Chapter 26
Daisy
If you are not too long,
I will wait here for you all my life.
~ Oscar Wilde
I sent a DM to BTTP—finally. We haven’t talked since my invitation to the Fall Festival and his acceptance.
He told me he’d come in costume, but he’d make himself known.
A masquerade. Thinking about meeting him has me on pins and needles in the best of ways—like someone plugged me into a high-voltage outlet.
I’m alone in my apartment, my long work day behind me—my laptop open, sitting on my crossed legs, drumming my fingers on my knee, BTTP’s silence taunting me.
My hand floats to my lips for the thousandth time this week since Patrick ambushed me and I lapsed into a fugue state.
A complete blackout is the only explanation I have for what happened.
That, or I unknowingly suffer from multiple personality disorder.
But, if that were the case, my other outlandish, impulsive personality would hold the all-too-tangible reminders of Patrick’s lips on mine.
Unfortunately, I’m the keeper of the vivid memories.
When I close my eyes, I hear his whispers.
If I touch my wrist, I feel his grip around me, surprisingly gentle. Steady. Intent.
I push the thoughts aside.
So what, we kissed?
I kiss my relatives.
A laugh almost bursts out of me into the emptiness of my living room. As if what Patrick and I did was anything like a kiss to my cousin’s cheek.
Who am I kidding? Patrick’s kiss was electric, otherworldly, consuming.
But that’s not the point. I’m going to meet the host of Burning Through the Pages—a man who is thoughtful and bookish, funny and intelligent.
He’s constantly on my mind. That has to mean something. Patrick and his kiss mean nothing.
I glance at my computer screen. My message still sits there, unanswered.
M)
We sign off and I sit on my couch, wondering what BTTP looks like and how I’ll know it’s him. He’ll find me. I’m sure of it.
By mid-afternoon the Waterford Fall Festival is in full swing.
Gravel crunches under tires, dust rising in low clouds that settle on hubcaps and boots.
Pickup trucks line both sides of the country road, tailgates dropped like extra benches for families tugging on jackets and straightening costumes before heading in.
The mowed field beyond the barn is dotted with cars, sunlight flashing off windshields.
The October air is crisp, carrying the sweet-smokey mix of kettle corn, wood fire, and hay.
I’m dressed as the farm girl, Buttercup, in a peasant blouse, long skirt, apron and braid. Not disguised. I couldn’t risk BTTP missing me in the sea of people.
I’ve mingled, but I keep drifting back to my post near the corn maze.
I scan the crowd, past the whitewashed barn and across the grassy square strung with the bunting Patrick and I hung—pumpkin orange, harvest gold, and deep maroon triangles fluttering in the breeze.
My mouth is dry. My throat tight.
Animals bleat in the makeshift pens, ponies circling as kids bounce in their saddles. Children race past—princesses in gowns over rubber boots, cowboys in felt hats, superheroes dragging capes through dust. Their fingers are sticky with caramel apples and kettle corn.
Every laugh, every shout from the dunk tank feels too loud, like it might drown out the one voice I’m desperate to hear.
I sweep my gaze over rows of booths, hand-painted signs calling out fried pies, pumpkin fudge, jars of honey, and autumn crafts.
Cornstalks and hay bales mark the corners.
A generator thrums beneath the sing-song calls: “Turkey legs! Get your turkey legs!” …
“Fresh apple cider, straight from the farm!”
The whole festival hums and churns—squeals from the Ferris wheel, the clang of horseshoes, a wash of chatter and laughter.
I don’t see him.
Or maybe I do, and I don’t recognize him under the disguise.
My fingers tighten on the book. I’m tempted to wave it over my head. But no—I told him where I’d be. He’ll come.
Still, my eyes keep searching—landing on the carousel horses with chipped paint, the Ferris wheel, groaning as it turns. Every shadow, every movement sparks hope that fizzles into nothing.
The Tennessee hills wrap around me like a cocoon, but my heart still pounds against my rib cage, a mix of anxiety and anticipation thrumming through me.
On the bandstand, fiddlers tune their instruments, sharp notes cutting through the festival noise.
I glance up at the wooden arch over the corn maze entrance. A pack of teens barrels past me, laughter spilling out behind them as they disappear into the stalks.
Winona approaches me. “Are you the keeper of the cornfield?”
“No.” A note of disappointment seeps into my clipped response.
“Then come enjoy the festival.” Her face is etched with concern.
“I need to stay here.”
“And read?” Winona eyes the book in my hand with skepticism.
I release a heavy sigh.
“You’re not very good at keeping secrets,” I say, thoughtlessly.
Her head rears back slightly.
“I’m sorry,” I backpedal. “It’s just … I’ve got something going on. Something big …”
She crosses her heart like she used to do in elementary school. Then she pretends to stick a needle in her eye. “Hope to die,” she says softly. “I’ll keep your secret, Daisy. I know I get overly excited. It’s just how I am. But if you want me to keep something private, I’ll take it to my grave.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just on edge.”
“Did you get mixed up with the mob?” Her face is dead serious.
“In Waterford?” I laugh despite the cloud of unease that’s settled around me the longer I’ve stood here waiting for BTTP to show.
“Maybe.” The sincerity in her tone makes me smile. “It’s possible you took out a hit on Mr. O’Connell. And I mostly wouldn’t blame you. Murder’s probably extreme, but I get it.”
“Probably?” I laugh again. “I’m not having Mr. O’Connell killed. For Pete’s sake, Winona.”
“Well?” She stands there, daring me to trust her.
I clamp my lips shut. The last thing I need is Winona broadcasting my secret throughout Waterford before sundown. But her expectant silence is louder than the festival surrounding us.
Our eyes lock. And that’s all it takes for me to blurt, “There’s this podcast …”
“A true crime podcast?”
“No crime. Okay. No one committed a crime and no one is about to.”
“Okay.”
“It’s a bookish podcast. Burning Through the Pages.”
“I’ve listened to it. I love that guy.”
An unexpected rush of jealousy flashes through me. I should not want to strangle my best friend for liking a podcast host she doesn’t even know.
“He’s pretty amazing,” I agree. “Anyway, a while back, I sent him an email telling him how much I enjoyed the show.”
“That’s sweet.”
“He answered.”
“He did? That’s so cool!”
“Yeah … and we kept exchanging emails.”
I can tell the moment Winona’s wheels start to turn. “And you’re going to meet him?”
“Yes. Supposedly. Here.”
I don’t mention the fact that he lives in our town. I’m ridiculously protective of him and his anonymity. Even him agreeing to meet me here is more than I could hope for—but it’s a risk to him and everything he’s built.
“At this corn maze?” Winona’s eyes are wide and her mouth pops open.
“Yes. Here.”
“And you’re supposed to be dressed like Buttercup, holding The Princess Bride?”
“The costume was an afterthought. The book was his idea.”
“Oh. My. Gosh!”
“Shhhh,” I warn, despite the fact that we’re basically alone.
People continue to enter the corn maze, but they’re not paying any attention to us.
“So, you just plan to stand here all night waiting for him to show?”
“I hadn’t thought I’d be waiting very long.”
“Maybe he had a change in plans. Have you checked your email?”
“It didn’t occur to me.”
Winona taps her temple. “That’s why you have me.” Then she shakes her head and points her finger at me, wagging it with her words. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding a secret like this from me.”
I shrug. “I know. It just seemed surreal. And I didn’t know it would progress this far. And I need to help him protect his anonymity.”
I’m already grabbing my phone out of my farmgirl apron to check emails and DMs.
A new notification flashes. My chest squeezes. I silently beg, please don’t let this be goodbye.