I blink. “Youwhat?”
Honey stops just long enough to look at me, her eyes pleading. “Please. I need you. Just one kiss. It’ll be over before you know it… and it’s going to a good cause.”
And suddenly, my heart is racing for an entirely different reason.
“Honey, you can’t be serious.”
"Please," she murmurs. "My heart can’t take seeing Milo kiss another girl. And this is the perfect time to show him what he's missing. He's already standing in line one, so I'll take chair one. You... you take the chair in line two."
"And who on earth is going to kiss me?"
A flutter of nervous anticipation flickers through my chest as I stand, feeling the eyes of the festival crowd on us. The sun dips lower in the sky, streaking the horizon with hues of fiery orange and dusky pink, adding even more drama to this nightmare.
"Just come on," she insists. "It’ll be whoever bids the most money... I think I saw a few cute men standing around line two."
I hesitate, squinting toward the crowd, but the faces blur into shadows. Still, something in me—the reckless part that likes not knowing what comes next—leans in. The energy crackles around us, the crowd buzzing louder by the second. It’s chaotic, electric, terrifying. And somehow, I’m caught in the middle of it, heartbeat bouncing off the walls of my ears like I’m already in too deep.
“I cannot believe I’m actually doing this.”
“It’ll be over in like, ten seconds,” Honey whispers, squeezing my hands. “And good cause, remember?”
“Honey,” I say, dragging her name out with a dramatic sigh. “You owe me so hard for this. Like—lifetime-supply-of-tequila-sunrises level.”
“Anything you want,” she squeals.
I roll my eyes, but it’s mostly for show. Because somehow, against all logic, I’m doing this anyway.
"You’re over there," she says, as she points to the second chair. She plops herself into the first with confidence as I wearily take a seat.
“Okay. Now what?” I ask, looking around.
No one answers right away—until a woman steps forward, holding a blindfold. Black satin. Soft and slightly ominous.
“Wait—why do we have to be blindfolded?”
She grins, easy and knowing. “Adds to the mystery, sugar.”
The last thing I catch is Honey’s face—half guilt, half not-actually-sorry—and then it’s just me and the darkness. I clutch the little stuffed horse in my hands, fingers digging into the soft fabric, and for a fleeting second I almost want to coveritseyes. It doesn’t need to see what’s about to happen.
With my sight gone, everything else sharpens. The rustle of clothing, distant laughter, the hush of voices just out of reach—it all rushes in. I focus on the sensation of the breeze, how it flirts with loose strands of my hair. Being blindfolded feels wild and weightless—like stepping off a cliff and realizing, somehow, you’re not falling. You’re flying.
"It's all part of the tradition, hunny," the lady adds, as she double checks my blindfold and stays close enough that Ican feel the warmth of her. "Just picture your prince charming. Trust me, it helps."
Picture my prince charming? The thought is almost laughable. My prince charming would never be here in this town. Not a chance.
The murmur of anticipation swells around me before a voice booms through, announcing the start of the Blind Date Kiss Auction. "Where the stakes are high," he draws out, "the kisses are blind, and your hearts? Well… good luck with those." My fingers squeeze the horse tighter, trying to brace myself for this.
"We will start with the blind date in seat number one, Honey. Best bartender in town." The crowd erupts into a frenzy of cheers and whoops. I imagine her sitting there, probably throwing her head back in laughter.
The auctioneer’s voice rumbles louder. “Starting this bid at fifty dollars.”
I try to breathe, but every number that follows feels like a punch to the chest. One hundred. Two hundred. Three-fifty. Four hundred.
I’m happy for Honey, and they're just numbers—but right now, they sound like a verdict. Each bid climbing higher like a spotlight, asking a question I didn't realize until just now:What am I worth?
Behind the blindfold, the darkness presses in tighter. My heart's hammering in my ears, and a sick little thought slips through the cracks—what if no one bids for me?What if the auctioneer pauses… and no one says a word?
What if the silence is deafening?
