We both writerejectionat the same time. The instant my chalk finishes the last letter, the kind of weight I thought I’d hidden well settles on my chest. The weight of something I haven’t fully let go of. My breathing is heavy with realization and also surprise since I absolutely was not expecting Beau to match my answer—wasn’t expecting to see my own fear mirrored back at me in neat, slanted, no-nonsense handwriting.
My mind flashes to the huge engagement ring I tucked into a box labeled “donations” several years ago. That memory flickers, then fades, giving way to a tight twist in my stomach. I remember the weeks after—how Jenna kept looking at me like I was a cracked stained-glass window: fractured, still casting jewel-toned shadows, but barely holding it together.
I never talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I bury it under flowers and flightiness, and I hope no onesees through my mask to the jagged fragments even now cutting and threatening to slice through my disguise.
I sneak a glance at Beau, and he’s looking at my answer, too. Neither of us says anything, but the unspoken understanding hovers between us, simultaneously jolting and empathetic.
I pause, staring at the word. It’s only chalk on a board, but for a second, it feels heavier, as if the writing down of it might conjure a reality I’m not ready for.
The laughter from nearby couples softens my mood. The Maybes accidentally blurt out two completely unrelated answers to the same question. And Amanda from Team Tune-Up insists Luis’s handwriting is illegible. Luis claims she has selective hearing.
The whole thing escalates until Amanda calls Luis a trivia tyrant, and he fires back with ‘emotional amnesia.’ Franny—hovering nearby with her clipboard—laughs so hard mid-sip of apple cider that she snorts and spills the drink down her front.
The sound catches me off guard, and before I know it, I’m smiling too—tension slips off my shoulders, a silky shrug falling from my shoulders. That’s all it takes. The laughter is contagious, and the entire lawn cracks up.
The hilarity of the situation trips something in me—a sudden release, the kind of relief that comes from cracking open a window in a stuffy room. The pressure doesn’t vanish all at once, but it starts to seep out, unraveling one tight knot at a time. For a refreshing few minutes, I forget the hurt still haunting my memories and the fact that I’m supposed to be fuming at my friends.
Then Beau glances over at my answer and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “I thought you’d write ‘runningout of floral wire.’”
I cackle. “Thatistop five.”
He almost smiles.
We score solidly in the middle. Not a disaster. Not a dream team. But the Stitch Sisters look thrilled, and Peaches drops a ribbon at our feet, awarding us “Best Effort.”
I picked it up to discard it in the nearest garbage can, when my mom rushed in from out of nowhere. “You can’t throw that away, Maisie. If you don’t want it. I’ll keep it. For posterity…and to show my future grandchildren.” She’d winked at Beau and my whole face cringed in embarrassment. My hand also reacted, planting itself full on center of my face, covering the deep furrows in my forehead, nose, cheeks and chin.
As the crowd starts to disperse, Reenie announces tomorrow’s challenge: “Be ready for tomorrow’s compatibility walk! A lovely outdoor tandem stroll through Pinecone Park with a few added obstacles. Coordinated steps, shared snacks, raucous laughter from townsfolk—what could be more romantic?”
I groan. “Of course, it’s outdoorsy. I may love flowers, but that doesn’t mean I’m that into nature. And they better not put marshmallows in the GORP, just M&Ms.”
“GORP?” Beau slightly lifts both palms and shoulders, like he might be afraid of the answer.
“No way? You don’t know GORP? ‘Good old raisins and peanuts.’ It’s old-fashioned trail mix.”
Beau mutters, “Kill me now.”
Peaches sniffs my hand as if I might have GORP hiding right now, then sits down sharply in protest. Even she’s over today.
Chapter 3
First Contact
Beau
It’s a fresh day. I wake up to that mantra running through my head, and I hold onto it. The air is brisk and sunlit, cool enough to wake me up, warm enough to promise cautious optimism. Somewhere behind me, a pair of birds squabble in a pine tree, their sharp chirps breaking through the quiet. I let the background noise settle into my shoulders.
A clean start. Or close enough.
New day, new attitude, at least that’s what I’m going with. Yesterday was a curveball, no question. The fake couple thing, the chalkboard moment…it threw me. But I didn’t fall apart. I’ve handled worse surprises. And today, I’m back here to participate in day two of the matchmaking festival. That has to count for something.
I glance up at my name beside Maisie’s on the compatibility quilt, framed by a toolbox and a bouquet of roses. Not quite what I’d envisioned for this week, but maybe not quite a disaster, either.
But then the morning conversations of gathering Sweetpines’ residents rises around me, and the commotion greets me, reminding me of the overly enthusiastic dog I had as a child. Actually, scratch that. The overly enthusiastic dog is a memory. Peaches is currently sporting a glittery pink knitted sweater and plops beside the scoring table as if she’s judging the whole scene already.
The air smells of kettle corn and grilled onions from the food carts lining the square, sweet and savory in alternating waves. The murmur of the crowd thrums under everything—laughter, camera clicks, the crunch of gravel underfoot and the soft squeals of kids chasing each other around the fountain. Folk music plays over the portable speakers, weaving through the square. And maybe Peaches really is judging us all, her tail wagging in time with the music, eyes narrowed, looking entirely too similar to someone who is watching a fashion show and expected to pick out next year’s trends.
To my right, Amanda and Luis are already squabbling. “You said your dream date was stargazing!” Amanda says, jabbing a finger toward him.
