Page 19

REILY

I step into the house, the screen door slamming behind me with a soft thwack . Mom’s on the couch, her head tilted back, eyes fixed on the TV. Jeopardy’s theme music drones in the background.

“Hey, Reily,” she calls out without looking at me, “what’s the name of the Johnny Cash song about the end of the world?”

I freeze for a second, the vial of cure in my pocket suddenly feeling heavier. “Um, ‘When the Man Comes Around’?” I answer, trying to keep my voice casual as I pull the vial out and unscrew the cap.

“Ha, you were right!” Mom laughs, finally turning to look at me. Her eyes narrow as I hover near her iced tea. “Can I help you with something?”

I squirt the clear liquid into her tea, the cure disappearing without a trace. “Um, no, just make sure you drink ALL of your tea,” I say, handing it to her. “It has a new vitamin supplement in it that should help you feel a little better.”

Mom takes a sip, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Is that why it tastes funny?”

“Um, yes?”

She shrugs, taking another sip. “It’s okay, I kind of like it.” She drains the glass and hands it back to me with a smile. “Thanks, sweetie.”

I hover for a moment, watching her like a hawk. Nothing. No sudden burst of energy, no miraculous recovery. Just Mom, still pale and frail, leaning back into the cushions. My heart sinks a little, but I force a smile and head outside to the porch.

The old wooden steps creak under my weight as I sit down. The sun’s starting to dip low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. I’m trying to be patient, really I am, but the waiting’s killing me.

The sound of boots crunching on gravel pulls me out of my thoughts. Seabus ambles up the driveway, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“Hey, Reily,” he grumbles, stopping at the foot of the steps. “Heard some bigwig multinational corporation’s gonna re-start the Silver Creek dam project.”

I blink at him, my stomach tightening. “Gary said he would stop it.”

Seabus shrugs, his face scrunching like he just bit into a lemon. “I know, but no offense, I believe in a good incontinence strategy.”

I snort despite myself. “I think you mean contingent strategy, but do go on.”

He leans against the porch railing, looking out toward the lake. “If we can collect ten thousand signatures, we can force Boss Hoag to hold a referendum vote on the dam project. The power of democracy can bring it down.”

I raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “Ten thousand signatures? That’s like one fifth of the town’s population.”

“Yeah, well,” Seabus mutters, scratching the back of his neck, “it’s not like we’ve got a lot of options. Boss Hoag’s not gonna listen to reason, and Gary—well, no offense, but he’s got his own battles to fight.”

I sigh, leaning back on my hands. “Yeah, I know. But ten thousand signatures? That’s a tall order.”

“Better than sitting around doing nothing,” Seabus fires back, his voice sharp. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

I don’t. And that’s the problem.

I’m sitting on the porch with Seabus, staring at the lake in the distance, when Mrs. Henderson from next door comes ambling over. She’s got a floppy sunhat and a watering can, like she just wandered off from her garden.

“Reily, honey,” she calls out, squinting at me through her oversized glasses. “You two look like you’re plotting something. What’s going on?”

“Just trying to figure out how to stop the dam project,” I say, leaning back on the porch railing.

Mrs. Henderson sets her watering can down and plants her hands on her hips. “Well, count me in. That lake’s been there since I was a girl, and I’ll be damned if some billionaire’s gonna turn it into a reservoir.”

Before I can respond, Mr. Patel from across the street pokes his head over the fence. “Did I hear something about the dam? Because if so, I’ve got opinions.”

“Join the club,” Seabus grumbles, scrubbing a hand over his stubbly chin. By now, a few more neighbors are drifting over—Dauber from the pharmacy, Clem with his Skoal cap pulled low, and even the McLaughlins with their three-legged dog.

It’s turning into a full-blown block party when Boris and Barfbag roll up on their bikes, their heavy metal T-shirts flapping in the breeze. They skid to a stop and hop off, grinning like fools.

“What’s up, losers?” Boris says, tossing his helmet onto the grass. “Did we miss the revolution?”

“Almost,” I say, shaking my head. “We’re brainstorming how to get ten thousand signatures to stop the dam.”

“Ten thousand?” Barfbag’s eyes go wide. “That’s, like, a lot of signatures. Can’t we just, I dunno, start a mosh pit at city hall?”

“Brilliant plan,” Seabus mutters. “Except for the part where it’s completely stupid.”

I decide it’s time to play host. “I’ll grab some refreshments,” I say, heading inside. The kitchen smells amazing—sweet and warm, like baked cookies. And there’s my mom, standing at the counter, scooping oatmeal raisin dough onto a baking sheet.

“Mom?” I freeze in the doorway. “Are you all right?”

She looks up, her face glowing with energy I haven’t seen in months.

“That vitamin tonic did a good job,” she says, her voice light and cheerful.

“All of a sudden, I just felt like getting up and doing something again. It feels good. Do you know if any of your friends have nut allergies? You know I like to put walnuts in my cookies.”

I don’t even try to hide my grin. “I’ll go check,” I say, wrapping her in a tight hug. She feels solid, alive, like she’s finally back to herself. I whisper a silent thank-you to Guvan before heading back outside with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of cookies.

Mom follows me out, and the crowd cheers when they see her. “Mary!” Mrs. Henderson exclaims, rushing over to hug her. “You look fantastic!”

“I feel fantastic,” Mom says, beaming. She sets the cookies down on the porch railing, and Boris and Barfbag are on them like vultures.

“Careful, boys,” Clem says, snagging a cookie for himself. “Mary’s cookies are a religious experience.”

“No kidding,” Barfbag mumbles around a mouthful, crumbs tumbling down his shirt. “These are, like, the best thing ever.”

I pour glasses of lemonade and hand them out, watching as the group falls into easy conversation. For the first time in a long time, it feels like we might actually have a shot at this.

Clem leans against the porch railing, scratching the back of his neck like he’s trying to dig out a thought.

“Too bad we don’t have some big-shot celebrity in Coldwater,” he says, voice low and gruff.

“Someone who could get on social media and spread the word. That’d make this whole signature thing a hell of a lot easier. ”

Barfbag, perched on the steps with a cookie in each hand, snorts. “Yeah, like if Taylor Swift just happened to live here and was, like, ‘Save Mirror Lake, dudes!’”

“Don’t think Taylor Swift’s gonna move to Coldwater anytime soon,” I say, rolling my eyes. “What we need is a way to get a ton of people together in one place. Something fun, something that’ll put them in a good mood. Then we hit ’em with the petition while they’re all feeling warm and fuzzy.”

Boris, who’s been quiet up until now, suddenly snaps his fingers.

“Music festival,” he blurts out, like he’s just discovered fire.

“People love music, right? We could totally get everyone to show up for that. But—” he grins, braces glinting in the sunlight, “—it has to be nothing but death metal bands. Like, all death metal. No exceptions.”

“Hell no on the death metal band thing,” I say immediately, crossing my arms over my chest. “Not everyone wants their eardrums blown out by Boris and Barfbag’s ‘sick riffs,’ okay?

But the music festival idea? That’s actually not bad.

We could get a big name or two. Some of those music stars are really into conservation. ”

“Like who?” Seabus asks, his arms folded over his chest, skeptical as always.

“I don’t know, like... Jason Aldean? Miranda Lambert? Someone like that,” I say, waving a hand like it’s obvious. “We just need someone who can pull a crowd.”

“And where the hell are we gonna find the money to pay for all these big names?” Clem asks, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. “Because last I checked, none of us are exactly rolling in it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though I have no idea how. “First things first—we need acts. A lot of them. At least enough to make it feel like an actual festival and not just me and my guitar.”

Mom, who’s been quietly sipping lemonade, perks up. “Well, you’ve already got one performer,” she says, smiling at me like she’s just handed me a winning lottery ticket. “You.”

“Oh hell no,” I say immediately, holding up my hands like I’m fending off an attack. “Absolutely not. I’m not getting up on a stage. No way.”

“Why not?” Boris says, grinning like a jackal. “You’re always singing around the house. You’re, like, actually good.”

“Yeah,” Barfbag chimes in, mouth full of cookie. “You could totally be our secret weapon. Like, ‘surprise, it’s Reily Dawson, everyone!’”

“No,” I say firmly, shooting them both a glare. “I’m not your secret weapon. I’m not getting up on a stage. Period.”

But before I can shut it down completely, Mom chimes in again. “Honey, you have a beautiful voice. And this is for a good cause. Don’t you want to do everything you can to save the lake?”

“I—” I start, but the look she’s giving me makes it hard to argue. It’s the same look she used when she’d catch me sneaking cookies before dinner as a kid—soft but unyielding.

“It’s settled then,” she says, clapping her hands like she’s just won a debate. “Reily’s our first act.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands while Boris and Barfbag start chanting, “Re-i-ly! Re-i-ly!” like a couple of idiots.

Mary’s laugh rings out loud and bright, sharper than the cicadas buzzing in the pines.

“Well, I guess your boyfriend might as well show up too,” she says, her eyes twinkling as Gary’s Range Rover rolls up the gravel driveway.

The tires crunch like they’re chewing on rocks, and the sun glints off the windshield, blinding everyone for a second.

“Is he really your boyfriend?” Boris asks, his voice cracking somewhere between curiosity and disbelief. He’s leaning against the porch railing, his braces catching the light. “Like, officially?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I hop off the porch and stride toward Gary.

His engine cuts off, and he steps out of the car, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder.

He looks like he just stepped out of a boardroom, all sharp lines and that no-nonsense expression.

But there’s something softer in his eyes when he sees me.

“Hey,” I say, stopping just short of him. “What’s up?”

Gary’s jaw tenses, and he glances toward the house. “Pyke called. Veritas funds are off-limits for this. I can’t use them to stop the dam. It has to be human influence only.”

“Funny you should mention that,” I say, grinning despite the bad news. “We’ve got a plan. A music festival. Big names, big crowd, and we hit them with the petition while they’re all in one place. It could work.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I see the gears turning behind those blood-red eyes. His lips twitch, like he’s trying not to smile. “A music festival,” he repeats, his voice low and measured. “Not a bad idea.”

“Thanks,” I say, rocking back on my heels. “But we’re gonna need some big acts. Like, really big ones.”

Gary chuckles, a deep rumble that makes my stomach flip. “I can pull some strings. I’ve got a few friends in the industry.”

“You’re kidding,” I say, my grin widening. “Who?”

He shakes his head, his expression turning smug. “Let’s just say you’ll be impressed.”

“I’m already impressed,” I say, throwing my arms around his neck. He stiffens for a second, like he’s not used to this kind of thing, but then his hands settle on my waist, pulling me closer. I kiss him, quick but fierce, and he hums against my lips.

“Careful,” he murmurs when I pull away. “I’m going to have to punish you for that.”

“What? What did I do?” I laugh, poking him in the chest. His shirt feels smooth under my fingers, but I can feel the solid muscle beneath.

“You didn’t tell me you could sing,” he says, his voice dropping low. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “That’s a serious offense.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, shoving him playfully. “It’s not like I’m hiding a super double-secret identity or something.”

“No,” he says, his lips brushing my temple. “But you’re full of surprises.”

I laugh again, but it gets caught in my throat when he kisses me.

It’s not like the others we’ve shared—this one’s softer, slower, like he’s savoring it.

When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed against mine for a moment, his eyes closed.

Then he straightens, taking my hand in his, and we walk back toward the house together.

The gang on the porch is watching us like we’re the main act at the circus. Boris whistles, and Barfbag makes a sound that’s half-gag, half-laugh. Mary just smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Well,” Clem drawls, his voice dry as dust. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a real power couple here.”

“Shut up, Clem,” I say, but I’m grinning as I say it. Gary’s hand feels solid in mine, and I let myself believe we might actually pull this off.