Chapter 2
Absolutely Not (Okay, Maybe)
Maisie
Iwant to say, “Yes get me out.”
I want to say, “I left the oven on.”
Instead, I practice my meditative breathing. Once. Twice. And stay as rooted as one of the daffodils in my window display.
I can’t look away either.
Our eyes are locked.
His mouth quirks as though he might smile. Not big, not warm—enough to make me wonder if he’s amused, confused, or barely keeping it together like I am. His almost-smile shifts and dims before I can read it fully, as if he caught himself just in time.
And then, as the crowd begins to cheer, he mutters something I can’t catch and shakes his head.
It reminds me of someone trying to wake himself up from a dream he never expected to find himself in.
And rightfully so, because same as for me, I’m pretty sure the town just flipped a page in his story without warning or permission.
The applause swells. I swallow hard. I didn’t come here looking for romance. I came for routine, tradition, and town spirit. I may be loud, a little extra, sometimes even a walking emotional fireworks display, but I still need to feel in control of my life.
I need to be able to design the direction of my future in the same way I arrange my window displays: orderly, curated, safely framed behind glass. That way my life won’t suddenly veer off course again the way it did a few years ago.
But for a quick second, I wonder what would happen if this match—the one I never asked for—turns out to be the one I never saw coming.
Sweetpines locals buzz around the square as if our charming little town is auditioning for its own holiday special.
Music from a nearby speaker floats through the air—something pop/country with too much ukulele.
The scent of powdered sugar and deep-fried dough curls around me, a sly scent memory.
Streamers snap and sway overhead, and Peaches lets out a yip that startles a tiny girl into dropping her lemonade.
I flinch and wipe my palms on my skirt, which is already sticking where the breeze doesn’t reach.
A hammer clangs against metal in the distance, and I feel it in my bones.
The sun flashes off the compatibility quilt’s glinting embroidery, beams like light sabers burning straight into my eyes.
I wince, lashes twitching as a bead of sweat slips down and clings to the edge of my eye, hot and stinging.
My vision blurs for a heartbeat, long enough to match the rising heat rising under my cheeks.
Even though I’ve grown accustomed to this yearly event—everything about today’s festival is gaudy and crazy loud—but not loud enough to drown out the echo of his name still bouncing around my brain.
Beau Callahan. Tess’s brother. Panic spiral beginning, but at least he’s cute.
Jenna is nowhere to be found, which is suspicious. Also telling. If my best friend has suddenly vanished, it usually means she’s feeling guilty about something.
Around me, the town carries on as if nothing’s off.
I don’t recognize most of the newly matched couples, but the Stitch Sisters are already making their rounds: Dot quietly observing, but I know she will remember every second of what she sees and hears; Franny muttering stats; Essie handing out her hopeful heart muffins like this is a love-fueled bake sale.
They talk with the different pairs—some of whom I mentally nickname on the fly—and guide them toward their first event stations. Team the Maybes is effervescent from their public display of affection near the cider stand, and Team Tune-Up is arguing about the map to tomorrow’s compatibility walk.
The Over-actors—Jasper and Maribel in normal life—are mid-skit on the temporary stage, flinging arms and fake swoons with all the melodrama of America’s Got Talent, theatrics, swooping gestures, and all.
They toss in mock gasps and Shakespearean lines no one asked for, definitely determined to win an Oscar for Best Overacting in a Small-Town Spectacle.
Team Jam Session is making its way over to the trivia contest area, the cowgirl and her headphone-wearing partner are engaged in a one-sided discussion about what decade Elvis died. She insists it was the eighties. He calmly mouths lyrics to a totally different artist.
Peaches trots past me, acting as if she believes she is a furry parade marshal, her pink bandana askew and tail wagging with self-importance.
She pauses at my feet, glances up with her lopsided grin, then continues on as though she has serious matchmaking rounds to make.
Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Peaches had a vote in the final pairings.
I finally spot Jenna near the edge of the quilt display, half-hidden behind a vase of sunflowers big enough to give off shade.
“You!” I hiss, grabbing her elbow, twirling her to face me.
Jenna startles, nearly dropping a borrowed notebook and pencil—no doubt grabbed out of the Stitch Sisters’ official tent headquarters to give her camouflage while she pretends not to be involved in matchmaking business.
“You entered me?”
“Well...technically, Tess and I entered you both. It was a joint effort.”
I frown.
“We thought you needed a little push. We’re tired of seeing you lonely.”
“Jenna, I’m not...”
“We’re your best friends, Maisie. We know you better than anyone, and we’re...um...we just want to help.”
I shove my index finger between my teeth, ready to bite down if that’s what it takes to keep from blurting out something I’ll regret.
“You know how it goes, Maze—Tess is the instigator, I’m the accomplice with the clipboard, and you’re the unwilling participant who always forgives us, eventually. Come on, Maisie. Don’t be mad.”
She grabs my hand, barely making eye contact. “You know our trio’s dynamic—we get into trouble, and you roll your eyes, then fix it with a flower arrangement. It’s our comfort zone.”
I see her look to her right and left. “We’re just looking out for our bestie.”
Before she can slink away, the Stitch Sisters descend like pastel-clad hawks. My mother, whom I’d planned to have lunch with after the couples were named, isn’t far behind. But she lets the elderly ladies say everything she doesn’t dare say.
“Oh, you two! A perfect match!” Reenie beams, flanked by Millie and Dot, pointing toward me and then Beau on opposite ends of the square, as if sheer willpower can pull us together.
“How exciting for you, Maisie! Paired with Beau. He’s quite the catch and quite a looker,” Millie contributes.
My cheeks warm.
And Dot finishes with a wink, “Your compatibility forms, were the stuff of matchmaking legends.”
The Stitch Sisters interrupt their gushing over Beau and me just long enough to wave enthusiastically toward a goth couple beneath a black parasol. “There go Nora and Grant,” one of them says cheerfully. “Second year competing. It’s amazing how they never break character.”
I can’t help the crooked grin that tugs at my lips. I nicknamed them the Newly-Deads last year—between the eyeliner, parasol, and a vow renewal that sounded more like a funeral toast, the name stuck. They never objected.
Nora wears a Victorian-inspired corset dress with metal grommets for trim, paired with black lacy gloves. Grant is in a tailored black waistcoat with silver buttons, dark slacks, and a dramatic high-collared coat. They both wear enough eyeliner to rival a rock band, and they pull it off.
Grant mutters, “Bet the competition isn’t even past the first challenge when at least one couple breaks down. Hopefully literally,” with a perfectly deadpan voice. I nearly laugh out loud.
When the Stitch Sisters return their attention to me, I’m still shaking my head in disbelief, trying to process the sheer audacity of this public ambush.
“You actually read the entries? The compatibility forms?” I finally stutter out.
Millie tips her head thoughtfully, then smiles in that serene, knowing way she has. “We always read the compatibility forms, honey,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.
I blink and shake my head slightly, taken aback by her total sincerity.
Somehow, I expected more fanfare or joking—but no, Millie is dead serious.
It’s suddenly clear that the Stitch Sisters aren’t just humoring the town with their traditions.
They’re deeply invested in this whole matchmaking business. And apparently in Beau and me.
“Why is it that I get the feeling people around here don’t take us seriously?” Millie asks, clearly befuddled.
To further prove Millie’s point, Dot recites from memory the answers crafted by my friends-turned-traitors, whom I may not be speaking to when today is over: “You, dear, said your ideal date was wandering a farmers market with really good coffee and a dog that isn’t yours; you mentioned flannel pajamas as your favorite sleepwear; and you also picked marionberry shakes as your love language. ”
“Well, it is seasonal,” I counter.
“Beau,” Dot continues, “wrote that he lives in flannel shirts, enjoys fixing things with duct tape and elbow grease, and once ate an entire marionberry pie alone, calling it ‘an act of emotional survival.’”
“Now that’s flannel compatibility or my name’s not Delores,” Delores quips.
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s either spooky or suspicious.”
I cut a look at Jenna, already knowing the answer but needing to hear her say it. “Really...flannel pajamas?”
“Tess did the real matchmaking magic,” Jenna says, hands raised in mock surrender. “I only helped.”
Speak of the devil—literally. Tess appears on the far side of the pine tree where Beau’s standing, close enough for me to watch the interaction, but not close enough to hear their words.
Her arms are crossed smugly as Beau tears into her.
His hand gestures are clipped and controlled, but the tension in his jaw makes it obvious he’s annoyed.