Chapter 28
Daisy
Whatever. I’ll just date myself.
~ Unknown
Did I stand at the corn maze for another hour after Patrick walked away? I did.
Only a few stragglers ran past me. The cool night air rustled through the stalks. I stayed anyway.
I fed myself every excuse in the book: family emergency, an accident, he caught a deadly disease—one that made it impossible to send an email or DM.
Maybe he got called in for work.
What does he even do for a living besides hosting the podcast?
It has felt like I know him so well, but I don’t even know his name or his occupation. I could tell you his favorite color. How he wants to spend an ideal day. What makes him laugh. But I don’t even know the color of his eyes or what he looks like when he smiles.
And now it looks like I never will.
After an hour of stalling on his behalf, the sky has grown so unequivocally dark no one could confuse it with sunset. I even waited for the stars to come out in earnest. I finally have to admit I’ve been stood up. And Patrick, of all people, was the sole witness to my humiliation.
Dragging myself toward my car, I plop into the driver's seat—too defeated to even offer Mom and Aunt Brenda a hand in tearing down booths. I did my part—helped with setup. Now I just need to slink home and hole up in my apartment.
I replay the night in my head, taking each curve in the road with the pace of a turtle on tranquilizers.
What went wrong? He said he was running late. Wouldn’t he reach out to tell me he couldn’t make it after all? Was he trying to let me down gently? If so, zero out of ten for execution.
My ire rises as I drive. What was Patrick doing dressed like that?
And why does he always have to cross my path at the worst possible moments?
Pulling my car into the space in front of our duplex, I yank the emergency brake a little harder than usual.
When I round the car, I see the face of the man who sets me on edge like no one else ever has—or hopefully ever will.
What is he doing out here?
Patrick’s intense stare tracks me as I reluctantly do the walk of shame up my front steps, The Princess Bride in one hand and my purse in the other. For once, he doesn’t smirk or toss out some smug comment. There’s something quieter in his face—weariness maybe, or uncertainty. It throws me.
His gaze drops to the book and lingers. I want to chuck it at him. But why? It’s not like he was the one who left me standing next to a corn maze. He has many sins to his account, but this one isn’t on him.
“The Princess Bride,” I say, shocking myself as much as it appears I shocked him.
He nods. “Good book. And movie. I like them both.”
“If you’ll excuse me …” I grapple for my keys. “I’m not in the mood for book club tonight.”
His eyes look … hurt? Remorseful? Or maybe it’s the shadows on the porch playing tricks on me.
I’m not surprised Patrick has read the book. He always was bookish—at least in high school. Who knows what he is now.
A fantastic kisser, for one thing.
I shake off that intrusive thought and rush toward my door.
When I make the mistake of glancing back at Patrick, he’s still sitting on the top step, gazing up at me with that inscrutable expression.
“Good—” The word catches in my throat. Pride swallows whatever kindness almost escaped. “Night,” I finish, softer than I intend.
He might have consistently chosen his family over me—ruined important opportunities, changed the trajectory of my life, and lived off the generational benefit of being an O’Connell, but I’m still a nice person.
So, I can muster up a goodnight even when my heart is cracking in two from being stood up—in front of him.
I shut the door and force myself not to collapse against it. If he heard so much as a thud, he’d glean a smug sense of satisfaction from my defeat.
My laptop taunts me from the coffee table.
I pick it up and carry it to the coat closet, setting it on the floor and shutting the door.
I won’t be messaging or emailing the man who stood me up.
If he has a reason for raising my hopes and then abandoning me, he can reach out to me. Otherwise, sayonara.
“You’d better have taken over a pirate ship and have no way to reach me from your conquests at sea,” I mutter aloud at the closet door. “Short of you becoming the next Dread Pirate Roberts, I’m finished with you.”
No.
Nope. I won’t wither away like I’m pathetic.
I open the closet door and lift my laptop off the floor. I’m far too antsy to sit on the couch, so I set it on the kitchen counter, pull open my email app, and start typing. It doesn’t escape my notice that my inbox remains at zero incoming messages.
Dear BTTP,
I waited for you and you didn’t show up.
You couldn’t know this, but I have a thing about being stood up.
I can forgive nearly anything, but that’s a tricky one.
If you are currently in traction because you were in a near-fatal accident, I’m going to feel like the bottom of my shoe.
Worse than that, even. But, short of you being physically incapacitated, there won’t be an excuse that would lead me to forgive you for tonight’s no-show. You could have at least messaged me.
A tear runs down my cheek and I don’t stop it. I type the next line, exposing the longing and ache I’m feeling:
I wish you had come.
I stare at it for a long second, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for me to admit more. My hand hovers over the keyboard, torn between deleting the line and adding something even more honest.
Instead, I backspace—slowly—until the words are gone.
This has to be goodbye.
- M&M
My finger lingers on the trackpad, unwilling to move. Then, finally, I click send. The screen dims, the blue light fading from the counter until only my reflection stares back.
Looking around my kitchen, I get the wildest—and probably the worst—idea.
Picking up my phone, I text Tom. It may not be fair to him to take him up on the date he’s been pestering me for, but it’s not exactly wrong.
And I need a distraction from hosts of podcasts who let me down and infuriating neighbors who kiss like they’re in some sort of kissing world championship.
Who knows. Maybe Tom will turn out to be my type. I won’t lead him on. I’m not cruel. But accepting his invitation isn’t a crime.
My thumb hesitates over the keyboard. I’m not ready. But staying home won’t fix me either.
Before I can chicken out, I text him.
Daisy: Hey. Sorry it took me a bit to get back to you. I’ve been busy with work and the festival.
Tom: No problem. As Bertrand Russell says, “The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper.” How about tomorrow?
Ah yes. I had forgotten Tom’s penchant for quoting books and historical figures whenever he’s nervous. Or maybe it’s whenever … not just in moments of nervousness. Well, as Ferris Bueller said, Here goes nothing.
Daisy: Don’t you want to wait for next weekend? Tomorrow’s a Sunday.
Tom: Sunday’s as good a day as any. Do you want me to pick you up?
Daisy: How about you text me a location and I’ll meet you there.
Tom: If we do meet again, why, we shall smile.
Tom: Shakespeare
Of course it is. I hope Mr. Brainy Quote has some original thoughts tomorrow night.
He’s harmless. I’m probably the red flag in this arrangement.
Daisy: See you tomorrow.
I almost type parting is such sweet sorrow, but with my luck he’d fail to see my humor and probably think I’m half-way in love with him already, so I leave it at that.
Why did I think meeting up with Tom would be a good idea?
What I really need is a day off with a stack of good books and copious amounts of ice cream.
I’m curled on the couch watching reruns of This Is Us when my phone rings.
Carli. I pick up, trying to sound more buoyant than I feel.
“Hey,” she says. “I looked for you at the festival.”
“I was there. By the corn maze, mostly.”
“By the corn maze? Were you volunteering?”
“No. Remember that guy I told you about? The podcast host?”
I fill Carli in on everything that happened since the night I told her about BTTP, ending with, “… so I waited well after sundown and he never showed. The end. Pathetic, huh?”
“Of him, yeah.” To her credit, she doesn’t offer up any excuses as to why he might have blown me off.
Instead, she says, “We’re in Waterford. If there had been a major accident, we’d all have heard about it.
Same with anything else that might have prevented him from being able to tell you he wasn’t coming. ”
Hearing her confirmation draws out another round of tears.
“Why am I crying?” I wail into the phone.
“You wanted him to be real—and dependable.”
Dependable. The word burns like salt on a wound.
“I thought he was. I thought—foolishly—that we had a special connection. Maybe I should go back and reread our messages and emails, just to see if I missed something.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” Her tone is adamant.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “You’re right. What good would that do? He didn’t show. Reading through messages from him won’t change the sad reality that is my dating life.”
“What can I do?” Her voice is filled with the kind of warmth I could snuggle into.
“Nothing. I already sent him a goodbye email telling him what he did was unforgivable unless he’s actually physically paralyzed.”
She snorts. “Girl. Remind me not to make you mad.”
I laugh lightly, but then the feeling of disappointment spreads over me like a blanket again.
My bedroom looks like a clothing explosion.
I’ve been trying on outfits for an hour, searching for something that says I tried, but not too hard.
I settle on a calf-length corduroy skirt, brown boots, and a cashmere sweater: dressy without screaming overeager first date energy.
A sweep of mascara, a soft smokey eye, burgundy lipstick—more than I usually wear.
Funny how we armor ourselves in corduroy and mascara just to face disappointment again.