You are free to leave this town. You can even change your name if you’re desperate enough.

But you can’t outrun a reputation that doesn’t belong to you.

Since things have settled, I peel off my gloves. My palms are damp, but there’s nowhere to wash them, so I settle for a squirt of hand sanitizer. I duck out of the tent and lean against the frame. The lake glimmers with carnival lights, reflections dragging across the surface as if they’re trying to escape.

It’s beautiful, but only if you don’t look too hard.

“Hey,” Del, one of my only friends in town and the owner of The Honey Drop, says as she walks over with two paper cups.

“My savior,” I claim.

She hands me one of the cups.

I sip from it and breathe in the tea latte. “Thought you weren’t coming tonight. Too busy to save my ass.”

She waves a hand as if saying I’m being just too fucking dramatic. “I closed a few hours ago and just finished cleaning up,” she shrugs, brushing a curl from her face. “The town board begged me to stay open past midnight, but I had zero fucks left for the day. Brought your tea latte. I owe you the pastries. We sold out.”

“Thank you.” I lift the cup and take another sip—hot, earthy, with just the right hint of sweetness. My throat warms before I say, without thinking, “When I was away, this festival might’ve been the only thing I missed.”

Del gapes in mock horror. “Thank you, bitch. I feel all fussy and warm on the inside.”

“You left before I did,” I repeat because maybe if she had stayed . . . I don’t know what would’ve happened though. “So what’s there to miss, right?”

It doesn’t come out bitter. Just . . . tired. But it’s all true. She wasn’t here anymore. Del was two years older—one grade up—but we were close. I worked my ass off trying to graduate early just to leave with her class. My grandparents put their foot down. Even when I had enough credits, sixteen was “too young” for college. They didn’t care that I was ready to pack and forget all about this place.

I don’t share that with Del. There is no point in rehashing what happened then. I glance around searching for a safer topic. Something neutral. Something that doesn’t feel like salt in an open wound. I just can’t go there. I don’t want to remember.

If Gale, Nysa, or Blythe were here, it’d be easier to have a conversation, especially if Blythe brought baby Everly. Believe it or not, most conversations are less dangerous when explosive diapers are involved. You just offer to change it and let the conversation shift naturally.