Chapter 2 #2
Tess just crosses her arms, grinning like she’s about to tell her favorite joke, and throws in a few exaggerated shrugs for flair.
When he finally quits trying to argue with her, Tess pats his shoulder, then flashes him a smile with the self-assured pride of someone who knows she’s won—and enjoys rubbing it in.
For half a second, Beau closes his eyes, and I sense he’s summoning every ounce of sibling patience in his body.
Before I can bolt, Reenie loops an arm through mine. “Come on, darling. I see you scheming your getaway plan. You can’t not participate. Think of the quilt’s integrity.”
Millie adds solemnly, “And our reputation.”
Dot says, “Also, we laminated the festival programs.”
My mouth opens. Closes. Reopens. “That seems aggressive.”
“You’re welcome,” Reenie chirps.
Essie passes around the basket of muffins she seems to have every time I encounter her—this batch smells like lemon and blueberry—my favorite. She randomly adds, “You know what I always like to say: love needs space to bloom, sugar, and a good muffin.”
Jenna leans in, voice conspiratorial. “If you bail now, the whole town’s going to start whispering about you and Beau anyway. Participating just gives them less to speculate about. Plus, the prize money could cover that walk-in fridge you keep denying is broken.”
I groan. “I hate how persuasive you people are.”
I turn and march away from the ladies, needing a second to clear my head. The ruffled layers of my colorful pansy floral patterned skirt sway with each determined step, brushing against my calves with flustered swishes, as if even my clothes are trying to keep up with this small-town soap opera.
I round the corner near the lemonade stand and barrel straight into a broad, muscular chest. I stumble to a halt, both hands flying out to hit an invisible rewind button that doesn’t exist.
It’s him.
Beau.
He’s standing beneath the pine at the edge of the square, with an inscrutable expression, except for the hint of restrained frustration that simmers beneath the surface.
A few needles drift lazily from the branches above, twirling through the air, unhurried as if time itself has paused; while I, on the other hand, have crash-landed into the kind of over-orchestrated nonsense that would make a rom-com movie director ecstatic.
“So,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I guess we both got ambushed.”
“Jenna,” I say at the same time he says, “Tess.”
We both hesitate.
“Of course,” he groans.
I sigh, then suggest before I lose my nerve, “We could fake it. Play along. Just get through the festival, check all the boxes, and part ways without complications.”
As I propose the scheme, I’m finally close enough to notice the dimple in Beau’s chin, like Ben Affleck’s, but well hidden under his beard. My throat goes dry, and my eyelashes bat rapidly.
Beau doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t walk away either. “Fine. I guess. But I don’t do small talk.”
“Good,” I agree. “I’m allergic to it.”
I swallow hard before adding, “Just so we’re clear, this isn’t only about surviving the Stitch Sisters. The festival has judging. Public challenges. And real-time, out loud gossip. I mean…we will hear it all.”
His expression remains passive, almost numb.
“If we want a shot at tricking people, or even just making it through without being overanalyzed and nit-picked, we have to make it look convincing. As if we’re really into each other.”
Beau’s brows lift, just slightly. “You mean pretend to connect, communicate, and be attracted to each other?”
“Exactly,” I say. “Pretend to be together, as if the matching worked. You know. Your average small-town romance scam. No pressure.”
Beau exhales slowly, then gives a short nod. “If that’s what it takes. But if I’m going to fake date you for a week, I reserve the right to veto any cutesy couple costumes.”
Off to the side, the Newly-Deads stand under their lace parasol, watching the tumult unfold with enviable calm.
Maribel says flatly, “I’ve seen better chemistry in a high school group project.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, despite my lingering anger and shock.
Of course, they’re unfazed. They stay so perfectly in sync that they make the rest of us look like blind dates gone rogue.
The first event is couples’ trivia on the library lawn. A quilt-draped table holds stacks of mini chalkboards and pink-swirled chalk that leaves pink dust on everything.
Reenie welcomes everyone with the flourish of someone who once dreamed of the spotlight and now directs community theater. “Welcome, sweethearts and skeptics! Time to see how well you don’t know each other.”
Beau and I sit side by side on a wool picnic blanket that’s both too scratchy and too plaid, warm from the sun and prone to bunching every time I shift. We each clutch a chalkboard. He holds his like it’s a tool, efficient, practical. Mine already has smudges from where I’ve gripped it too tightly.
He’s angled slightly away from me, legs stretched out, every inch of him telegraphing that this is only one of the tasks we agreed to check off.
I try not to notice the little scuff marks on his boots or the way his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth while he’s concentrating.
This is trivia. Not a federal investigation.
Still, I can’t help wondering if his answers will be careful or clever, or if he’s truly only here to survive the matchmaking mayhem in the same way I am.
First question: “What’s your partner’s dream breakfast?”
Beau scrawls, Black coffee and edible flowers . . . outdoors.
I write, Whatever involves bacon and zero small talk.
Close enough. We earn a sympathy point.
Second question: “Would your partner rather fight a bear or compete in a diving contest with the mayor?”
I write, bear.
Beau writes, diving.
Peeking at my clipboard, Beau says as his quirks to one side, “Close. But I’d actually rather fight two bears than do something as public as a diving contest.”
We actually win that round.
Lucy Brandt and the home-renovator guy—who still remains nameless—stand in the shade of a tent, heads bent together over their chalkboards.
They murmur back and forth, pointing at each other and looking adorably confused, until they get a perfect answer and blink in mutual disbelief.
One of them pumps a fist. I make a mental note to keep an eye on those two.
Third question: “What’s their biggest fear?”
Beau’s hand pauses.
I frown at the chalk.
We both write rejection at the same time.
The instant my chalk finishes the last letter, the kind of weight I thought I’d hidden well settles on my chest. The weight of something I haven’t fully let go of.
My breathing is heavy with realization and also surprise since I absolutely was not expecting Beau to match my answer—wasn’t expecting to see my own fear mirrored back at me in neat, slanted, no-nonsense handwriting.
My mind flashes to the huge engagement ring I tucked into a box labeled “donations” several years ago.
That memory flickers, then fades, giving way to a tight twist in my stomach.
I remember the weeks after—how Jenna kept looking at me like I was a cracked stained-glass window: fractured, still casting jewel-toned shadows, but barely holding it together.
I never talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I bury it under flowers and flightiness, and I hope no one sees through my mask to the jagged fragments even now cutting and threatening to slice through my disguise.
I sneak a glance at Beau, and he’s looking at my answer, too. Neither of us says anything, but the unspoken understanding hovers between us, simultaneously jolting and empathetic.
I pause, staring at the word. It’s only chalk on a board, but for a second, it feels heavier, as if the writing down of it might conjure a reality I’m not ready for.
The laughter from nearby couples softens my mood. The Maybes accidentally blurt out two completely unrelated answers to the same question. And Amanda from Team Tune-Up insists Luis’s handwriting is illegible. Luis claims she has selective hearing.
The whole thing escalates until Amanda calls Luis a trivia tyrant, and he fires back with ‘emotional amnesia.’ Franny—hovering nearby with her clipboard—laughs so hard mid-sip of apple cider that she snorts and spills the drink down her front.
The sound catches me off guard, and before I know it, I’m smiling too—tension slips off my shoulders, a silky shrug falling from my shoulders. That’s all it takes. The laughter is contagious, and the entire lawn cracks up.
The hilarity of the situation trips something in me—a sudden release, the kind of relief that comes from cracking open a window in a stuffy room.
The pressure doesn’t vanish all at once, but it starts to seep out, unraveling one tight knot at a time.
For a refreshing few minutes, I forget the hurt still haunting my memories and the fact that I’m supposed to be fuming at my friends.
Then Beau glances over at my answer and says, just loud enough for me to hear, “I thought you’d write ‘running out of floral wire.’”
I cackle. “That is top five.”
He almost smiles.
We score solidly in the middle. Not a disaster. Not a dream team. But the Stitch Sisters look thrilled, and Peaches drops a ribbon at our feet, awarding us “Best Effort.”
I picked it up to discard it in the nearest garbage can, when my mom rushed in from out of nowhere.
“You can’t throw that away, Maisie. If you don’t want it.
I’ll keep it. For posterity…and to show my future grandchildren.
” She’d winked at Beau and my whole face cringed in embarrassment.
My hand also reacted, planting itself full on center of my face, covering the deep furrows in my forehead, nose, cheeks and chin.
As the crowd starts to disperse, Reenie announces tomorrow’s challenge: “Be ready for tomorrow’s compatibility walk! A lovely outdoor tandem stroll through Pinecone Park with a few added obstacles. Coordinated steps, shared snacks, raucous laughter from townsfolk—what could be more romantic?”
I groan. “Of course, it’s outdoorsy. I may love flowers, but that doesn’t mean I’m that into nature. And they better not put marshmallows in the GORP, just M&Ms.”
“GORP?” Beau slightly lifts both palms and shoulders, like he might be afraid of the answer.
“No way? You don’t know GORP? ‘Good old raisins and peanuts.’ It’s old-fashioned trail mix.”
Beau mutters, “Kill me now.”
Peaches sniffs my hand as if I might have GORP hiding right now, then sits down sharply in protest. Even she’s over today.