I scroll through the usual posts—beautiful event setups, color palettes, behind-the-scenes shots of her work. She’s good. Really good. I can’t help but wonder why she’s not booking every event in the Twin Cities instead of her small town of Maple Lake.
Then I see it.
Posted twenty minutes ago.
It’sher.Sitting at a table, giant chocolate chip cookie in a skillet in front of her, whipped cream melting over the top. Her sketchbook is open beside her, and she’s smiling. Not for the camera, just…content. Happy.
The caption:
Sometimes you need to find peace in the storm
The location tag: Ironclad Desserts
I stare at the photo.
Twenty minutes ago.
She could be there. Right now.
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since this morning, and that giant cookie looks like exactly what I need…
And, oh hey, she’d be there too.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m grabbing my keys. Pulling on my jacket. Heading for the door.
My brain is screaming at me that this is a terrible idea. That I should let her have her peace. That showing up is creepy and desperate and exactly the kind of thing a guy who’s losing his grip would do.
But my feet are already moving.
Because giant cookies might not be the answer to all my problems, but maybe—just maybe—it’s the cure for six months of regret.
CHLOE
Don’t look at the Instagram post. Don’t look at the likes. Don’t refresh to see if anyone cared.
I’m doing it anyway. Obviously.
Three likes. One from Jessa (obligatory best-friend support), one from my cousin, who likes everything I post without actually reading it, and one from a bot account selling teeth whitening.
Cool. Great. I flip my phone face down on the table and stare at what’s left of my chocolate chip cookie skillet. The whipped cream has fully melted now, pooling around the edges in a way that looks sad and almost metaphorical.
The twinkle lights at Ironclad cast everything in the kind of soft glow that reminds me of Hallmark coffee shops and old bookstores—the kinds of places that usually manage to romanticize the chaos of my life. She’s not late for a meeting and forgot to brush her hair, she’s fabulously busy and windswept.She’s not stuck on a proposal, she’s just letting the creative juices flow over a warm cup of coffee…and a pile of crumb-covered napkins. This is just the glamorous life of an event planner. She’s not avoiding her life and eating her feelings in a cookie dessert shop, she’s…um…Okay, that’s exactly what I’m doing.
But it’s fine! Everything’s fine! I’ve got my sketchbook open to the seating arrangement (which we only need in order to avoid the very real possibility of Great-Aunt Muriel winding up in fisticuffs with Uncle Stew in front of the ice sculpture—two hockey sticks crossed over a heart, gag me) for the wedding. And I’m trying to find a unique napkin-fold design, which of course led me to Pinterest, which led to Instagram, and suddenly I’m doomscrolling past everyone else who’s actually got their life together and not just pretending. And now I’ve got something to prove, so I’m posting photos of my Obsidian Luxe Chip cookie.
See, look! I’m a successful, spontaneous girlboss who’s soaking up life to the fullest. Not a broke loser whose mom is so desperate to fix me that she tried to set me up with the waiter from Olive Garden.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
My phone buzzes. Text from Maya.
Maya
Mom mentioned you’re bringing a date to the meet and greet. Who is he? Do I know him?
I make a small noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a whimper. An older man with a laptop looks up briefly.
