Peaches races past on what can only be described as a sugar rush, a winner’s ribbon clamped triumphantly in her mouth. Her tail swings side to side behind her, a kite swaying in an early spring breeze. A little boy yells in delight and chases her through the square, his shoes slapping the pavement as Peaches darts through folding chairs and lawn games, weaving with the precision of someone who’s been training for this moment all her life.
No one knows where she got the ribbon.
Again.
“Do we think she stole it from the craft table or the judges’ tent?” I ask.
“Honestly? Could be either,” Jenna replies.
The final voting event for the Sweetpines Matchmaking Festival is, naturally, delightfully unorganized. Townsfolkcast their ballots not in a formal box or digital poll, but through a pipeline of themed jars scattered across downtown businesses.
At Botaniqûe, our voting method is recycled honey jars tied with raffia. People vote by dropping a flower petal into whichever team’s jar they think should win. By midday, Beau’s and mine is already half full, and the scents of lavender and marigold are mixing in a way I’m not sure is entirely legal in aromatherapy.
At the Griddle & Grain, Marty’s created an elaborate labeling system. “Best Questionable Chemistry” is written in permanent marker on one soup bowl. “Best Pie Bribe” on another. And finally, “Sweetpines Sweethearts Festival Winners” winds around the third jar. Voters use wooden coffee stir sticks to cast their vote, writing the name of their chosen winning couple on them. Peaches, of course, tries to chew one like it’s beef jerky. Pen swoops in, scoops the soggy stick from her mouth, and replaces it with a heart-shaped biscuit.
I watch from Botaniqué’s front window as locals meander between businesses, casting votes. I can’t decide if I’m more charmed or unnerved. Probably both.
Because this isn’t just about a weekend getaway. It’s what the weekend means.
The Stitch Sisters are campaigning for Beau and me like we’re running for office. Reenie’s at the lemonade stand handing out couple-themed stickers like currency and singing along with the music from her portable radio. Dot’s making the rounds in her red sunhat, asking leading questions with sugar-sweet smiles: “Wouldn’t you just love to send these two on a well-earned vacation?”
Peaches has one of those stickers stuck to her fur, “TEAM MAISIE & BEAU” in sparkly block letters—slightly crooked, courtesy of one of the Simpson twins. Probably Sawyer, with his endless decal stash and mild obsession with Peaches.
At first, I laughed. Now… I’m not sure what I feel.
People are watching and whispering. Not unkindly. They look hopeful, like they want to believe the magic of the quilt worked. Invested. As though they already see Beau and me as a real couple in love.
It’s tempting to believe it too. But that requires running beyond my fears.
I wish I could shrug it all off the way I usually do when people say I’m too much, too loud, too everything. But I can’t this time.
Because if we win, it won’t be for show. It will prove they sensed authenticity, believing that I am worthy, quirks and all, of someone like Beau. It’ll mean they saw the version of me that’s been showing up beside Beau—and chose her. Believed in her and approved of me being loved by Beau. It’s mind-boggling.
That maybe I’m not too much. Maybe I’m just right.
It’s exhilarating. And terrifying.
Somewhere between the potluck sabotage, our walk through town, and that song on the porch, I stopped pretending. And part of me started wanting... not the prize.
Him.
Which is absurd. Right?
Why would Beau choose me any more than Gray did—or didn’t?
I spot him across the square, bent over a food truck helping Parker from Team Barbie’s World. Flannel sleeves rolled, focused, relaxed. I imagine walking over, saying something casual. Ordinary and mundane. Something about drill bits or how unfair it is that he looks so calm.
But I stay put.
Because even if Sweetpines votes for us… does he? Does he want me—the version I didn’t rehearse, the one who slipped in when I stopped faking?
And maybe the bigger question is: Am I ready to believe I’m being accepted, chosen as me? The true Maisie.
I clear my throat, but that doesn’t do anything to dislodge the knot forming between my heart and my chin.
And then I remember the way he looked at me on the porch as the last note faded. A look that couldn’t lie. Not even by omission.
He doesn’t know I’m watching, and that sends a zapping tremor down my spine, that shiver you get with the first step into cold water, startled but drawn forward anyway.
