We’re somewhere in the middle of the rankings, according to the latest chalkboard tallies at Town Hall. Notquite golden couple status, but not last place either. We’re memorable. Talked about. Speculated over.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because the more people assume this thing between us is real, the more I wish I knew if it actually is.
I focus back on Pen. “Which play?”
Pen shrugs. “Does it matter?”
Honestly, it doesn’t. This year’s matchmaking festival has officially tipped from quirky to full-blown melodramatic pageantry. The Newly-Deads arrived last night in matching black outfits and sat solemnly beside the potluck buffet table, gothic clan leaders at a romance tribunal. They critiqued the lantern lighting. “Romance should be dimly lit,” Grant murmured, sipping from a black thermos.
Peaches settled at their feet, gnawing contentedly on someone’s abandoned oven mitt.
Pen shoots me a knowing glance and a wink as she exits Botaniqûe. Right before the door swings closed behind her, she stops as though she forgot to say one of her lines. “You know, you two are being watched just as closely as any of the over-the-top theatrical couples. And let me tell you, sweetheart, people are liking what they see.”
Outside my shop, I spot Reenie and Dot peeking through the window with the subtlety of squirrels casing a picnic. Stitch Sisters, subtle? Not a chance. Each holds one end of a heart-shaped paper garland, clearly preparing to sneak it above my shop’s front door. The scalloped edges flutter faintly in the morning breeze like a pink paper heartbeat.
Their faces beam, as proud as stage moms. I duck my head, pretending not to see them, and instead try to rearrange a vase of hydrangeas that doesn’t need it.
The customers are just as unsubtle. I hear the same thing at least seven times this morning:
“So…you and Beau, huh?”
“You two looked real cozy at the potluck.”
“I knew you were a good match the second I saw your risotto teamwork.”
Each comment lands like a pebble in a too-still pond. Glowing ripples of hope, confusion, and that old, unwanted twist of self-doubt spread through my chest. Part of me enjoys the way it sounds: Maisie and Beau. There’s something harmonious about it, maybe even a line from a love song.
But another part tenses, the part that reels my heart back with a fly-fishing rod. Back inside the hidey-hole where I keep the properly shaped me, the one everyone can approve of.
Because I’ve heard this before. I’ve felt it before. And it didn’t end in a love song. It ended in a luxurious, silk charmeuse wedding dress, which looked more like a bridal slip to me than the wedding gown I would have chosen.
At my last gown fitting before our wedding, I was standing in front of a mirror while Grayson’s sister tilted her head, circling me, looking me up and down critically from all angles.
“I guess this will have to work since it’s already been altered,” Allegra had finally surmised. “There’s something about the empire waist that says ‘vintage,’ though, so I hope people don’t get the wrong impression at the ceremony.”
The empire waist was the only thing I had any say in. Everything else was carefully chosen by Gray’s mother to give off the right impression and definitely advertise “expensive.”
Allegra had then brightened and moved on saying, “Youknow…the blazers I helped pick out that Grayson recommended you wear to work…they certainly do make you look more professional. Less…out-there.”
I’d laughed. Pretended it didn’t sting. Pretended I wasn’t disappointed to not be wearing my mother’s veil like I’d always dreamed because someone else was directing my wedding.
In the early stages of wedding gown shopping, my mom had brought along her veil to try on with the dresses. But Gray’s mother, Béatrice Brigitte, had vetoed it immediately with a thin smile and a condescending, final tone, “Veils are a bit old-fashioned for the look I’m creating.”
My mom’s normally perfect posture had given way as her spine curled in defeat, and she had stared at Béatrice with widened eyes.
“I’m highly considering the Cecilia Cape by Jenny Yoo. Much more modern, and of course it will be monogrammed. More toned down than a long lacy veil,” my future mother-in-law explained. She’d gone on to suggest that if my mother wanted to contribute to my wedding ensemble, she might consider a genuine pearl hair pin for my up-do.
My mom never brought up the veil again.
The truth is, in that moment with Allegra—standing under the boutique lights, in the wedding dress I’d compromised on ten months ago—I felt like a paper doll propped up and arrayed for someone else’s story they’d written for me.
That wedding dress never made it past the garment bag.
I never made it to the aisle.
The bell over the door jingles, and I’m glad I don’t have to look up. I know that unhurried footfall, the scuff ofboots that pause on the welcome mat as though he’s taking the temperature of the room.
Dr. Brooks.
