But Stacey did. “It’s going to be okay, Lulu.” She sounded like she was talking someone out of jumping off a bridge. Except I’d already jumped, and now I was spiraling down toward scary, swirling water below. It was going to hurt like hell when I landed.
“I don’t see how.” I shook my head and took another gulp of cider, oblivious to the revelry around me. I was in a makeshift tavern, the drink in front of me served by a barmaid in a cinched-up corset and a huge smile. Nearby a frat boy in chainmail chugged a light beer, his friends in variously elaborate costumes cheering him on. A faint melody from faraway bagpipes floated by on the breeze. I should have been enjoying my time at the Renaissance Faire—a rare day off for me. But I had all the days off now.
Another fortifying sip of cider, and I looked at Stacey. “You don’t know my family. They want . . .” My stomach clenched, and the cider threatened to come right back up. Sure, I was in my late thirties, but judgment from your parents stayed with you. They’d been so proud of my upward trajectory with the law firm. There’d always been a sense of competition between my parents and their siblings, wanting their kids to be as successful as possible. My career had never been about what would make me feel fulfilled. It was about bragging rights for my mom and dad at every family function for the rest of their lives.
“Here.” Stacey took away my cider and pushed a bottle of water into my hands. “Take that and come with me. Our next show starts in a few minutes.”
I followed her like an obedient child, because I was out of options and my brain was offline. We dodged costumed fairegoers and kids with fake swords, until we reached the stage and she ushered me to a bench at the back of the audience. Words echoed in my head to the rhythm of my heartbeat.
I quit my job. I quit my job. I quit my job.
It was approaching noon and the sun was high, the heat not helping things in the least. Those three ciders were hitting hard as the Dueling Kilts took the stage, so I uncapped the bottle of water and forced myself to take measured sips. Forced myself to calm down and focus on the stage in front of me.
Which . . . wasn’t a bad thing, necessarily. I’d never been attracted to men in kilts—knees weren’t really my thing—but the rugged good looks of the trio of kilted musicians onstage drew my attention more than their outfits. No wonder Grandma Malone had been so taken with them last summer.
Two of them looked more closely related than the third—that odd man out played the fiddle, and he was tall and lean, with long, dark auburn hair tied back in a queue. The other two were shorter and dark haired. The one on the hand drum was boyish looking, slender with closely cropped hair, while the guitarist was more muscular, his longer hair tied carelessly back from a face that boasted sharp cheekbones and a sharper jawline. If this were a boy band from my childhood, the drummer would be the cute, non threatening lead singer, while the part in me that coveted bad boys would have gone straight for the guitar player.
Good thing I was over my bad boy phase.
The trio bantered and joked with the audience members, raising wooden tankards in toasts before, after, and even during the songs. There were only three of them up there, but their instruments and voices combined in rich harmonies and richer laughter, the music feeling greater than the sum of its parts. I leaned back on my hands, closed my eyes, and tipped my face toward the sun, practically feeling freckles pop out over the bridge of my nose. While the breeze teased strands of hair out of my ponytail and danced them across my cheek, the notes of “Whiskey in the Jar” flowed over me, carried on the air from their guitar, fiddle, and hand drum. Hard cider hummed through my bloodstream, and music surrounded me, soothed me. For a blissful few minutes nothing could touch me, and my worries slipped away, forgotten.
Then the show came to an end, and reality came crashing back, along with the beginnings of a panic attack. I took a shaky sip of water, trying to stave it off. I needed to get out of here. Out of the sun. Out of this whole damn day. But white static crept in the edges of my vision, making it hard to see. Standing up was impossible, walking out of here even more so.
I bent forward, putting my head between my knees, and breathed deeply. Tears pricked my eyes as the panic attack took hold. All my life I’d been on this path, and now the path was gone. I was alone, lost in the woods.
“Is she all right?” A man’s voice spoke over my head, and I chanced a look up. The audience had mostly gone—a couple stragglers were taking pictures with the band. The man next to me was tall, dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, a baseball cap eclipsing his vivid red hair. He wasn’t dressed for a day in the sunshine, but he acted like he belonged here. His attention was on Stacey, threading her way through the maze of benches toward where I was sitting.
“She’s fine.” Stacey waved him off.
“Are you sure? She doesn’t look so good. Do we need to call someone for her?” The redhead’s eyes flicked from me to Stacey, a question in his eyes. By “someone” I had a feeling he meant “paramedics.”
“I already did.” Stacey brandished her phone like it had all the answers. “Here.” She sat down next to me, handing me her phone. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” But when I looked down at the screen an almost tangible relief swept through me. “Hey, Mitch.” The words were a sigh, directed at my cousin on the other end of the video call. My favorite cousin. He was five years younger, but I loved him more than my own brothers. Mostly because they were dicks.
“Hey, Lulu.” He looked as happy to see me as ever. “What the hell are you doing in North Carolina? Stace says you’re making a scene there at the Renaissance Faire.”
“You know me,” I said weakly. “Always a troublemaker.” I finished off my water, and Stacey took the empty bottle from me, replacing it with a fresh one. I watched as she took the arm of the redhead, pulling him away to give me privacy. His head bent toward hers as they talked intently.
Mitch snorted. “Yeah, right. We both know that’s my job.” His brow furrowed, and his voice gentled. “What’s going on, Lu?”
I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead, staving off more tears. “I was here for work, and . . .”
Mitch blinked. “Who needs lawyers at a Renaissance Faire?”
The ghost of a smile tugged at my lips. “North Carolina, you weirdo. I was in North Carolina for work, and then I got one phone call too many from my boss and . . .”
“Yeah, Stacey filled me in on that part. You wanna tell me why you made your phone part of the laundry wenches’ show?”
“Okay, technically the show was over.” I sighed. “I’d just had enough, you know? My boss made it clear that no matter what I did, I was never going to make partner and I just . . . I’d had enough.” The memory of that last phone call made my chest ache, but there was one part that had given me grim satisfaction. The part where I’d told him I quit, followed by tossing my phone in the oversized laundry tub onstage. The one that was filled with water. “Turns out phones didn’t skip like stones do.”
That made Mitch laugh, his boisterous laugh that always made me feel better. I glanced up again. The guy in black had his arm around Stacey—so they were a couple—and the band had joined them. They looked to be having a serious discussion, and when Stacey threw a glance my way I had the sinking feeling the discussion was about me. Probably how to get the half-drunk, unemployed lady out of the audience and on her way.