Chapter 6 Town Gossip
Town Gossip
MADISON
Ilove going to the local farmer’s market.
It hums like a beehive. Tinny music blares from a bluetooth speaker.
The sweet smell of kettle corn drifts through the crowd.
Yeast and cinnamon roll out from the bakery tent.
Sunlight flashes off mason jars lined like soldiers: pickles, peaches, honey the color of stained glass.
I brace for quaint. What I get is a slow-motion head swivel the instant Dylan and I step onto Main Street together.
Whispers buzz my way before we clear the first stall.
Mrs. Latham—matchbook queen, cardigan commander—pauses mid-sale to stare, three floral matchbooks fanned in her palm like playing cards.
The jam ladies lean across their gingham table.
The teen barista at Bean There cranes over her espresso machine with foam art half-finished.
I lock my smile in place, the one that says sure, photograph me while I pretend I’m not combusting inside. Dylan just tips his cap at Mr. Hanley’s produce like he owns the pavement. I nudge him with my tote. “Do they always ogle like this?”
“Market’s entertainment budget is small,” he murmurs, mouth tilted. “We’re free.”
I want to laugh, but my throat is tight.
All eyes follow us like we’re a parade float rolling too close for comfort.
I grew up here. I should know how this works.
Yet today it feels like being under a magnifying glass.
***
Mrs. Latham swoops first, matchbooks tucked like a dossier. “Well. Ray’s girl back from the city—and with a Carter escort.” Her eyes flick between us. “Didn’t think I’d live to see it.”
“Morning, Mrs. Latham,” Dylan says, unbothered. I add, “Love the hydrangea print,” because compliments are social WD-40.
At the jam tent, Mrs. Donnelly thrusts a spoon at me. “Strawberry-rhubarb. Perfect for breakfasts in bed.” She winks so hard I’m afraid she’ll sprain something.
Dylan coughs into his fist. “She’ll take two.”
We’re heckled at Bean There by two teens with eyeliner and bravado. “Miss Wilkes, do you prefer your farmer medium or well-done?” one asks, latte steaming. The other flicks her gaze to Dylan. “You bringing her flowers or just eggs?”
“Protein and petals. Full service,” I shoot back. They dissolve into squeals. Dylan’s shoulder brushes mine, solid and maddeningly calm.
Tom Jenkins pedals by on his bike, knee scabbed as always. “Hey, are you two, like, official? My mom says you used to be.”
“We were never—” I start, but he’s already gone, chain rattling.
A few more stalls down, Mrs. Chang waves from her flower tent. “Madison, daisies are half off for brides this week.”
My cheeks heat. Dylan’s brows hitch, amused despite himself.
***
By the honey stand, rumor hardens into headline. “They’re back together,” a woman announces, bagging carrots. “Always knew they’d circle round.”
“About time,” another agrees, handing me a smile that assumes intimacy we don’t share. “He needs sunshine. She needs grounding.”
Heat climbs my throat. We were never together. But small towns don’t fact-check; they cast. Dylan accepts congratulations with a nod while I scramble for language. If I deny it, I feed the beast. If I say nothing, the beast names our future.
Kids chase each other past the cheese stand, chanting, “Madison’s got a boyfriend!” I want to crawl under the tablecloth and hide. Dylan doesn’t flinch. He lifts a wedge of cheddar, sniffs, and mutters, “Too mild.”
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, tasting strawberry-rhubarb and panic.
Dylan leans in. “Don’t feed it.”
***
We round the corner by the bakery tent, cinnamon air thick as a hug. Dylan’s voice drops. “Let it stand.”
“I’m not letting Main Street fanfic my life,” I hiss. “We correct them.”
“Every correction is gasoline,” he says. “You want privacy while we fix the farm? Give them a story that keeps them satisfied and out of our hair.”
I stop dead. “Are you seriously suggesting we pretend?”
“Pretend, protect, whatever word helps,” he says. “It buys us time.”
A new voice cuts through. “Pretend what?” Matthew. He’s just stepped out of the hardware store with a bag of nails, eyes cutting from my face to Dylan’s like a blade. “No one is pretending anything with my sister.”
“Matt—” I lower my voice.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Dylan. Protective, bristled. “You two want to run a farm together, fine. But if you’re playing games with people’s mouths and my sister’s name, I’m not having it.”
“It’s not a game,” Dylan says, steady. “It’s strategy.”
My heartbeat slams.
Because strategy is my language, and I hate that he’s right.
The market has already written our label. Fighting it will only tear the paper.
***
Mrs. Donnelly’s timing is demonic. “So when’s the wedding?” she calls, loud enough to still the street. Heads swivel. Even the espresso machine hushes.
Every instinct says deny, explain, control the narrative. But the narrative is controlling me. Dylan’s hand finds mine—warm, firm, an anchor. His eyes ask a question I don’t want to answer and somehow already am.
I squeeze once. Agreement, truce, warning—all in that press of fingers. He faces the crowd with a calm I envy. “We’ll share news when it’s time,” he says, easy as Sunday.
The market exhales—laughter, clinks, chatter rising again. Matthew steps close on my other side, the third point of a triangle no one else sees. Under the noise he says, low and lethal, “Strategy or not, I’m watching. Don’t make me choose, Carter.”
Dylan doesn’t release my hand. I don’t pull away. And the air between us charges like a storm front.
Fake dating. Two words that could save the farm—or burn it down.
As the noise swells back to life, I catch sight of Mrs. Chang tucking extra daisies into my tote, a smile like she’s already planning centerpieces.
My pulse skitters. If we go through with this charade, it won’t just be whispers.
It’ll be expectations, baked into every pie, tucked into every bouquet, stitched into every quilt sold at this market.
Expectations are harder to undo than rumors.
Matthew sees it too. His eyes soften when they land on me, but when they flick to Dylan, they harden again. Silent promise: one wrong move and he’ll end this for both of us.
I swallow, forcing another smile for the crowd.
Inside, my chest feels wrapped in barbed wire.
This isn’t just strategy. It’s a gamble—with the farm, with Dylan, with my heart.
***
The market thins, but not before Mrs. Hardy corners me by the pie stall. She presses a box into my arms, her tone syrupy. “On the house. You’ll need strength for wedding planning.” My mouth opens to protest, but Dylan’s hand is already steering me forward.
I bite down on the urge to snap. Dylan leans close. “See? Gasoline.”
I want to hate him for being right.
Instead, I focus on the pie trembling in my hands.
If this keeps up, I’ll be eating expectations for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
***
We pause near the produce tent where bushels of apples gleam. Kids dart between stalls, voices carrying. One of the girls points at Dylan and me, whispering. Her father follows her gaze, then tips his hat with a knowing smile. The unspoken chorus hums: They belong together.
I set the pie on the table with a thunk. “I can’t breathe in here,” I mutter.
Dylan studies me, eyes narrowing, but doesn’t answer.
The weight of everyone else’s certainty presses down until I can’t tell what’s real anymore—what I feel, or what the town is telling me to feel.
***
Matthew rejoins us, bag of nails swinging at his side. He doesn’t speak at first, just surveys the market—the way neighbors keep glancing at us, the lingering smiles. Finally, he exhales. “You know they’re not going to let this go, right?”
His voice is quieter, almost resigned. Protective as always, but threaded with something else—acceptance, maybe, or exhaustion. I blink at him. Dylan stays silent, watching.
Matthew shifts the bag in his grip. “If you’re going to keep this charade alive, make sure it’s worth something. For the farm. For Ray. Don’t let it be just gossip.”
It’s the closest thing to approval I’ve ever heard from him.
My throat tightens. Dylan’s gaze flicks to me, unreadable.
***