Fucking hell. I’d made so much progress in the last year, and I’d let the sight of an unrequited ten-year-old crush undo it all. I was a fucking disaster and I always would be. Grabbing the notebook next to me, I hurled it into the water.

Two seconds after I heard the splat, I regretted it. “Fuck!” I jumped to my feet and trudged into the water to get the damn thing, which hadn’t gone very far. The water was frigid but shallow, and I rescued the journal before it was submerged, although I soaked my sneakers and the bottoms of my jeans in the process.

Reaching the sand again, I dropped down and fanned open the dripping notebook, its pages covered in neat, small, identical lettering. In the beginning, the pages all looked the same.

Eight words per line.

Every line.

Ken, my therapist, never actually read my journal, it was just for me, so at first I’d reverted to the old habit, even though the whole point of the journal was to help me stop engaging my compulsive behaviors. But eventually, I’d stopped writing in it that way. I’d stopped doing a lot of things I used to do. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a setback like I’d had today. Then again, it was the first time I’d approached a woman I was attracted to since everything with Diana fell apart. Add to that it was a girl I’d crushed hard on back in high school, and maybe it was no wonder.

Frustrated, I dropped the notebook into the sand. Maybe it was just too soon. Maybe it was just the wrong woman. Or maybe I was just doomed to be alone for the rest of my life. My own misery was enough—why should I make someone else unhappy too?

Ken was always encouraging me to be more social, but I hadn’t come back here to make friends or reconnect with anyone. I’d come here for peace and quiet, to start over, to forget about New York and everything that happened there.

Forget that I’d lost my mind.

Forget that I’d lost my job.

Forget that I’d lost the only woman willing to love me.

No, that was wrong—I hadn’t lost her. I’d driven her away.

I deserved to be alone.

Inside my mom’s car, I pulled the door shut and let my forehead drop onto the steering wheel.

Forget him. He doesn’t matter.

But the way the handsome stranger on the beach had looked at me with such blatant contempt, the scornful way he’d said I know who you are, truly bothered me. How long would I have to be ashamed of myself?

Don’t think about that. Think about the plan you have to make things better. Taking a deep breath, I sat up tall and turned the key in the ignition.

When I got back to the guest house, I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and poured a glass of iced tea. With my sandwich in one hand, I opened up my laptop with the other. I found contact information for pageant marketing director Joan Klein easily enough, and as soon as I finished my lunch, I dialed her number.

She didn’t answer but I left her a message explaining who I was and volunteering my time for the festival and related activities. I told her I was free anytime and eager to get started, and I gave her my cell phone number.

After that, I changed from my work clothes into jeans and a tank and grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies from the pantry. I’d give the place a good dusting and scrubbing, and then later I’d invite my mom over for a glass of wine and give her some more decorating ideas. I’ll show her the Pinterest board I made, run some paint colors by her for the bathrooms, and offer to do the painting myself—if I’m not too busy with my new job.

I smiled as I filled the bucket. Through the open window I could hear an old Hank Williams tune, which meant my father was probably working in the nearby pole barn with his radio on. It lifted my mood further, and I hummed along to You Win Again as I dusted, the melody taking me back to grade school summers, when Jilly, Nat, and I would all pile in the front seat of his truck and go for ice cream after dinner, my mother howling from the driveway about seat belts. Those summers always went by so fast—you blinked and it was September again. I’d blinked and a decade had gone by! I couldn’t believe it had been ten years since I’d graduated from high school. Where had they gone? And what about the next ten years…would they fly by just as fast?

For a moment, I tried to imagine myself ten years from now, age thirty-seven. Where was I? What was I doing? Did I have a career of some kind? A husband and family? I had no clue, which was kind of distressing, so I shoved that thought out of my mind and focused on my housework.

About fifteen minutes later, my cell phone rang. I set down my dust rag and looked at the screen.

Yes! It was Joan Klein.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Skylar Nixon?”

“Yes, it is,” I sing-songed.

“Hello, this is Joan Klein from pageant corporate.

“Hello,” I gushed like she was my long-lost best friend. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m glad you called, Skylar. We’d like to meet with you.”

“Fantastic!” I bounced around a little. “I can meet any time.”

“Could you come down to the office this afternoon?”

“Of course, no problem.”

“Around three?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you. We have some paperwork for you to sign. Oh, and if you could just bring your crown with you, we’d really appreciate that.”

“Certainly I can. I know just where it is.” Wow, they wanted a photo already! I’d put my work clothes back on—I hoped I hadn’t gotten my new skirt too sandy.

“See you then.”

“See you then!”

I ended the call and hugged my phone to my chest, thanking my lucky stars that something had gone right today. Deciding to forego the floor mopping for now, I left the guest house and walked over to my parents’ house to fetch my crown.

No one was there, but the door was unlocked as usual, so I let myself in and hurried over to the mantle above the fireplace. There was my crown, right next to a photo of me at the coronation. I picked up the frame and studied the picture—I looked so happy. So hopeful. So confident that every dream I had would come true if I just wished hard enough, worked hard enough, wanted it hard enough.

My smile faded as I set the frame down and looked at the other items displayed on the parental Mantle of Pride. There was Jillian in her cap and gown, graduating from medical school. There was Natalie cutting the ribbon the day she opened the coffee shop. Moving back a few steps, I tried to look at everything as a stranger might. What did these things say about us? For a moment, I imagined my mom showing our photos to a new friend.

This is Jillian, the smart one. She’s a doctor now, isn’t that something?

This is Natalie. She’s our little entrepreneur!

And this is Skylar. Isn’t she pretty?

Frowning, I grabbed the crown off the mantle and left the house before my mother got home and asked me why I needed it.

• • •

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I was seated in front of Joan Klein’s desk, staring at her in disbelief. “Maybe I misunderstood.”

Joan, a former beauty queen herself, had a blonde beehive hairdo that might have been shellacked in 1975 and eyebrows penciled in way too dark. She cleared her throat. “Corporate feels, Ms. Nixon, that your current reputation is at odds with the qualities we look for in a Cherry Queen. We do not believe you would be an asset to the pageant at this time, and in fact we feel you have violated your contract.”

“Violated my contract? Are you joking?” I blinked a few times, but her pursed mouth did not ease into a smile.

“No. I am quite serious. If you look at your contract, which I have a copy of here, you will see that you agreed to refrain from engaging in any public behaviors that would discredit the Queen or the pageant.”