Dream On(90)

She tears six more tickets off from the designated Smith & Boone roll and hands them to me. “There you go.”

“Thank you. Much appreciated.” Tipping an imaginary hat, Frank walks out of the tent. Anisha flashes me quick thumbs-up as soon as his back is turned. I give her doubles in return, and quickly catch up with Frank and Andréa. We wait just inside the festival until Mercedes returns a couple of minutes later. She takes her lunch tickets with a murmured “Thanks,” and we head toward the food tent.

More people are beginning to trickle into the festival now, and I marvel at the kaleidoscope of colors, scents, and sounds bursting from every corner of the tent-packed block. A young couple with a toddler and an infant stroll past us before diverting into a tent filled with hand-stitched stuffed animals. An older, hunched man wearing a faded trucker’s cap shuffles into another tent filled with baked goods at the same time a trio of college-aged women walk out, each holding a decadent cupcake. One of the women has a bouquet tucked in her tote bag—an assortment of pink and white blooms peeks out from between the straps.

Everywhere I look, people are smiling, strolling, laughing, and generally enjoying being outside in the sunshine on a beautiful Cleveland summer day. As I pass one of the microbrewery tents where a man with a ponytail is lining up a beer-tasting flight for a pair of twentysomethings, someone grabs me by the elbow. It’s what’s-his-face from earlier… Alec, the volunteer who didn’t know anything about the tents.

“Hey, I thought that was you,” he said. “Can you help me with something for a sec? I—”

“I’m sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else,” I say through gritted teeth. Widening my eyes, I give the tiniest shake of my head.

Alec furrows his eyebrows, clearly not picking up what I’m putting down. “But, before—”

“Please excuse me.” Shooting him a meaningful glare, I about-face, only to find three pairs of eyes staring at me.

Andréa’s dark eyebrows raise. “Everything okay, Cass?”

“Oh yeah. That guy thought he knew me. He had me confused with someone else.” At her blank stare, I continue. “He thought I was one of the festival volunteers.” I roll my eyes, all can-you-believe-that? Andréa looks at me then at Alec, who, after a bewildered beat, shakes his head and walks away.

“Must be your shirt,” Mercedes says, and I feel bile rise in my throat. She wouldn’t. “It’s green, like the shirts all the volunteers are wearing.”

Frank laughs. “Bad luck for you, Cass. It probably won’t be the only time someone mistakes you for a festival worker today.”

“Yeah, bad luck.” I chuckle through the wave of relief washing over me. That was a close one.

Andréa and Frank resume walking, and Mercedes and I fall into step behind them. “Thank you,” I murmur under my breath.

Sticking her nose in the air, she shrugs. “I told you I wasn’t out to get you.” Maybe she really was telling the truth in the elevator about not intentionally trying to sabotage me. Could I have been wrong about her this whole time?

“I just want your job. And I’ll earn it fair and square,” she adds with a sniff. Ah. There she is. “Anyways…” She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “How did you get involved with”—she motions around us—“all of this anyway. Was it your boyfriend’s idea?”

“No, we’re not together anymore.”

“You’re not?”

“We broke up about a month ago.” I have no idea why I’m telling her about my love life, except a certain camaraderie has blossomed between us in the last ten minutes, and I kind of like it. It’s nice not to be constantly at odds with Mercedes, and to trade favors even.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says softly.

“It’s okay. He wants to give it another try, but I’m still deciding whether I want to.”

“No, don’t,” she snaps.

I jolt. “Why?”

“Because… when is it ever a good idea to give an ex another chance to break your heart? If you broke up, it was probably for a good reason. You should follow your instincts.”

I’m about to correct her assumption that he broke my heart, which he didn’t, when Andréa stops short. We’ve arrived at the Zelma’s Taphouse tent. Behind the long set of tables, I spot Marcus pouring beers from a tapped keg. Brie’s beside him, handing over food orders to waiting customers. They don’t see me, which is just as well. The way they move in tandem, shifting and sidestepping one another, is as seamless as a dance. Since Brie’s freak-out last month, things between her and Marcus have been better than ever. And for the first time in a long time, I really, really think they might stay that way.

“Should one of us grab a table?” Andréa asks us.

“I can, sure,” I reply.

“Great! What do you want for lunch? We’ll get it for you.”

I scan the menu board and blurt out the first thing I read. “A chicken sandwich, thanks.”

“And to drink?”

“Whatever’s on tap. A pale ale if they have it.”

She grins. “You got it.”

I give Andréa my tickets with another heartfelt thanks, and meander through the rapidly filling metal picnic tables clustered at the mouth of the tent. I steer away from where Glenn and five other summer associates and attorneys are sitting, toward a table in the far corner… near the Blooms & Baubles booth.