Chapter 11
Wren
The bank meeting room smells like disappointment and Pine-Sol, which might be the same thing depending on your perspective.
Miranda Fletcher sits across from me, her power suit so crisp it could probably file its own tax returns, while I fidget in my best "please don't foreclose on me" outfit—a dress grandma bought me for my college graduation that still has the tags tucked in.
"Your situation has improved remarkably," Miranda says, flipping through my file with the efficiency of someone who's crushed dreams before breakfast.
"Has it?" I squeak, trying not to sound as desperate as someone whose entire life depends on this conversation. Which, let's face it, I am.
"The committee has noted increased foot traffic at your shop," she continues, making a note that's either good news or my death warrant. "Several large purchases. And of course, your... relationship status change."
There it is. The archaic real reason I'm not currently being escorted from the building by security.
"Holden has been very supportive," I say, which is true if you define 'supportive' as 'accidentally destroying my ability to think about anything except his mouth.'
"Mr. Clark seems quite established for someone so new to town," Miranda observes, her tone suggesting she knows something. But then again, her tone always suggests she knows something. It's probably taught in banker school. ‘Introduction to Omniscient Condescension 101’.
"He's integrating well," I manage.
"I heard about the tree incident," she says, almost smiling. "Very heroic."
"He does have a way with rope," I blurt out, then immediately want to crawl under the desk and live there forever. "I mean, for tree-straightening purposes. Official town tree purposes. Not weird rope purposes."
"I wasn't implying weird rope purposes," Miranda says, definitely fighting a smile now.
"Good. Because there are no weird rope purposes. Zero rope weirdness. We're completely rope-normal," I babble, because my mouth has decided to operate independently of my brain.
"Ms. Holloway," she interrupts gently, "I'm approving your extension."
"You're—what?" My voice cracks like a teenage boy discovering puberty.
"Three-month extension. With the understanding that you'll maintain your current... trajectory," she says, sliding papers across the desk.
"My trajectory of having a boyfriend?" I ask just to clarify the absurdity.
"Your trajectory of financial improvement," she corrects professionally, but her eyes say 'yes, the boyfriend thing.'
I sign the papers with shaking hands—equal parts relief and caffeine overdose. I may have had six cups of coffee this morning as a coping mechanism.
"Thank you," I breathe, clutching the documents like they might evaporate.
"Don't thank me yet," Miranda warns. "The committee will be watching your progress. Closely. Gary Hutchinson has binoculars."
"Why does everyone in this town have binoculars?" I mutter.
"Birdwatching," she says with a completely straight face.
"Right. Birds," I agree, standing to leave before I can say anything else about rope.
The moment I burst out of the bank, Mrs. Patterson practically tackles me. She's been lurking by the door like a very enthusiastic stalker.
"Wren! How did it go? Are you homeless? Do you need to move in with me? I have a spare room, but the cat uses it as his personal kingdom and he's very territorial," she rapid-fires, grabbing my arms.
"I got an extension," I manage.
"Oh, thank goodness! The cat really doesn't like sharing. He has anxiety. We're working through it in therapy," she explains, then pauses. "The cat's in therapy, not me. Well, I'm also in therapy, but that's unrelated."
"Everyone in this town needs therapy," I observe.
"It's the committees," she says sagely. "They'll drive you to madness. Speaking of which, emergency meeting in ten minutes."
"Emergency committee meeting? It's Thursday. Thursday is Bingo," I protest.
"Bingo's been postponed. Teddy ate all the markers," she explains.
"He ate the bingo markers?" I ask, horrified.
"He thought they were those yogurt-covered raisins. Very similar texture. He's fine, just very regular now," she over shares.
"I didn't need to know that," I inform her.
"Committee meeting!" she reminds me, already scurrying away. "Bring the boyfriend! Delia has questions!"
My fingers fumble with my phone as I text Holden: Emergency committee meeting. Teddy ate bingo markers. Delia has questions. Help.
His response is immediate: That's the weirdest text I've ever received. On my way.
Ten minutes later, we're seated in the community center's ‘Chamber of Interrogation’, officially the Magnolia Room but nobody calls it that, facing Delia's latest PowerPoint.
"Is she grading our relationship?" Holden whispers, his hand finding mine automatically.
"Shhh, she'll hear you," I hiss back.
"I can indeed hear you," Delia announces without looking up from her laptop. "And yes, I'm grading you. Currently, you're at a B-minus."
"B-minus?" I protest. "We traumatized the town with our shadow puppets! That's got to be worth at least a B-plus!"
"Shadow puppets were graded separately," she informs us, clicking to a slide titled "Public Displays of Affection: A Rubric."
"She has a rubric," Holden mutters. "Of course, she has a rubric."
"I have seventeen rubrics," Delia corrects. "This is rubric number twelve."
"That's very specific," I observe.
"Specificity prevents confusion," she says, then looks pointedly at our joined hands. "For instance, your current hand-holding rates a seven out of ten."
"Only seven?" Holden asks, sounding personally offended by our hand-holding score.
"Your thumb isn't moving. Authentic couples show thumb movement," Delia explains.
We both stare at our hands. Holden immediately starts rubbing his thumb across my knuckles.
"Better. Seven point five," Delia approves, making a note.
"This is insane," I mutter.
"This is science," Giuseppe corrects from his corner, where he's been documenting everything with what looks like a court reporter's notebook. "Love science!"
"Love science isn't real," Holden says.
"Tell that to my heart!" Giuseppe insists, clutching his chest dramatically. "I believed I could make edible food through the power of love!"
"Your food sent three people to the hospital last week," June points out from her seat.
"Allegedly!" Giuseppe protests. "The correlation between my lasagna and their symptoms was never proven!"
"They had food poisoning. You were the only source of food," June says flatly.
"Circumstantial!" Giuseppe maintains.
"Can we focus?" Delia demands, pulling up a new slide. "Holden, this question is for you."
"Oh good, a quiz," he says dryly.
"What's Wren's biggest fear?" she asks.
"Pass," he tries.
"This isn't radio trivia. Answer the question," Delia insists.
Holden turns to me, and something soft crosses his face. "Losing the shop. But not just losing it—losing the last piece of her grandmother she can hold on to. The fear is that if the shop goes, Helena's memory goes with it."
The room falls silent. Even Giuseppe stops taking notes.
"That's... actually really insightful," I whisper, my throat suddenly tight.
"Eight points," Delia announces, but her voice is gentler. "Wren, same question. Holden's biggest fear?"
I study his face, remembering our conversation during the blizzard. "Becoming his father. Or maybe... that he already has."
Holden's hand tightens around mine. His expression shifts to something like wonder.
"Ten points," Delia says quietly. "Full marks."
"Why does she get ten and I get eight?" Holden protests, his competitive side showing.
"She didn't hesitate," Delia explains. "Hesitation suggests calculation. Natural responses score higher."
"So, you're penalizing me for thinking?" he asks incredulously.
"I'm penalizing you for overthinking. Love doesn't overthink," Delia says.
"Have you met Wren? She has spreadsheets about spreadsheets. That's literally overthinking squared," Holden points out.
"Hey!" I protest. "My spreadsheets are perfectly reasonable. I have a color-coded system!"
"You color-coded your anxieties," he reminds me. "That's not reasonable, that's recreational mathematics."
"Next slide!" Delia interrupts, though she's clearly fighting a smile. "The Christmas Gala Test."
A photo appears of last year's gala, with every single person in town circled and labeled like a crime scene diagram.
"Every person in this photo will be watching you," Delia explains. "They'll judge your dancing, your conversation, your eating habits—"
"Our eating habits?" I squeak.
"Gerald Thompson specifically watches how couples share food. It's his metric for compatibility," she explains.
"That's creepy," Holden observes.
"That's Gerald," Teddy pipes up from his corner.
"The point is," Delia continues, "you need to be flawless. No hesitation, no confusion, no accidentally calling each other by the wrong names—"
"That happened ONE TIME," Teddy protests.
"You called your wife 'Mom,' Teddy," June reminds him.
"She looks like my mom in certain lighting!" he defends.
"Moving on," Delia says firmly. "I've prepared a training regimen."
"A training regimen?" I ask weakly. "For being in a relationship?"
"Yes," she states directly at me, pulling out an actual binder that must weigh ten pounds.
"Page one," she reads, "synchronized walking."
"Synchronized walking?" Holden repeats slowly, like the words might make more sense if he says them differently.
"Your natural walking paces don't match. Wren takes approximately ninety-three steps per minute, while Holden averages seventy-eight. The discrepancy is noticeable," Delia explains.
"You counted our steps?" I ask.
"I count everything," she says simply. "Page two: meal sharing protocols."
"Protocols for sharing food?" Holden asks.
"Gerald Thompson will be watching," she repeats ominously.
"This feels like preparing for a military operation," I observe.