Well Played
throat and tried again. “I don’t mean that you . . . I mean, you’re . . .” Finally he sighed in exasperation and looked up at me again. “I don’t want you to get hurt, that’s all.”Oh. That. I waved an unconcerned hand. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.” It was my turn to blush at the words I’d just said. Big girl. My hands went to my waist, nipped in to a ridiculous degree by this corset I wore as part of my costume, as though I could push on my ribs and make myself even smaller. I wasn’t one of those people who hated their body, but sometimes I was very conscious of the fact that I wasn’t model-thin. That was one of the many reasons I loved being at Faire. Here, my voluptuousness was an asset: my chest looked incredible all hiked up like this, and the corset gave me an hourglass figure I could never achieve the rest of the year.
I cast around for something else to talk about. Anything. “So. Off to the next one, right? Are you going to the Maryland Ren Fest? I think just about everyone here hits that one since it starts next weekend.”
He nodded. “Yep. It’s so close by that it’s a no-brainer. And it works out really well. We can try out new material here, where the audiences are smaller, and then hit up the big one next.”
“Sure.” I pressed my lips together. I knew this. I knew that our Faire was stupidly small potatoes compared to the Maryland Renaissance Festival, which was one of the biggest in the country. We weren’t even in the same league. “I bet you’re glad to see the back end of Willow Creek every year.” I looked hard at the stage as rage bubbled in my chest. I loved this Faire. I loved this town. But that didn’t mean that everyone did.
“Not at all.” If Daniel had picked up on my reaction, he didn’t say anything. When I glanced back to him he was looking at the stage too, not at me. “This is one of my favorite stops. Considering I travel about ten months a year, that’s saying something.” He paused, glancing at me quickly before looking back to the stage again. “I like it here.”
And just like that, my lick of defensive anger dissolved, and relief swept through me like a cool breeze. “Yeah. Me too.”
Onstage, the Dueling Kilts finished their set, and Dex lifted his chin in my direction. I’d already raised my hand in a wave when I caught Daniel doing an identical chin-raise in response. Ah. I turned the awkward half-wave into a too-casual check of my hair. Of course. Wench at every Faire. And Dex was done with both me and Willow Creek. On to the next one.
I shook off the sting of disappointment as I turned back to the lane, making my way up front for pub sing. We were down to the last hour or so in this year’s Faire, and I was going to wring every possible moment out of it. Current feelings of frustration aside, these weeks in the woods were so much more fun, so much more interesting, than my real life.
I fiddled with my necklace again, tracing the dragonfly’s wings between my fingers. Change, huh? Good luck with that, dragonfly. I’d lived in Willow Creek my whole life. Nothing changed around here.
I should have known better.
Dragonflies don’t mess around.
Two
Ren Faire season was my favorite time of year. From tryouts in the late spring when we put the full cast of volunteers together, to weekend rehearsals spent learning songs and dances, enduring crash courses in history and etiquette, and practicing our accents, to finally the four weekends spent out in the woods at the Faire site through July and August, fully inhabiting our characters, Ren Faire season made me feel more alive. More vital. It was a life lived in full color, with music and laughter and oppressive summer heat and tight costumes.
So it stood to reason that those first couple weeks after Faire ended were my least favorite. Color leached out of life when I took my outfit to the cleaners and Beatrice the tavern wench was literally packed away for another year. Instead of looking forward to every weekend with excitement and slightly sore feet, all I had to look forward to now was another week at work. There was a bright side: being a receptionist at a dentist’s office wasn’t as flashy as being a tavern wench, but the clothes were certainly a lot more comfortable. I never understood why those of us on the business end of things had to wear the same scrubs as the hygienists, but they came in cute colors and it was like wearing pajamas to work, so I never complained.
But it was all so . . . blah. Just two short weeks ago I’d been running around in the woods in my costume, trading bawdy jokes with patrons, clapping along to music I only heard once a year. Karaoke at Jackson’s had nothing on dirty drinking songs. But karaoke was all I had these days, so when Friday night rolled around I got ready to go out, as usual. Only I made the mistake of checking social media first.
So blessed to welcome Charlotte Abigail Hawthorne. 7 pounds, 3 ounces, perfect. We’re both doing great! My best friend Candace looked great, anyway. A little sweaty, but she’d just pushed out a tiny human so that was to be forgiven. Charlotte looked mostly red and wrinkled, like a grumpy potato with hair. But I clicked “like” on the photo anyway and added a congratulatory comment: Looking good, bestie!, along with a heart-eyes emoji.
But was she my bestie? Candace Stojkovic and I had gone through every grade in school together, we’d cheered together, we’d graduated from high school together. But we’d lost touch after college, what with me staying here in Willow Creek and