I just wish I could forget.
A loud knock rattles the cabin door.
I blink, disoriented, as the memory evaporates. Footsteps creak across the porch boards, and a male voice calls out, cheerful but businesslike, “Ranger service. Confirming everyone’s prepping for departure.”
I clear my throat and answer with a nod as I open the door, the fog in my head not quite lifting. I’m moving, but barely aware of it, just drifting through the motions. I do remember, at the last second, to tell him about the power lines.
Suddenly, I’m startled by movement in the woods.
Unbelievable. It’s the Maybes, from the festival, emerging from a hidden camping spot nearby. I ask the ranger about it, and he replies, “Yeah, they set up camp late last night.”
Their bags are slung over opposite shoulders and they’re in an obvious down-turn in their relationship.
“Next time, maybe don’t smile at every guy in the competition,” Gregory mutters loudly as Gretchen walks stiffly ahead of him.
“I was trying to be nice!” Gretchen snaps. “The same way you were to your ex on Facebook.”
I don’t have the bandwidth to process their strange presence or their couple status.
Before we leave, Maisie changes out of her cabin attire and into one of her colorful, lively dresses. Today, her hair is parted down the middle, curls gathered into two loose ponytails at the nape of her neck. Each one is tied with a bright blue ribbon that matches her dress. The ends trail down her back, swinging slightly with any movement. It’s not reallystyled, more like pulled back enough to keep the curls off her face.
But it stops me cold. It’s exactly her. Beautiful without even trying and unique in all the right ways.
Shyly she asks, nearly too soft for me to hear, “Is this too much? For the return to town brunch?”
I try not to stare—and fail miserably—before adjusting my face to what I hope is a neutral studious expression.
“You look like yourself. It suits you.” I manage.
“Thanks,” she responds but turns away quickly and fiddles with the ends of the ribbons, leaving me to wonder if I said something wrong.
We return to town, conversation minimal and stiff during the drive. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t ask. My hands stay on the wheel. Hers in her lap.
Then “All of Me” by John Legend comes on the radio. I’m halfway through the first verse before I realize I’m singing, and it’s too late to stop now. I can’t help myself. John Legend is off-the-charts talented.
At the second chorus, she starts singing, too. No hesitation. No glance my way. A soprano. Bright. Pure. A little breathy, just enough to sound unintentionally intimate.
Of course, her voice would sound like that?
Why wouldn’t it undo me?
I don’t mean to harmonize. It just happens. Like muscle memory. As if we’ve done this before.
We sing the rest of the song like that—me on the low parts, her floating above me—never once looking at each other.
And when the final piano notes fade out, the silence hits hard.
I don’t know who starts the quiet laughter. Probably her.
“I mean,” she says, looking out the passenger window, “wecouldjust pretend that didn’t happen.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging despite myself. “Too late. That was full-blown duet territory.”
And that’s all we say to each other because we’re pulling back into Sweetpines.
The welcome-back brunch is already in full swing in the square when we arrive. It’s one of Sweetpines’ favorite traditions: a combination of reunion with the winning couple, their storytelling session, and small-town excitement all around.
“The winning couple always has to dish out the scoop,” Marty had cautioned me earlier. “Last year’s pair revealed a secret elopement right after admitting they set the church kitchen on fire trying to make heart-shaped pancakes during one of the scavenger hunt stations.”
