Page 30 of Sing Sweet Nightingale

I love music, I love singing. But being a celebrity is not what I want my future to be. It’s a life filled with lies, greed, and loneliness. That’s not what my dad wanted for my life. He wanted me to be happy, to love, and to enjoy life. I haven’t been happy in years. I smile and wave and sing songs about love and happiness, but inside, I’ve been slowly cracking and losing pieces of myself. I just want to find them all and assemble them back into something resembling a person.

Ever since I arrived in Snowberry, I’ve felt like I’ve been slowly regaining who I used to be before all the fame and money. Who I am and what I want out of life. I don’t know if I’ll want to go back to my old life in three months. Living life like everyone else has been . . . easy. Nothing has been easy since I becameAlexandria—pop superstar. Going to the grocery store, picking out my own clothing,dating.All of it required a dozen people and a security plan. But life here is easy. Simple.

Well, sort of simple. The mayor is making it less simple with his damn baby blues and seductive voice, and confusing behavior.

“Thank you. I guess I’ll see you around town sometime,” I say in farewell to Hunter’s retreating form.

“Maybe,” he says noncommittally; that makes me think he doesn’t want to be seeing me around town any time soon. Or at all.

He gives me a little wave, and I pinch my lips into a thin line at the man who is more confusing than a pig in roller skates.

Since I am heading in the same direction as Hunter, I wait until he’s made it far enough down the street that I won’t appear to be following him when I resume walking. I take the opportunity to admire his firm backside, which flexes with each stride of his long legs. Not because I’m interested, but because it was in my line of sight. It’s his own fault, really.

When I cross the street and turn the corner, I notice his tall form far down the street, bounding up the stairs to a white-wash brick building that is obviously town hall. He walks really fast. Must be those strong legs of his.

After stowing my guitar in the trunk of my car, I head to the next stop on my to-do list. I’ve been going through a lot of Polaroid film lately, and when I noticed the camera shop, I knew I would be going there sooner rather than later. I just hope they have the film I need.

SnapShotis on the opposite side of the parking lot from Dottie’s and only a twenty-foot walk from my car. Inside, I find more than just cameras and film. There’s a whole section of art and craft supplies. Colored pencils, paints, canvases, sketchbooks, and pens.

Bypassing the paint, I head straight for the film by the back counter. I’m surprised by how many film options they have. Nowadays, everyone uses digital cameras or their smartphones. It’s nice to see such an extensive inventory of film and film cameras. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I see any digital cameras at all. Old school. I like it.

“Hello there. Welcome,” a male voice calls out, startling me.

I jump and spin in place, facing the voice. No one was in here when I entered, so he must have come from the back room because I didn’t hear the bell at the front door ring after I entered.

“Hello.”

“Can I help you find anything today?” the man behind the counter asks.

He’s classically handsome, with jet-black hair that’s graying at the temples. I can’t tell exactly how old he is, as his characteristics could make him younger or older. I’m going to go with older, maybe around the age my dad would be if he were still alive.

The thought warms me to him immediately. Associating him with a father figure. With his welcoming smile and friendly attitude, he doesn’t seem to be just for customers.

You know how sometimes, when you meet a person, you get a vibe? Well, his vibe is nothing but positive feelings. He puts off an air that makes me instantly like him. Kind of like Ginger.

“Yes. I’m looking for Polaroid film.”

I hold up my white and blue Polaroid Now I-Type instant camera.

“Well, isn’t she a beauty? Polaroids are one of my favorites. I absolutely have some film for you.”

Stepping out from behind the counter, he walks down the next aisle and stoops. By the time I circle the chest high shelfand join him he stands holding a small box with the polaroid rainbow across the middle.

“Found it,” he proclaims, handing the box over to me. “Do you need more than one?”

Each cartridge only holds eight photos, and at the rate I'm using them, I'll definitely need more than one.

“Yes. A couple if you have them. Maybe three or four?”

“Not a problem.”

Bending down, he produces three more boxes of color I-type film and hands them to me.

“You take a lot of photos?”

“Recently, yes. It’s kind of become a new hobby of mine.”

The man walks back behind the counter, his broad smile still in place. I follow, unable to resist smiling in return. Placing the film, my camera, and purse on the counter, I pull out my notebook, which holds the majority of my photos.

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