Chapters (44)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Julie Murphy
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
The phone charger in my truck wasn’t working, so once Clem left her meetup, she had two options: One, try to figure out how to get to the Hideaway without navigation, or two, drive home, charge her phone, and try to meet up with me from there.
When Clem finally got through to us on our way home, I was sure she was dead in a ditch. Hannah not so helpfully pointed out that Clem could have bought a new charger at a gas station, and I could practically see Clem’s fingers slither out from inside the phone and choke Hannah to death.
Once we got home, Clem groveled, but I was too happy she was alive and too exhilarated from my performance to even pretend to be mad.
“Big night tonight,” Grammy says.
Clementine sighs. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Ahhh. The tux.” She gently moves Clementine’s head from her lap and stands. Her purple polka-dot leggings and matching tentlike tunic perfectly coordinate with her purple headband and purple reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. “It’s not quite done.”
“You mean we’ve been lounging around here in your living room all morning and my tux isn’t even ready?”
“Well, y’all better scoot so I can finish up.” She takes my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Have a little faith in your dear old grammy. Y’all go do what you gotta do, and I’ll bring it by the house later today.”
Clem glances down at her phone. “I gotta go if I’m going to make it to this hair appointment Mom set.”
Grammy shoos us both away. “You take your sister, and”—she digs through her purse on the coffee table before handing me a crisp fifty-dollar bill—“y’all go get your nails done. Ask for my lady, Rita. Give me until about half past six.”
I nod, but she must see the anxiety in my wrinkled brow. “You’re going to look smashing,” she says, setting her hands on my shoulders. “Now, y’all run along and get pampered. Let me take care of the rest.”
Clem and I park at Mom’s hairdresser’s house. She’s a woman named Carla who converted a corner of her garage into her own little beauty shop. If you don’t mind getting your hair done alongside her husband’s work desk and riding lawn mower, she’s a steal.