They continued on, but the world had sort of faded into the background because she had bigger problems, and they all had to do with the upcoming wedding of her best friend’s brother. Seraphina Jefferys was one of her two best friends in the world. Her younger brother, Zep, was getting married in less than two months, and Sylvie didn’t have a dress or a date. How many weddings had she been to since she graduated from college? Seven. She’d been to seven weddings. She’d been a bridesmaid four times. She hadn’t even come close to putting on a wedding dress, hadn’t gotten a hint of an engagement ring. And Zep Guidry . . . Papillon’s player, never-kiss-the-same-girl-twice . . . was getting married.

Sylvie was facing down thirty. All her friends were married and having babies and building their families and she . . . she was stuck.

“You still have to do things right,” Leonard insisted. “There are protocols for eviction. I should have been able to hire an attorney.”

“Like you have money for an attorney,” Justin replied with a huff. “You can barely pay your rent. You’re lucky I’m not trying to evict you.”

People were starting to notice. If she’d stayed in DC, she would be just one more ambitious woman trying to make her way in the world. No one would question her single status. In fact, they would consider her young to think about settling down. Here in Papillon, she was practically an old maid.

Which shouldn’t matter. But it did.

Sometimes she wondered if she should run. Pack a bag, catch a plane, and disappear. Her momma would worry, but she could send her a postcard every now and then, letting her know she was all right and sane.

“How am I supposed to present a raccoon with an eviction notice? It can’t read,” Justin replied. “I would love to see you get that raccoon a lawyer. That would go over great with the judge. Although, who knows, maybe you people have raccoon court. It wouldn’t shock me.”

Sane was important. Sane would be nice. Sane was hard to find here in Papillon. Somewhere outside this little bayou town, there was a whole world where mayors were respected figures who were far more likely to deal with the press than to be forced to handle a conflict between a landlord and a tenant over a raccoon.

Come home, they’d said. Take over the mayor’s office. It’ll be easy, they’d all told her. It’s mostly ceremonial.

No one had talked to the citizens of Papillon about that, and it wasn’t like any of them would Google the word mayor and learn what a mayor’s actual duties were. They kind of treated her like a queen on a throne dispensing justice. But without any power at all. No crown for Sylvie.