Chapter 27
Patrick
Dating is about finding out
who you are and who others are.
If you show up in a masquerade outfit,
neither is going to happen.
~ Henry Cloud
I sent M&M a quick message before I left my house.
BTTP: Can’t make it to our spot right away. Enjoy the festival. I’ll meet you at sundown by the corn maze. Sorry for the delay. I got called away, but I’m still planning to find you.
When I last checked, she hadn’t answered. I hope she gets the message. Captain set up a last minute pig-calling contest entry for our crew. My participation is mandatory. I’ll get through that, ride a few rides with my nieces, and then I’ll find M&M before the sun sets.
The dragon costume I ordered is earning me a lot of stares and smiles. I slung a canvas book bag over my shoulder and put large plastic black-rimmed glasses over the eyeholes—transforming myself into a book dragon.
A family I know passes by, their kids toting paper boats filled with funnel cake.
I say, “Hello,” to the husband, Glenn, and he squints at me.
“Patrick?” His wife, Ellen, asks.
“Yes. Oh. Sorry. I forgot you can’t see me with this head on.”
“Fun costume,” Glenn says with a chuckle.
“Thanks.”
I weave through the crowd, wondering if she’s here, checking every hand for a copy of The Princess Bride. I make my way to the penned-in arena where the pig-calling contest will be held. Portable metal bleachers flank two sides of the area. Animals in pens line one of the opposite sides.
Mayor Briggs’ voice comes over the speakers on one of the poles set up around the property.
“We’ve got the fiddle contest starting at the bandstand in ten minutes and the hog hollerin’ will be in the main arena at the same time.
Follow that with the husband calling contest. You won’t want to miss that.
And be sure to get yourself one of Vanessa’s apple fritters before they’re gone!
Everyone pick up your copy of the firefighter calendar on your way out tonight.
We’ve got a table near the gravel lot set up with a box for you to drop your payment into on the honor system. ”
I approach my crew. Greyson’s wearing a black eye mask, black T-shirt and black pants.
“What are you?” I ask him.
“Zorro,” he says with a huff. “How do you think you’re going to handle a pig in that costume?”
“I’m calling them, not wrestling them.”
He nods.
Cody approaches, wearing cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. A rodeo belt holds up his jeans. “I’m a cowboy,” he supplies.
“Aren’t you actually a cowboy?” Dustin asks. He’s dressed as a baker. Apparently Emberleigh dressed as a firefighter in a fun twist of role-reversal.
“It’s my costume,” Cody answers. “Most people around here think of me as a firefighter.”
“Hate to break it to you,” Greyson says with a smirk. “Most people around here don’t think of you at all.”
Dustin cracks up. “Man, Grey. When you decide to be funny, you’re spot on.”
I shake my head and the bulky dragon head moves from side to side. The costume is warm. Thankfully the evening air is cooling off the closer we get to sundown.
Sundown.
I’ll see her in less than two hours. The idea that she’s here, at the festival, on this same property sends a thrill through me. I’m a ball of nerves and anticipation dressed as a fire-breathing reptile.
We shuffle over to the spot alongside the platform in the arena. Well, the rest of the guys walk. I shuffle. This costume! What was I thinking?
More than a few farmers and some townspeople gather with us. The pig-calling contest is a staple at the Fall Festival. I normally wouldn’t have entered. Some of these men and women treat the event like an Olympic sport.
Six pigs are released into the arena. Troughs in the center are filled with slop.
The MC announces, “Hog callin’s about to begin. This year, you have to actually catch the attention of a pig in order to be considered one of our finalists. We’ll have a showdown between the top entries later this evening.”
The first guy, an older farmer, steps up to the mic and lets out a traditional “Soo-eee” call. He goes on, making “Soo-soo-soo” sounds. The pigs keep right on eating. “Here pig! Sooeeeeeee,” he calls. Nothing. He tries again and then the MC asks him to step away from the microphone.
A few other farmers have more luck, getting the attention of one or two pigs.
Then a woman steps up to the mic. She must live outside town.
I don’t think I recognize her. She’s wearing a gingham checked dress.
She opens with a “Soo-eee,” then shifts into a soprano trill that carries all the way to the barn, threatening to not only call pigs, but probably some bats and field mice in the mix.
Three pigs lift their heads and trot her way before the MC calls time.
She bows with flair, and the pigs plod back to their slop.
Next up is Dustin. He takes the mic off the stand, glances over at us and then starts to rap, “Uh soo soo soo, uh soo soo eee.” He’s spitting and making pft noises between his nonsensical words. “Hey hey. Hip Hop Bibbity bop. Pig don’t stop. Soo eee.”
I’m laughing so hard my entire costume is shaking. Even Greyson cracks a smile. Not one swine moves. Dustin walks off voluntarily.
“A for effort, Sir Pigsalot,” Cody says, snickering.
With the help of my friends, I step onto the platform and approach the mic. My wing flaps back and smacks Cody in the face.
I lean in toward the microphone and start making guttural oinking and squealing noises, throwing in a random “Soo-eee” when I feel it fits.
To my shock, pigs start drifting my way.
Two leave the trough. I keep snorting and oinking, and soon all six are crowding the spot just below where I’m standing.
One heaves its hooves onto the platform but can’t make it up.
The next tries, and a third scrambles over another’s back, managing to hoist himself next to me.
He roots at my fluffy dragon feet with his snout until a second pig joins him.
Now both are squealing and snuffling against my calves like I’m their long-lost friend.
“I think we’ve got a finalist!” The MC says.
Some teens dressed in muck boots and jeans come over and coax the pigs back off the stage. I walk over to my crew.
“Let’s hear it for the hog whisperer!” Dustin says while Cody grabs my elbow to help me down the step. “Didn’t know you had that kind of animal magnetism.”
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan.
Greyson takes the stage while I explain to the MC that I can’t come back for the next round, so I’m forfeiting to the other contestants.
“Big plans?” Dustin asks. “Meeting up with Babe for a romantic spin on the Ferris wheel?”
“I don’t rub snouts and tell,” I say with a chuckle.
The only one I want to ride the Ferris wheel with is M&M. At least, I think I do.
“Could have fooled me with that public display of affection,” Dustin says.
“I’m going to find my nieces and go on a few rides with them.”
I head toward the carnival games where I spot Maeve, Walker and the girls. I spend enough time with them to satisfy everyone and then I finally head toward the corn maze.
Dusk is falling over the property. Strings of Edison bulbs and fairy lights wind along booths, poles, and fences, flickering to life. The fiddle contest has given way to a bluegrass band. Later, the wide-plank floor in front of the stage will pulse under boots as couples two-step to country music.
I approach the corn maze. A lone figure is standing just to the left of the entrance.
She’s unmistakably dressed as Buttercup in the farmgirl scenes.
As I approach I notice her dark brown hair.
Not blond, like Buttercup’s. And then I see everything.
Her golden brown eyes, darting here and there, searching for the man who is supposed to meet her.
She’s holding the book. And pursing her lips.
Those lips. I’ve kissed those lips, brushed the stubble of my jaw against her cheek.
I stop dead in my tracks and her eyes land on me.
Daisy is M&M. Irony doesn’t merely knock—it barges in, kicks off its boots, and laughs itself breathless. Of all the people, it had to be her.
I’ve been spotted. It’s too late to take a U-turn and disappear into the crowd.
Every part of me wants to rip off this ridiculous dragon head and call her by her username—lay the truth between us like an open book.
But if I do, her smile will fade. She’ll think I tricked her.
Daisy’s already convinced my family’s steamrolling her, and she’s not wrong.
I can’t bear the idea of being the source of another one of her disappointments.
Wanting her doesn’t give me the right to hurt her all over again.
I stride over to Daisy—as much as a man can stride in a dragon suit.
She watches me approach and her face lights up with a smile I’d have given anything to have earned. Only I’m me—Patrick—the man she wants, but also the man she’d do anything to avoid.
The closer I get, the broader her smile grows.
“Waiting for someone?” I ask, even though I know.
“Patrick?” She recognizes my voice immediately.
“Yes,” I admit.
“What are you … Why are you … You’re dressed like a book dragon.”
I bend my head as much as I can to glance down at myself and spread my arms out to my sides. “I am.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“What? No.”
How did this happen? The woman whose every typed word made me laugh and feel seen is standing right here—only instead of teasing me with late-night banter, she’s glaring like I’m an intruder, unwanted and unwelcome.
Her hands are on her hips now. “I’m actually … Well, I’m waiting for someone. So … if you don’t mind.”
“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”
I don’t move. I just stare at her, trying to imagine what would happen if I quoted something from our internet exchanges. Would she see me differently? Finally give me a chance? Or would she accuse me of setting her up, knowing who she was all along, toying with her?
Maybe at another time I’d have a chance, but my dad’s about to overturn her world. All her animosity toward me and my family has rightfully escalated ever since the last town hall. She’d never want me—an O’Connell—not even if she found out I’m the host of her favorite bookish podcast.
I need air. I can’t think straight.
Daisy is M&M.
“Patrick?”
“Yeah. Yes. Okay. Enjoy your night, Buttercup.”
Will I enjoy my night? Not a chance.
I don’t even know how to breathe. The woman I’ve been falling for in person and online is standing right here waiting for me—and I have to walk away.