to Regan, “how areyoudoing?”

She smiles, but there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, a hint of sadness that lingers like a shadow and has been there for the past few years.

“You know Declan asked me out a few months ago.”

My brows shoot up. “Declan? As in, Rhett’s guy from Whitewood Plumbing?”

“Yep.” She wiggles her eyebrows in mock flirtation.

“Well?” I press, narrowing my eyes. “He treating you right?”

She lets out a short laugh. “We've been dating for a while now. He asked me to go steady.”

I blink. “So, he wants you two to be exclusive already?”

She shrugs, her nonchalance almost convincing. “Guess so. I haven't been seeing anyone else anyways. I mean, between bouncing between all the businesses and keeping you guys onyour toes, I hardly have had time for dating since I moved back here. But Declan’s nice. Really nice. Figured I’d give it a shot even if he’s busy with work too.”

“He is,” I agree, though my eyes study her closely.

Regan bites her bottom lip, eyes drifting toward the Ferris wheel in the distance.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m asking for too much in a relationship. Like if I expect too much from a guy at this age. I mean, I’m about to turn thirty and everyone is so career focused, me included.”

I raise a brow. “Don’t ever wonder that, Regan. You’re not asking for too much.” I nudge her shoulder gently. “It’s okay to want more than what you have. Just means the relationship might not be right for you and you need to keep looking.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There’s more she’s not saying, but before I can pry, Colt and Molly appear, and I know that’s my cue to let it go. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that telling Colt anything about Regan is a guaranteed way to blow things out of proportion. The twins still act like they’re joined at the hip half the time and now that they've made up since Colt's release from prison, they're even more protective over each other's happiness.

“You seen Rae?” I ask, scanning the crowd.

Molly doesn’t answer right away—she’s too busy sinking her teeth into a corn dog. Except it’s not a hot dog inside. It’s a fried egg.

I grin. “Ah, you’re trying my specialty.”

Molly gives me a thumbs-up with her free hand, her eyes wide with exaggerated delight as she chews. The fried egg was myidea, one of the quirks I added to the food stand menu. Fresh eggs straight from Chickaletta, my favorite hen and one of our best producers.

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