1.
Annie Lightfoot could never resist a stray. She empathized with the sock that lost its other half at the laundromat, doomed for a life without its mate in a world that does not value single socks. Annie saved every orphaned sock to make mismatched pairs. She liked imagining them in an opposites-attract rom-com—no-nonsense navy meets bubbly pink. Initial clash, unexpected chemistry, then, despite their differences, a perfect match. Maybe even sole mates.
Anything lonely, lopsided, or unloved, Annie claimed as her own. That same soft spot for the underdog had pulled her back here to Rhodes, the small, overlooked Hudson Valley town where she grew up—short on cash, never on charm. The Groom Room, her dog-grooming salon, was the culmination of that instinct: a place that brought out the beauty in every pup while also making her hometown a little brighter.
The Groom Room wasn’t large, but it had personality. White walls, hanging plants, and secondhand furniture made it feel bright, cozy, and cool. The services menu, designed in a groovy rainbow font, looked more like a handmade sign at a queer potluck than a glossy corporate Pride float.
Annie was folding a stack of tiny dog bandannas, wondering if glitter polka dots were too much or just enough (verdict: just enough), when the front door banged open. Deborah Buttrose burst in, a magazine raised like a trophy.
“This,” Deborah declared, “might just
save our town!”
Annie blinked at her neighbor—the owner of the nail salon up the street, a white zinfandel enthusiast who’d never met an oversize earring she didn’t like. Deborah usually came in with her bichon frise, Spanky the Magnificent, but today she’d evidently left him behind for the breaking news.
“Let’s dial the hyperbole back a bit, Deb,” Annie said, even as her pulse quickened. “One write-up won’t ‘save the town.’ Not that I’m saying we
need saving . . .”
“We absolutely
do need saving and it’s not
just a write-up,” Deborah exclaimed, her flamingo earrings bobbing with every syllable. “It’s the Best Small Town awards in the most widely read travel magazine in the country! And my neighbor’s friend’s cousin whose roommate works there swore that
Rhodes gets a mention!”
“We know.” Salvador Carson-Ruiz, aka Sal, Annie’s best friend and part-time employee, poked his thick tortoiseshell frames up his nose with a sigh. He wore the same short-sleeved pink jumpsuit that Annie did. “You’ve only
mentioned it every day for the past six weeks.”
“And it’s
finally here!” Deborah thrust the glossy mag at Annie. “Ooh, I can’t look!”
The Groom Room hadn’t had a single booking all day, and they weren’t the only struggling business in Rhodes. Annie’s fingers turned slippery. “I can’t, either.”
“Give it here.” Sal plucked the magazine with an eye roll and began flipping the pages.
Annie had poured her whole heart—and every last dollar—into the Groom Room. She woke each day with new ideas: themed promos, pun-filled posts, loyalty cards shaped like tiny bones. But business stayed slow, and Annie was out of solutions. She wasn’t exactly a tourist draw—no one drove to Upstate to get their dog shampooed—but good press might mean the start of an upswing. Her future turning on a dime.
Because if something didn’t change for the better soon, her story would end with failure. With letting Sal down. Letting herself down. Letting go of the one thing she’d built with her own two hands, from the rubble of everything else.
Finally, Sal stopped. His thick brows dipped down. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Annie repeated. “Oh what? Oh yay?”
“Oh, we didn’t win.”
“Oh no.” Annie deflated. “Who did?”
“Hudson.”
“
Hudson?” Annie and Deb spoke their rival town’s name so loudly, Annie’s rescue Yorkie, Socks, woke up in his dog bed with a surprised
woof.“As if they need more good press!” Deb exclaimed.
Only thirty minutes away, Hudson was Rhodes’s buzzy, well-loved, effortlessly cooler older sibling. With its antique shops, art galleries, and excellent restaurants, Hudson was thriving. Meanwhile, Rhodes—walkable and charming but smaller and scrappier—was hanging on by a thread.
“Well, what about the write-up?” Annie angled over Sal’s shoulder to scan the other categories. Best Small Food Town, Best Small Beer + Wine Town . . . “Maybe we got
something.”
“We did.” Sal tapped a break-out box. “We’re on the Skip It list.”
Annie exhaled in horror. “
No.”
There, in black and white, the world’s most devastating sentence. There’s nothing really wrong with Rhodes (NY), but there’s nothing especially right about it, either.
That was it.
That was it?!
The big, game-changing mention they’d spent the last six weeks getting their hopes up for? Annie’s eyes filled. “Well, that’s just
mean.”
Deborah looked similarly shell-shocked, clutching her sequined tunic as she took in the snarky assessment. Like Annie’s business, Deb’s nail salon wasn’t exactly turning away customers. “Oh, what do they know,” she huffed. “No one even reads magazines anymore!”
Annie and Sal exchanged a glance. Not the time to remind Deb of her own words regarding the publication’s reach and influence. “Exactly.” Annie grabbed the offensive edition to dump it straight in the recycling. “They don’t know us! And we
don’t need them!”
Deb was already halfway to the door, off to share the bad news with the next shop owner. The bell tinkled in her wake.
As soon as she was out of sight, Annie’s smile dropped. The silence felt different now—less like peace, more like the start of an ending she did not want.
Was it time to admit the truth? That Rhodes might not be the town she’d hoped it could become? The idea felt like a betrayal. Someone had to believe in this place. She couldn’t be the first to walk away.
Annie collapsed onto the sofa in the waiting area, scooping up Socks for a consoling hug. “At least I have a reason to skip speed dating tonight.”
“Which is?”
“I’m depressed!” Annie exclaimed. “And it’s always the same five lesbians, all of whom I’ve either slept with or have ghosted me. Plus, the whole town will know about the Skip It list in approximately twenty-eight minutes. People will need a shoulder to cry on.”
Annie could feel Sal’s disapproving look. He was twenty-nine, seven years younger than Annie, but he often felt older and wiser.
“Don’t,” she murmured. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?” Sal frowned, his slightly squashy face becoming even squashier. “What am I thinking right now?”
“That you want to do filthy things to a Hemsworth while inhaling a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.”
Sal narrowed his eyes. “That was actually spooky.” He moved to one of the three silver wash basins, running a rag over its already pristine interior. “You need to put yourself first. You keep saying you want to meet someone.”
“But do I?” Annie wondered aloud. “Do I really want to meet someone, fall for her, and have her move in with me only to have her dump me for some ceramicist from Brooklyn who makes vulva-shaped pottery? Or do I want to spend the night showing that pint of Chubby Hubby upstairs who’s boss?”
Annie had moved into the apartment above the shop during the pandemic. The location of many a hot date with Ben and Jerry, especially recently.
Sal looked appalled. “Do I need to start a GoFundMe to save you from yourself? I will happily make the first donation.”
Annie gave him a look. “Sal,” she said. “Find something to do.”
Sal sighed and turned back to the basin.
Plopping her rescue dog back in his bed, Annie wandered over to the record player in the corner, flipping through the stack of vinyl records—funk, jazz, funky jazz, jazzy funk—before landing on Amy Winehouse’s
Back to Black. A favorite. Annie picked the album up, feeling the same sweet sadness she always felt when holding Amy in her hands. Sometimes it felt like everyone Annie loved left her before she stopped loving them.
A needle dropped, and the opening of “Valerie” crooned into the salon.
Well, sometimes I go out by myself / And I look across the water . . .
Copyright © 2026 by Georgia Clark. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
