Jenna is nowhere to be found, which is suspicious. Also telling. If my best friend has suddenly vanished, it usually means she’s feeling guilty about something.
Around me, the town carries on as if nothing’s off. I don’t recognize most of the newly matched couples, but the Stitch Sisters are already making their rounds: Dot quietly observing, but I know she will remember every second of what she sees and hears; Franny muttering stats; Essie handing out her hopeful heart muffins like this is a love-fueled bake sale.
They talk with the different pairs—some of whom I mentally nickname on the fly—and guide them toward their first event stations. Team the Maybes is effervescent from their public display of affection near the cider stand, and Team Tune-Up is arguing about the map to tomorrow’s compatibility walk.
The Over-actors—Jasper and Maribel in normal life—are mid-skit on the temporary stage, flinging arms and fake swoons with all the melodrama ofAmerica’s Got Talent, theatrics, swooping gestures, and all. They toss in mock gasps and Shakespearean lines no one asked for, definitely determined to win an Oscar for Best Overacting in a Small-Town Spectacle.
Team Jam Session is making its way over to the trivia contest area, the cowgirl and her headphone-wearing partner are engaged in a one-sided discussion about what decade Elvis died. She insists it was the eighties. He calmly mouths lyrics to a totally different artist.
Peaches trots past me, acting as if she believes she is a furry parade marshal, her pink bandana askew and tail wagging with self-importance. She pauses at my feet,glances up with her lopsided grin, then continues on as though she has serious matchmaking rounds to make. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Peaches had a vote in the final pairings.
I finally spot Jenna near the edge of the quilt display, half-hidden behind a vase of sunflowers big enough to give off shade.
“You!” I hiss, grabbing her elbow, twirling her to face me.
Jenna startles, nearly dropping a borrowed notebook and pencil—no doubt grabbed out of the Stitch Sisters’ official tent headquarters to give her camouflage while she pretends not to be involved in matchmaking business.
“You entered me?”
“Well...technically, Tess and I entered you both. It was a joint effort.”
I frown.
“We thought you needed a little push. We’re tired of seeing you lonely.”
“Jenna, I’m not...”
“We’re your best friends, Maisie. We know you better than anyone, and we’re...um...we just want to help.”
I shove my index finger between my teeth, ready to bite down if that’s what it takes to keep from blurting out something I’ll regret.
“You know how it goes, Maze—Tess is the instigator, I’m the accomplice with the clipboard, and you’re the unwilling participant who always forgives us, eventually. Come on, Maisie. Don’t be mad.”
She grabs my hand, barely making eye contact. “You know our trio’s dynamic—we get into trouble, and you roll your eyes, then fix it with a flower arrangement. It’s our comfort zone.”
I see her look to her right and left. “We’re just looking out for our bestie.”
Before she can slink away, the Stitch Sisters descend like pastel-clad hawks. My mother, whom I’d planned to have lunch with after the couples were named, isn’t far behind. But she lets the elderly ladies say everything she doesn’t dare say.
“Oh, you two! A perfect match!” Reenie beams, flanked by Millie and Dot, pointing toward me and then Beau on opposite ends of the square, as if sheer willpower can pull us together.
“How exciting for you, Maisie! Paired with Beau. He’s quite the catch and quite a looker,” Millie contributes.
My cheeks warm.
And Dot finishes with a wink, “Your compatibility forms, were the stuff of matchmaking legends.”
The Stitch Sisters interrupt their gushing over Beau and me just long enough to wave enthusiastically toward a goth couple beneath a black parasol. “There go Nora and Grant,” one of them says cheerfully. “Second year competing. It’s amazing how they never break character.”
I can’t help the crooked grin that tugs at my lips. I nicknamed them the Newly-Deads last year—between the eyeliner, parasol, and a vow renewal that sounded more like a funeral toast, the name stuck. They never objected.
Nora wears a Victorian-inspired corset dress with metal grommets for trim, paired with black lacy gloves. Grant is in a tailored black waistcoat with silver buttons, dark slacks, and a dramatic high-collared coat. They both wear enough eyeliner to rival a rock band, and they pull it off.
Grant mutters, “Bet the competition isn’t even past the first challenge when at least one couple breaksdown. Hopefully literally,” with a perfectly deadpan voice. I nearly laugh out loud.
When the Stitch Sisters return their attention to me, I’m still shaking my head in disbelief, trying to process the sheer audacity of this public ambush.
“You actually read the entries? The compatibility forms?” I finally stutter out.
