Page 3 of Even After This
Which is bad enough.
But he’s also Harlan Holcombe, the Hercules of hometown heroes.
Two weeks ago, he saved a teenage girl from drowning in a river. A bystander posted the event on YouTube, and it went viral within two hours. His celebrity status took on a superpower of its own and skyrocketed through Social Media Bizarro World and straight to Planet Infamy.
My teenybopper niece wore her “Vote for Hercules” shirt the last time we were together. I’ve done my best to avoid Harlan’s rescue video, but it’s impossible to go to the grocery store without seeing this man’s face plastered across the magazine aisle.
I place my elbows on the table and rest my forehead on my fingertips. My brow is sweating.
Is thirty-six too young to get the vapors?
He puts his weight on his hands and leans into the table. “Are you okay?”
Cringing, I look to him and whisper, “I’m not allowed to talk to famous people.”
The confession earns me a deep, barking laugh. “I’m not that famous.”
“Really?” I rub my sweaty palms on my dress. “Various social media outlets continue to spread a nationwide petition for you to bePeoplemagazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.”
“Magazines get recycled to line the bottom of cat litter boxes.” He flashes the same grin I saw splashed across the airport bookstore stands earlier today. “And why aren’t you allowed to talk to famous people?”
My shoulders slump as scenes of my most embarrassing momentflash through my mind. “It’s a long story involving a book-signing event.”
He shakes his head and chuckles. “Meredith? Is that right?”
“Yes.” I exhale.
“I tell you what, Meredith. I’m going to order you a drink. All right?”
Dabbing my forehead with my napkin, I peek up at him. “Can you make it a double, but nonalcoholic? Sugar is my preferred coping mechanism.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He raps his knuckles on the table twice. “Then get ready for that dance.”
I blink. “What?”
But Harlan Holcombe is already walking toward the bar.
The server approaches and sets a crystal goblet of water on the table. I don’t even try to disguise my bewilderment. Heat drains from my face, and I imagine my color turning from teenager crimson red to hotel-sheet white because in about twenty minutes, I need to remember how to waltz. With a bona fide celebrity.
“Ma’am?” The server points to my clutch. “I think your phone is ringing.”
The tone breaks through the calm dinner atmosphere. It feels almost as embarrassing as if my phone was going off in a movie theater.
“Oh, sorry.” I scoot out of the booth. No way am I answering a call in a fancy restaurant. Digging through my purse, I reach past my small, worn accordion folder for my cell. As I pull it out, my big sister’s name flashes on the screen.
Of course.
I scurry down the hall to the bathroom to take her fifth call of the day in privacy.
With floor-to-ceiling dark wood doors, lush padded fabric walls, and a full stock of velvety toilet paper, the decor insists I forget I’m in a room with a commode. The ceilings are highenough that, with a few changes, they could add lavender-scented rock climbing to the restroom amenities.
“Hello?” I tromp to the last stall.
“How’s your trip?” The voice at the other end is too chirpy for this annoying call.
“Molly. This is my night at the Penrose Room.”
“That’s why I’m checking on you. How’s it going?”
