Pen had chimed in, shaking her head, “The year before that? Mid-meal proposal. He dropped the ring in the gravy. Took ‘til Tuesday to fish it out of the mashed potatoes, and by then she’d changed her mind.”
“And don’t forget the hash brown war,” Reenie added. “They argued about who fried ‘em better then didn’t speak for the rest of brunch. Someone’s uncle had to play mediator while the town ate fruit salad. It was ten solid minutes of communal chewing so loud you could hear the awkward across county lines.”
Apparently, everyone has been waiting on Maisie and me to return so they can fish for details on our weekend away.
Maisie gives me a sideways glance and clears her throat as if she might launch into something rehearsed. “We had a wonderful time,” she begins, voice bright but a little toobouncy. She’s overcompensating and leaning too hard into charm.
I nod, then add, “No major injuries. Just some bruising from bumping into each other in the unexpectedly tight quarters.” Then I mutter, “No way to plan for that, since we weren’t warned.”
There’s a small chuckle from the crowd. Surprised, Maisie shoots me a look. She tries again. “We really learned a lot about being together, communication, and compromise…”
“Maisie thrived. I mostly learned how many corners a person can walk into when trying to be coordinated in a kitchen built for chipmunks,” I grumble. “Pretty sure I still have a dent in my shoulder from a rogue cabinet door. No one alerted us to the architectural hazards of matchmaking,” I say, which gets a bigger laugh, but derails Maisie’s moment.
Maisie presses her lips together, and her foot taps under the table. She plasters on a smile and says, “Beau was a great partner.”
I blink. “Maisie handled everything with the professionalism of running a botanical boot camp. I only followed orders and tried not to break anything.”
Someone near the front lets out a choked laugh that sounds like a hiccup trying to escape through newly rubber-banded braces. Marty gives us a thumbs-up from the mic.
Maisie exhales and leans toward me. “Are you trying to tank our brunch debut?” she whispers.
“I’m trying to stay on script without tripping over your moment,” I murmur back, keeping my eyes on the tablecloth “although I’m pretty sure I already flubbed that up.” Let everyone think I’m just being evasive. It’s safer than slipping and saying anything too close to the truth.
The laughter has mostly died down now, and our report pauses just long enough for everyone to wonder what we’re not saying.
I sense Maisie composing herself for yet another attempt to give Sweetpines what they’re waiting for: hope that their votes for us to win had an impact. I imagine that adrenaline still pumps through her body from pretending not to be pretending, or something like that.
“The getaway retreat was ten out of ten.” She gestures broadly, her eyes radiating wonder, as she stands and announces, “Beau and I have a newfound understanding of what it means for us, specifically, as a couple to… ahem.” She clears her throat before practically singing the rest. “Connect and recalibrate.” Her tone lilts upward as she finishes, as if she’s asking a question rather than providing information.
Then she throws back her head and laughs boisterously.
Lynnae Graham, a former schoolmate who recently moved back to Sweetpines with her husband and children, leans in to whisper to him, though she must have learned how to whisper from her kids, because there’s nothing subtle about what she says.
“That’s Maisie Quinn, but wow! I don’t remember her being quite this bubbly.”
Even without touching Maisie, I sense it, the way her energy drops, a coldness sinking through her, the curtain falling after a messy final act. She folds into her chair, shoulders curling inward, and her expression collapses with it.
Maisie heard it. That tone. The one that doesn’t say “adorable or entertaining.” It’s a tone with judgment oozing off the edges like cheese out of a grilled sandwich. The kind that says Lynnae didn’t find Maisie charming at all, but off-putting.
My stomach tightens, and a wave of guilt rises. Not because I said it, but maybe, once, I thought it. Back when I only knew her through Tess. Back when I didn’t know how much heart she carried under all that sparkle.
And now? All I want is to shield her from moments like this. From people who can’t see her brilliance. From a world that keeps asking her to shrink. But I’m not fast enough. Not loud enough. And I don’t know how to stop the way she folds in on herself when someone tries to dull her down.
Her fingers find a loose yellow thread on her dress and twist it. I watch helplessly as words pile up in her mouth, tumbling over each other in their rush to escape as she says meekly, “Sorry. I’m talking too much. I do that sometimes. I’ll, um…”
“Don’t apologize for being you.” I stop her with a gentle touch to her knee before she can finish. “I like listening to you. You make life feel…more alive.”
I give her a faint half-smile. Maisie arches a brow at me but doesn’t say anything. Her gaze skips around the square, stopping on a toddler tossing fruit, feigning interest in the compatibility quilt still displayed proudly, anything but me.
So I study our surroundings, also, but my hand has not left her knee. There’s a light breeze today, the smell of coffee and warm pastries floating on the air, snaking around tables lined with gingham tablecloths and paper hearts. Kids chase each other near the fountain.
Peaches is methodically licking powdered sugar off the cobblestones while a pigtailed toddler watches with wide eyes and a half-eaten muffin in hand. The mother makes a half-hearted attempt to shoo Peaches away, but our town pooch simply moves a few inches and keeps licking.
Maisie shifts in her seat, displacing my hand, and adjusts the fold of her napkin as if it personally wrongedher. Then she reaches for her coffee and sets it down again without taking a sip.
Marty is perched near the mic, playing the part of reunion show host stupendously. He cups his hands theatrically around it and grins. “A prize for the first couple who says they fell in love!” he calls out, voice echoing off the courthouse steps at the edge of the square. I can almost see Vanna White flipping over the letters spelling out Ramona and Walt’s last name.
Pen rolls her eyes but still hands out coupons for the Griddle and Grain. Discounts for things like cinnamon rolls, sourdough waffles, coffee refills, and a listening ear. Reenie walks past our table, pressing a heart-shaped sticker onto our little place card. “A little encouragement,” she says with a wink.
