Chapter 32 Nate
Nate
The morning of the Taste-Off arrived like a sucker punch. I woke up before the sun, nerves tight in my chest, reaching instinctively for my phone on the nightstand.
No messages. No missed calls.
No Eliza.
I didn’t blame her for pulling back. I just missed her.
I lay there longer than usual, staring at the ceiling while the house settled around me.
The coffee maker clicked on in the kitchen, filling the quiet with a familiar hum, and I took that as my cue to move.
I dressed on autopilot—jeans, Pennywhistle hoodie, boots—every motion threaded with the same looping thought.
Would she come? Or was this the day I learned how to let her go without answers?
Coffee in hand, I stood at the window for a minute, watching the sky lighten over Honeybrook Hollow. The town was already stirring, as if it knew today was important. I told myself I’d be fine either way. I told myself the Taste-Off was about the food, the diner, and showing up for the community.
I told myself a lot of things that I didn’t believe.
Then, I went to wake Tilly.
By the time she was dressed and eating toast at the counter, I was back in motion—focused, practical, steady enough to almost fool myself.
I loaded the last of the supplies into the truck—chafing dishes, utensils, the cooler with ingredients I’d triple-checked—when Tilly drifted close, hugging her jacket around herself even though it wasn’t cold.
She watched me as if she were memorizing the day.
“Good luck, Daddy,” she said quietly, like luck worked better if you didn’t shout it.
I smiled and crouched in front of her. “Thanks, sweetheart. That means a lot.”
She nodded, then tipped her head, studying my face. “Is Eliza still coming to cook with you?”
“I don’t know, but I hope so,” I said, honestly, because she deserved the truth.
Tilly considered this, then said matter-of-factly, “I hope so, too. I like her. You smile a whole lot when she’s around.” She paused, then added, as if sealing the argument, “And the spaghetti was better when she helped you cook it. I bet the chicken pot pies will be better if she helps, too.”
That hit me right in the chest.
“Hard to argue with that.” I ruffled her hair, feeling her faith in me settle something restless inside. “But I’ll do my best no matter what, okay?” I said, trying for reassurance as much for myself as for her.
She grinned and nodded like she believed it was already true.
For a brief, calm moment, I let myself imagine Eliza at my side in the booth—her laughter among the clatter, her hands steadying mine when doubts crept in.
It made the day feel less daunting, the unknowns a little softer around the edges.
I’d built a whole life around showing up for the people I loved—and right now, I didn’t know if she was still going to show up for me. I tried to ignore how much it hurt because I understood where she was coming from.
Before Tilly could respond, my grandparents pulled into the driveway. Grandma climbed out with her familiar brisk warmth, Grandpa already calling Lois’s name. She trotted over happily, leash held in her mouth, while Tilly bounced into Grandma’s arms.
“We’ll meet you there,” Grandma said, squeezing my shoulder, her voice gentle but certain. “You focus on cooking. We’ll take care of our Tilly. Lois too. No worries, Nate. You got this.”
“Focus on kicking that Graham’s butt,” Grandpa muttered as he hooked Lois to her leash, then handed it to Tilly.
I hugged Tilly, longer than necessary, kissed the top of her head, and watched her take Lois’s leash like it was a very important job. As they climbed into the car, she waved at me through the window, all confidence and trust.
I finished loading up my truck, then shut the door, resting my hands on the steering wheel for a second to let myself breathe before heading toward the park—toward the Taste-Off, the crowd, and the woman I was still quietly hoping would choose to meet me there.
I told myself to keep moving, to focus on the list in my head—tables, burners, the cooler in the back—but the space she left followed me out the door.
Cara had texted earlier, casual on the surface, careful underneath.
I’ll be there. I can jump in if she can’t.
I appreciated it more than I could say, even as my chest tightened around the word if.
I didn’t want a backup. I wanted Eliza. I wanted her to choose this, to choose us, without feeling like she was walking into a storm.
So, I drove toward the park with my jaw set and my heart wide open, quietly hoping she’d be there.
The park looked transformed.
White tents lined the green grass, as if lifted straight out of a movie set with their canvas tops snapping lightly in the breeze.
Strings of café lights crisscrossed overhead, already glowing faintly even though the sun was still high, as if the town couldn’t help itself—it wanted this to feel special.
Booth signs fluttered, chalkboards leaned against table legs, and volunteers dressed in Honeybrook Hollow sweatshirts moved with clipboards and purpose, pointing people where to go, laughing as they did it.
The air smelled like butter and sugar and onions, hitting hot pans. Savory drifting into sweet. Sweet drifting back into savory. The kind of smell that makes you hungry even if your stomach is already tight with nerves.
I parked near the edge of the grass and hauled my supplies from the truck, nodding to familiar faces as I went.
People called my name—asked how the Pennywhistle was doing, joked about judges being bribed with extra portions, and wished me luck as if it mattered to them, too.
Maybe it did. The Pennywhistle wasn’t just my place.
It was theirs. I knew when I arrived here that the Pennywhistle belonged to the town as much as to me.
Our booth sat near the center, close enough to the stage that I could see the microphone and the banner stretched behind it in cheerful, charming letters:
Honeybrook Hollow
Taste-Off
Cara was already there, sleeves rolled up, hands on her hips like she was ready to kick Graham’s butt just as much as I was. She flashed me a look that said See? You’re not alone. I smiled back, and we started unpacking, setting out cutting boards, lining up knives, and checking the burners.
I kept glancing up. Toward the paths. Toward the crowd thickening at the edges of the park.
Toward the place where Eliza might appear.
I tried to focus on the tasks at hand—chopping the vegetables, setting up for the roux, the timing that mattered if you wanted everything to come out right.
This kind of cooking usually calmed me. Today it didn’t.
The noise pressed in, the laughter scraped against my nerves, and every second dragged as my eyes kept drifting to the place where Eliza should’ve been standing.
I stood there in the middle of it all—the lights, the noise, the town I’d chosen—and waited, hoping with everything I had left that Eliza would still choose me too.
“Alright,” Cara said briskly, stepping in beside me and tying on an apron. “Until she gets here, I’m your emotional support sister-slash-sous-chef. Give me a knife and tell me what to chop, or send me over to Graham’s booth…” She flashed me an evil smile.
I huffed a quiet laugh. “I’ve got this. You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she cut in gently, already reaching for a carrot to chop. “I want to.”
She was already elbow-deep in responsibility, which was impressive considering she’d insisted she was “just moral support.” She had a clipboard now. I hadn’t given her one. I didn’t know where it came from.
“Smile,” she said, nudging me with her hip. “You look like you’re about to defend a case instead of serve pot pies.”
“I used to do that professionally,” I muttered.
She grinned. “Relax. People like you. Also, Tilly just told three strangers you’re the best cook in the state, so expectations are reasonable.”
I glanced toward the crowd instinctively.
No Eliza.
Our table looked good; everything was now in its place, like the Pennywhistle had stretched itself outdoors for the night.
Cara started chopping carrots with efficient confidence. “She’ll come,” she said softly, not looking at me. “Eliza doesn’t miss things that matter. And this matters. I know she’ll be here.”
I nodded, even though my chest ached with the effort of holding onto that belief.
Across the park, Graham’s booth gleamed. It was sleek and polished, all matching signage and curated aesthetics. He’d entered both categories—Sweet and Savory—and his staff moved around him in quiet, synchronized steps. He looked perfectly at ease, like this was exactly the stage he’d expected.
Then the speakers crackled.
“Well, hello, Honeybrook Hollow!” Mabel’s voice carried across the park, bright and delighted, and the crowd cheered like she was a celebrity—which, in this town, she absolutely was.
“If everyone could start making their way closer to the stage,” Mabel continued, “we’re about to begin our annual Taste-Off!
Three categories, three chances to argue with your neighbors about food, and absolutely no throwing forks—yes, Joyce, that means you.
Get ready! Judges vote for Sweet and Savory, but the crowd picks the overall favorite! ”
Applause and laughter rippled through the park.
Cara and I got to work.
I diced onions while she chopped carrots and celery, the rhythm familiar, putting me at ease. Olive oil warmed in the pan. Garlic hit heat and bloomed instantly, the smell wrapping around us like an old song. She nudged the salt toward me.
“You’re doing great,” she said quietly as she slid chicken into one of the pans.
“What if she doesn’t—?”
“She will,” Cara said. “I know it.”