My mom looks at Shelby like she can’t believe she’s real and I swallow hard, feeling my throat work. I shouldn’t have brought her with me. Honestly, I shouldn’t have even come. I don’t know what’s happening with me. When I decided to come back to Michigan, I set off a ripple of consequences I’m not sure I’m ready to see through to the inevitable end.

“Well, I think I’ll have one before we start. Did you bring your play clothes, Shelby?” she asks, as if Shelby’s six and came over to ride bikes. “I’ve got a garden to get started.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Cam, there’s a load of timber in the garage. I’ve outlined where I want the bed. Can you lay them out while Shelby and I edge?” She wraps her arms around Shelby, squeezing her from the side. “So good to see you, kiddo.”

My mom always had a soft spot for Shelby when we were kids. I assumed she was just that kind, but seeing them together now … I’m not sure. Maybe she knew Shelby needed a little attention from a maternal figure who didn’t have an angle. As far as moms go, I won the lottery.

I try not to linger on the sight of them—refusing to imprint it into my brain—knowing it’ll only make things worse later. Shelby’s just too easy to love.

8

SHELBY

THANK U, NEXT

On Sunday, I cut off all my hair.

Lyle said trim, so I get a bob. Not just because of Lyle. I wanted a definitive way to show the world I wasn’t that girl anymore. I don’t cry on cue, I don’t take shots of tequila in club bathrooms, I don’t flash my underwear on the red carpet, and I no longer let men make my decisions for me.

I make a last-minute appointment at my friend’s front-porch salon and hand her a photo.

Maren’s honey eyes widen. “You realize that’s like a foot of hair coming off.”

I nod.

“It’s taken you years to grow it this length,” she tries again.

“Probably a decade, honestly. But it’s in the way. I’m always getting paint in it.”

“Long hair looks good on you, Shelb.”

I shrug. “So will short hair. I have the face for it.”

“Just do it, Maren. She won’t blame you if it turns out terrible.”

I shoot a glare at Lorelai, who invited herself along. “It won’t look terrible.” I turn to Maren. “I trust you.”

I’ve known Maren my whole life—long before stage moms, children’s shows, public humiliations, and wicked boys. A million years ago, we were on the pageant circuit together. She always placed ahead of me, so my mother never liked her.