13. Isla
Chapter 13
Isla
Y ou’re the best friend anyone could ever have.
That moment at the gym keeps looping in my head like it’s stuck on repeat, especially the part where all those old crush feelings came rushing back in full force. And the part where he, ever so kindly, reminded me we’re nothing more than friends.
But it’s fine. I’ve done this before. I’ll just keep a little distance until the helpless, heart-thumpy part of me settles down again.
Clearly, it was just some kind of romantic brain fever. A temporary glitch. Probably triggered by the way he cared for me. But I should know better. Asher’s always been like this. Kind. Thoughtful. This is just him looking out for me the way any best friend would.
Romantic relationships fade. Friendships last. And I won’t risk losing what we have just because my heart’s suddenly greedy, aching for the kind of forever that belongs in someone else’s story.
Some people get epic love stories. I get an epic friendship.
And that should be enough.
I shift in my seat and force my attention back to the front. The Frosthaven Community Center’s conference room is packed. The mayor. Diane. Half the Events Committee. Everyone who matters when it comes to town decisions.
“We believe it’s time for a change.”
Walter Pembroke announces, adjusting his navy-and-silver striped bow tie, his traditional “difficult decisions” tie that the whole town knows signals trouble brewing. As head of Frosthaven’s Events Committee for the past thirty years, he takes his role with utmost seriousness, even if his collection of whimsical bow ties suggests otherwise.
“Diane’s approach seems better suited for our current times,” he continues, glancing at the framed photos of past Matchmaker’s Galas lining the community center’s walls. “The committee has decided to let her host this year’s Frosthaven Annual Matchmaker’s Gala. And per her recommendation, we’ll be tripling the ticket price.”
Tripling.
What? Does he even hear himself?
I grip the edge of my chair, willing my hands not to shake as I face the matchmaking committee. The same committee that watched me grow up, that came to every one of my matches’ weddings, that helped me decorate for my very first gala five years ago.
My heart plummets. The Matchmaker’s Gala isn’t just another event, it’s woven into the fabric of our town. It’s where countless couples have found their perfect match, where even grumpy old Mr. Peterson found love last year at seventy-eight.
I’ve spent months planning this year’s event. And when they hinted that they might bring in Diane instead, I stayed quiet.
If her approach is really better, fine. I can handle that. But not if she’s turning matchmaking into some money-grab algorithm factory.
Diane, my polished rival, smooths her designer blazer and smiles with perfectly straight teeth. Her sleek presentation deck glows on her tablet, a stark contrast to my well-worn matchmaking notebook filled with hand-written notes about everyone’s favorite coffee orders and their grandmothers’ secret recipes.
“Our modern, foolproof-based approach has a proven track record of successful matches across three major cities. It attracts serious clients, boosts local visibility, and, frankly, brings in real money. This gala could become a destination event. Maybe even breathe new life into a town.” Diane says.
I force myself to take a deep breath. “This gala isn’t supposed to be a luxury event. It’s for the people. You can’t just triple the ticket price.”
“Traditionally, the matchmaker hosting the gala sets the pricing.” Walter Pembroke glances at Diane, then adds, “Tripling the ticket price’s not our usual approach, I admit. But with Diane’s track record and the promise of more visibility for the town, we’re trying something new.”
“I’ve helped build happy relationships right here in Frosthaven. Without charging people like that.” I say.
“I hate to bring this up,” Diane swipes to another slide. “But your recent personal situation doesn’t exactly inspire confidence in your matchmaking abilities. And from what I hear . . . the match you arranged for your best friend was not exactly a success.”
My stomach drops. Thanks to Kyle’s “Frosthaven Business Insider” blog post going up right after the date, people already know about it. Why does he seem to hate me so much that he wants to destroy my business?
I feel the committee’s eyes on me, see the sideways glances and hesitant nods. My cheeks burn.
Mr. Johnson, the oldest committee member who still insists on bringing my favorite peppermint candies to every meeting, clears his throat. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty. Perhaps we should give Isla a chance to present her ideas before making a final decision. After all, she did help my grandson find his wife. They’re expecting twins this spring.”
I could kiss Mr. Johnson’s wrinkled cheek. “Thank you,” I say, trying not to sound too eager. “I’d be happy to put together a presentation outlining my updated approach.”
Walter Pembroke adjusts his bow tie again. It’s slightly crooked, which everyone knows means he’s wavering. “Very well. We’ll reconvene in two weeks to hear your pitch.”
As the meeting adjourns, I gather my things, trying to ignore the weight of defeat pressing down on my shoulders. As I turn to leave, Diane’s perfectly manicured hand lands on my arm. I suppress a shudder.
“Isla, dear, can we chat for a moment?” Her voice drips with fake sweetness.
I plaster on my best attempt at a smile. “Of course, Diane.”
We step into the hallway, away from the prying eyes of the committee. Diane’s smile doesn’t fade, but her eyes are sharp and searching.
“I couldn’t help but notice how passionate you are about your town and your business,” she says, her voice low and conspiratorial. “It’s charming, really. But passion doesn’t scale, dear. Have you ever considered what your business could become with my methods? We could even discuss a potential partnership.”
“Partnership?”
“Think about it. Your local expertise, my proven system. We could dominate the entire region’s matchmaking market.”
My stomach churns at how she makes love sound like a commodity to be bought and sold.
“I appreciate the thought, but—”
“Tell you what,” Diane leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Why don’t you try my method yourself? Just once. Consider it as research. No charge. Consider it a professional courtesy.”
“I don’t think I need it.”
“Come on, Isla. What do you have to lose? In fact, let me set you up on a date. My algorithm can find your perfect match. Someone completely different from your usual type. Someone who could help you move forward.”
“That’s generous of you,” I manage, my throat tight. “But I’m not really looking to date right now.”
“All the more reason to give it a try. No pressure—just a chance to see how it works. Who knows?” She smiles, all teeth and ambition. “You might learn something valuable. About my methods . . . and yourself.”
“You do realize we’re competing to host the Gala, right?”
“Of course I do.” She waves a hand. “But I’m thinking long-term. Like a partnership with the local matchmaker.”
I’m backed into a corner, and we both know it. Refusing makes me look scared and stubborn. Accepting feels like a betrayal of everything I believe in. But maybe that’s exactly what I need to figure out what I’m doing wrong.
Plus, it might help me get over this thing with Asher.
Especially now that I have to put together a whole new pitch for the committee. I need to stay focused. Not on the way Asher keeps making me feel like I’m the most important person in the world, but on finding the perfect match for him.
“I’ll . . . give it a shot.”
Diane beams, patting my arm. “Wonderful! I’ll send you the details. Trust me, Isla, this is the future of matchmaking. Don’t get left behind clinging to the past.”
With a final, predatory smile, she saunters off, leaving me feeling like I’ve just made a deal with the devil.
I pull into the driveway of Mom’s house. The one I grew up in, right next door to Asher’s parents. I lived here until three years ago, when Mom married Victor, and I finally moved out. Before I can even kill the engine, I spot Conner’s silhouette through the kitchen window.
Of course, he’s already raiding the fridge. Some things never change.
Bracing myself for the inevitable twin tornado, I grab my bag and head inside. The moment I step through the door, the smell of Mom’s famous lasagna hits me like a warm hug.
“Hey, thief!” I call out, dropping my keys on the entry table. “Save some for the rest of us!”
Conner’s head pops up from behind the refrigerator door, his mouth already full. “You snooze, you lose, sis. Should’ve gotten here sooner.” His auburn hair is a bit darker than mine, and it’s always artfully tousled. The kind of mess that takes actual effort to achieve. And his jawline could rival Asher’s.
We shared a womb for nine months, but he emerged looking like a Ralph Lauren model while I got Mom’s cute-but-chaotic vibe. He’s got the same hazel eyes as me, but lighter, and somehow, they make him look like he just stepped out of a magazine. It’s completely unfair that we’re supposed to be twins, but he somehow has all the good genes.
If I’d gotten the same perfect genes Conner lucked into instead of this grab bag of awkwardness, maybe my dating life wouldn’t be such a disaster.
“Some of us have actual jobs,” I mutter, watching him flash that camera-ready smile that’s gotten him out of trouble since kindergarten. The same smile that makes girls swoon and old ladies slip him extra cookies.
I spent half of middle school being his unwilling messenger, with girls constantly slipping me love notes to give to him. Ruby Reyes from Chemistry class once made me deliver an entire poem comparing his eyes to molten amber to a sunset. I still have nightmares about that one.
“Professional beach bums?” Conner finishes, grinning as he takes another bite.
“I was going to say eternally unemployed, but sure, let’s go with your version.”
Mom appears in the doorway, shaking her head with a warm smile. “Children, play nice.”
“We are nice,” Conner and I say in unison, then glare at each other.
“Jinx,” I mutter, reaching for the pan of lasagna.
Conner swats my hand away. “Hey! Mom made this for me.”
“In your dreams, dorkface. Mom made it for both of us.”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
We turn to Mom in perfect sync. “Mom!”
Mom laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “Don’t drag me into this. I made enough for everyone.”
She’s wearing that familiar smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, lips pressed together like she’s trying not to laugh at our antics. It’s the same look she wore when Conner and I were kids, fighting over the last cookie or the TV remote.
Back then, she’d solved our squabbles by making us split everything exactly in half. I remember her standing in this same kitchen, ruler in hand, measuring our slices of birthday cake to ensure they were perfectly equal. When we complained that the other person got more (because, of course, we did), she’d just say, “Life isn’t fair, but love is. And in this house, we choose love.”
Even after Dad left, she never lost that patient smile.
I stick my tongue out at Conner, who responds by attempting to ruffle my hair. I duck away, grabbing a plate. “Touch the hair and die, Conehead.”
“Aww, still using the same lame insults from middle school? How adorable.”
“At least I’ve outgrown my awkward phase,” I shoot back, loading up my plate. “Unlike some people.”
Conner clutches his chest in mock pain. “You hurt me, dear sister. And here I thought you were the nice twin.”
“I am the nice twin,” I say sweetly. “I’m just not nice to you.”
“I can see why you needed that ruler for the cake,” Victor murmurs to Mom.
I pause and look at Victor. “Whose side are you on?”
Conner uses the moment to swipe the biggest slice of lasagna onto his plate like it’s a gold medal prize. I narrow my eyes at him. “This means war, you know.”
“Bring it on, little sis.”
“We’re the same age, you dolt!”
“I’m still older by one minute.”
I open my mouth to retort, but Mom cuts in. “So, Conner, how long are you in town for?”
“Not sure yet. Thinking about sticking around for a while, actually. Got some business opportunities I want to explore, and . . .” he shrugs, that mischievous glint in his eye, “might be nice to take a breather from the city life.”
“Just try not to cause trouble with my friends this time,” I warn, remembering how he and Elaine nearly started World War III the last time he was back here. One snarky comment about her cinnamon rolls being store-bought quality, and suddenly, there was frosting everywhere. I’m still not sure how they managed to get it on the ceiling.
I can never understand what started their animosity in the first place, but they hate each other like cats and dogs.
Dinner ends up in the living room between Conner’s second helping and the start of the hockey game. The room erupts in cheers as the L.A. Titans score another goal. I’m squished between Conner and Mom on the couch, a bowl of popcorn precariously balanced on my lap. Victor perches on the arm of the sofa, his eyes glued to the TV.
“Did you see that wrist shot?” Conner leans forward, nearly knocking over the popcorn bowl. “Rossi’s really upped his game since I played with him.”
I shift the bowl protectively to my other knee and give him a flat look. “Yes, Conner. We all saw it. We’re watching the same game.”
He elbows me. “Someone’s grumpy. What’s wrong, sis? Asher not texting you back?”
My cheeks burn so hot I’m surprised the popcorn isn’t popping again. “Stop it.”
Asher did text me. Said he was grabbing lunch at Marnie’s and asked if I wanted my usual. Like it was any other day. Like I didn’t just have a full-blown relapse of the childhood crush I thought I’d buried years ago, and nearly hijacking my common sense yesterday.
I told him I’d already eaten. Which was only kind of true. If you count three spoonfuls of yogurt and a whole lot of emotional avoidance as a meal.
“Ooh, touchy subject? Come on, spill. What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing.” I sink deeper into the couch cushions. Nothing’s happening, nothing can happen.
Mom pipes up, wearing that too-casual expression she gets when she’s about to meddle. “You know, I ran into Margaret at the grocery store yesterday. She said it’s a mystery how you and Asher still aren’t a thing.”
“Mom!” I groan, burying my face in my hands. The ultimate betrayal. Ambushed by my own mother.
Victor chuckles. “You two have always been close. It’s only natural—”
“Not you too!” I peek through my fingers, feeling like I’m facing a firing squad of matchmakers.
Conner grins. “Face it, Izzy. You and Asher are practically an old married couple already. Just without the, you know, marriage part. Or the couple part.”
“We’re friends,” I insist, my voice muffled by my hands. My heart does this stupid little squeeze at the word “friends,” like it’s personally offended by the label.
“Sure, sure,” Conner nods sagely. “But it’s pretty absurd that you’re matching him with someone else.”
“He agreed too! I mean, I asked if he needed my help, and he agreed.”
“Right. Because helping your best friend date someone else is a totally normal way to keep your feelings in check.”
I scowl. “I don’t have feelings.”
“You sure about that?”
I open my mouth to retort, but the words die on my tongue. Conner’s eyebrows shoot up.
“What? No comeback? You must really like him.”
“I have a date!” I blurt out, desperate to change the subject.
The room goes silent. Even the commentators on TV seem to pause.
Conner freezes with a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth. “You what?”
“A date,” I repeat, snatching the popcorn from his hand. “With someone who’s not Asher.”
“Oh? Who’s the lucky guy?” Mom leans forward, casually scooping another handful from the bowl like this is the best reality show she’s seen in weeks.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt. “I don’t know yet. It’s, um, being arranged by Diane.”
Conner straightens, his fingers curling into loose fists. “Diane? Your competition? You’re letting her set you up?”
“How—” I blink. “You’ve only been back two days. How do you know about Diane?”
“Because there are people who care about you , dummy,” Conner says, his usual smirk softening. “Did you really think I wouldn’t check up on my favorite twin while I was away?”
“I’m your only twin.”
“Details,” he waves dismissively.
“I need to understand how she does it and what makes everyone think she’s so special . . .”
Mom wraps her arm around me, pulling me close the way she used to when I was little, and the world felt too big. “You are special, sweetheart, and you are my perfect girl. It’s okay to explore and try new things, but don’t lose yourself in the process.” She presses a kiss to my temple. “When you’re being the truest version of yourself, the right person will see you exactly as you are.”
Victor smiles as he reaches for Mom’s hand. They make it look so natural, this whole love thing.
“For someone who can spot a perfect match from across town,” Conner drawls, leaning back with that half-smile, “you’ve got a real talent for missing the obvious, sis.”
Mom clears her throat. “So, who wants more popcorn?”
“Me!” Conner and I say in unison.
“Jinx!”
The doorbell chimes just as the Titans are lining up for a crucial power play. We all groan in unison, our eyes glued to the TV.
“Seriously?” Conner mumbles through a mouthful of popcorn. “Now?”
Mom gives him a look. “Conner, sweetie, could you get that?”
He huffs dramatically but hauls himself off the couch. I snicker, and he tosses a throw pillow at me without breaking stride.
“Children,” Mom warns, but I catch the smile she’s trying to hide.
The door creaks open. A sharp inhale. Then a high-pitched squeak that definitely doesn’t belong in my brother’s vocal range.
My head whips around, and I nearly choke on my drink. There in the doorway stands Elaine, her usual confident posture frozen mid-step, staring at my brother like she’s seen a ghost. Conner’s not doing much better, his hand still gripping the doorknob like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
The hockey game fades into background noise as all eyes in the living room turn toward the door, drawn by the crackling tension suddenly filling our house.
Elaine doesn’t seem to notice us right away. Not with Conner standing there, soaking up all her focus like some kind of drama magnet.
Elaine’s chin lifts as if she had just won that vicious county baking competition. “Oh. If it isn’t the prodigal son himself.”
Conner’s signature lazy grin slides into place, but his knuckles are white against the doorframe. “Miss Harper. Polite as ever, I see. And here I thought time would’ve sweetened you up.”
“Some things never change.” Her eyes flick to his shoulder, then quickly away. “Like your ego.”
They stand there, neither willing to step back or look away first.
“Did you need something?” Conner asks, shifting his weight to lean against the doorframe. “Or did you just miss watching me walk away?”
Elaine’s cheeks flush pink, but her voice stays steady. “Your mom asked for Grandma Rose’s apple pie recipe.” She waves the paper in front of him. “Though I’m surprised you even remember what real food tastes like after your fancy city life.”
“Still very bitter about something?” Conner’s grin turns wicked.
“Well?” Elaine waves the recipe like a challenge flag. “Are you going to take it, or is that too much effort for the great Conner Ennis?”
Conner reaches for the recipe, but Elaine pulls it back. “Careful with those reflexes, hockey star. Wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself reaching for something you clearly can’t handle.”
“Please,” Conner scoffs, stepping closer to Elaine. “I could handle you with one hand tied behind my back.”
The moment the words leave his mouth, both of them freeze. The tips of Elaine’s ears turn pink. Conner’s smirk falters. I feel like I should look away.
Mom and Victor are watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement. It’s like we’re all spectators at some bizarre tennis match.
“Ahem,” Mom clears her throat, eyes twinkling. “Elaine, honey, why don’t you join us? The Titans are playing your favorite team.”
“Oh, I should really get back to the bakery,” Elaine says quickly, practically shoving the recipe at Conner. “The morning rush—”
“It’s evening,” Conner says, something raw in his voice.
“Right. Well. I just . . . goodbye.” She turns on her heel and flees down the porch steps, leaving Conner standing in the doorway. His eyes fixed on the spot where she disappeared. I exchange a look with Mom, who just shakes her head with a smile.
“Earth to Conner,” I call out. “You planning on guarding the door all night?”
He jerks a little, like someone just snapped him out of a dream. “What? No. Mind your own business.”
“Careful, you’re staring like someone who caught feelings.”
“I wasn’t.” He drops back onto the couch with way too much force. “And don’t start playing matchmaker. I mean it.”
“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
Mom clears her throat. “Alright, you two. Why don’t you go for a walk? Work off some of that energy before you destroy my living room.”
Conner and I share a look. We both know what she really means. Go to your spot and talk it out.
“Fine,” I sigh, hauling myself off the couch. “Come on, Conehead. Let’s go before Mom grounds us like we’re twelve again.”
We trudge out the back door and across the yard. It’s been our spot since we were kids, a place for secret twin meetings. I settle onto one of the lower branches while Conner leans against the trunk.
For a moment, we’re quiet, listening to the crickets and distant traffic.
“I saw Dad last year.”
There’s a long pause. Neither of us says anything.
We don’t talk about Dad anymore. Not after the years passed and we were old enough to understand why he left. Divorced.
Mom said Dad found someone else to love. Conner said it was called cheating. I never understood why Dad did it. And I never understood why he never replied to any of my letters.
If I had been a better kid, if I had been more lovable, would he still have done it? Would he have at least written back?
“Saw him in some fancy restaurant in the city.” Conner’s voice is carefully neutral, but there’s a tightness under the words. “He didn’t see me. Had his new family with him. A wife and two kids.”
“Con . . .”
“You know what’s funny?” He lets out a hollow laugh. “All those years playing hockey, pushing myself to be the best . . . I kept thinking maybe if I made it big enough, if I got famous enough, he’d see me on TV and regret walking away. Even after the injury, after I got into business, some part of me still thought maybe he’d show up. Say sorry. Something.”
He pauses, voice low. “But it’s been twenty years. Nothing. Not a word.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to apologize for, sis.” He glances at me. “Maybe you and I . . . maybe we’re both still stuck in his shadow, trying to prove something to ourselves, just in different ways.”
“That’s not—” I start, but the words stick in my throat.
“I get it, sis.” His voice softens.
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the weight on my chest feeling a little lighter.
“So . . . you and Elaine, huh?”
Conner groans. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, all that tension has to go somewhere,” I tease. “Maybe under all that mutual hatred is a burning—”
I don’t get to finish because Conner tackles me off the branch. We land in the grass in a ridiculous mess of limbs and laughter. It’s not exactly graceful for two almost thirty-year-olds, but we’ve never been good at acting our age around each other. We wrestle for a second before giving up and lying side by side, breathing hard and grinning like kids.
“For the record,” Conner brushes grass from his shirt, “we can barely stand each other.”
“Sure you do,” I grin. “Keep telling yourself that, bro.”
“Takes one to know one,” he elbows me with a knowing look.
We lay there, staring up at the stars peeking through the branches, and for a moment, everything feels okay.
“Glad you’re home,” I whisper.
He bumps my shoulder gently. “Missed you too, sis.”