Page 61 of Never Been Matched
We stand there in silence for a minute, facing the crowd.
“This town is . . . a lot,” she says. There’s something tight in her tone, but I can’t tell if it’s judgment or nerves.
“Come on,” I say. “I’ll introduce you around, so you don’t feel like you walked into a cult meeting.”
“Too late,” she mutters, but she follows.
I spot Jerry near the concession stand in a tux. “Hey, Jerry. You look great.” I eyeball the outfit, attempting to ascertain if it’s another stripper costume. If it is, the Velcro is well hidden.
He turns, brightening immediately. “Spence. You were right about going with the suit instead of the cop outfit.”
I gesture to Audrey. “This is Audrey.”
“Nice to meet you,” Jerry says, offering a hand. “I’m the one who arrested your sister.”
Audrey blinks.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “He means?—”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Jerry adds. “Mostly.”
A sharp clanging has all heads in the room turning toward the noise. Daphne stands on a stool by the concession stand, holding a cowbell in one hand. “Friends and neighbors,” she calls out.
The crowd grows quiet.
“As you may have guessed,” Daphne continues, “We are not here to watch a heartwarming coming-of-age story inspired by the work of Graham Deadwyler.”
Chuckles fill the air.
“However, we are going to watch the Alfred Hitchcock classic Rear Window, which, ironically, did inspire The House That Ate Tuesday, Graham’s third book to hit the bestseller lists. Also, I’ve just been informed that Graham is on his way.”
The room erupts in cheers.
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out despite myself. Does she have spies reporting in?
This whole thing is ridiculous.
“The movie will begin shortly after he arrives, so get your drinks and snacks now and enjoy the show!”
More clapping, not as enthusiastic as the Graham announcement, scatters around the room, which goes back to being a noisy, shifting buzz as people head for the concessions and to the bathrooms.
I scan over the crowd. Totally not looking for Vivien.
My gaze lands on an older woman across the room with white hair in a blue pantsuit. Wait. What is my high school English teacher doing here? She retired forever ago. Haven’t seen her in years.
She’s talking to Vivien.
The rest of the room blurs, the noises fade, bringing Vivien into stark relief.
Her dress is strapless, long, purple, and flowy. Her hair is partially up and pulled back from her face, blond strands flowing down her back, enhancing the line of her collarbone and delicate skin of her neck.
She looks incredible. But her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and her shoulders are tight.
Is she okay?
I start toward her because apparently my self-preservation instincts have completely left the building, and my feet have a mind of their own.
Her eyes lift to mine as I approach, and she relaxes a smidge, the tension leaving her face and shoulders.
