Chapter 3
First Contact
Beau
It’s a fresh day. I wake up to that mantra running through my head, and I hold onto it.
The air is brisk and sunlit, cool enough to wake me up, warm enough to promise cautious optimism.
Somewhere behind me, a pair of birds squabble in a pine tree, their sharp chirps breaking through the quiet.
I let the background noise settle into my shoulders.
A clean start. Or close enough.
New day, new attitude, at least that’s what I’m going with.
Yesterday was a curveball, no question. The fake couple thing, the chalkboard moment…
it threw me. But I didn’t fall apart. I’ve handled worse surprises.
And today, I’m back here to participate in day two of the matchmaking festival. That has to count for something.
I glance up at my name beside Maisie’s on the compatibility quilt, framed by a toolbox and a bouquet of roses. Not quite what I’d envisioned for this week, but maybe not quite a disaster, either.
But then the morning conversations of gathering Sweetpines’ residents rises around me, and the commotion greets me, reminding me of the overly enthusiastic dog I had as a child.
Actually, scratch that. The overly enthusiastic dog is a memory.
Peaches is currently sporting a glittery pink knitted sweater and plops beside the scoring table as if she’s judging the whole scene already.
The air smells of kettle corn and grilled onions from the food carts lining the square, sweet and savory in alternating waves.
The murmur of the crowd thrums under everything—laughter, camera clicks, the crunch of gravel underfoot and the soft squeals of kids chasing each other around the fountain.
Folk music plays over the portable speakers, weaving through the square.
And maybe Peaches really is judging us all, her tail wagging in time with the music, eyes narrowed, looking entirely too similar to someone who is watching a fashion show and expected to pick out next year’s trends.
To my right, Amanda and Luis are already squabbling. “You said your dream date was stargazing!” Amanda says, jabbing a finger toward him.
Luis looks personally attacked. “That was metaphorical, Amanda! So is my patience.”
Team Barbie’s World is locked in an embrace engineered for maximum photo ops. They sip from the same smoothie and loudly proclaim, “We always think the same. It’s just so magical!”
I glance skyward. Nothing but the barest hint of clouds and the overwhelming urge to bolt.
Then I catch sight of Maisie. She’s adjusting her ponytail, one curl slipping loose and catching in the collar of her sweatshirt.
Her fingers brush it away with practiced ease.
The color catches in the sun. It’s the color of honey brushed with rose gold—soft and sunlit, straw spun with a hint of copper.
There’s something mesmerizing about it—about her.
My pulse skitters, not from the noise or the crowd or the looming ridiculousness of couple-themed obstacle courses, but because she’s standing there as though she belongs to the morning, sure and confident as the sunrise.
The rest of the festival feels like a joke I’m only half-smiling at.
But Maisie? Even knowing we’re faking it, she doesn’t feel fake. That’s the unsettling part.
Her presence reads as authentic and alive, as though she’s tuned into something deeper than the spectacle around us. She’s part of the show, sure, but she’s not performing the way the others are. She’s just…her. And that contrast cuts through the commotion and finds me.
I’m suddenly aware of how much space there is between us, because I want to be closer.
She’s laughing at something Dot from the quilt club says.
The sound of it tugs a sharp breath from my lungs and stirs up a flutter I can’t name—the kind of shift that makes you miss a beat, following an unexpected chord change.
She’s wearing a skirt printed with dancing potted plants and an orange sweatshirt that reads, Flower Power.
Her hot pink apron is dusted with petals already.
“Beau Callahan,” Reenie calls, clipboard in hand. “You and Maisie will start at Obstacle Station One.”
I step toward the banner-marked “start here” where Maisie’s already waiting, hips angled slightly to one side, arms crossed in a pose that reads equal parts prepared and amused.
“Ready to make fools of ourselves again?” she asks.
Her dry but cheery wit catches me off-guard. “Wasn’t aware we ever stopped,” I succeed at responding.
The compatibility walk challenge kicks off with a frenzy.
Each couple is handed a different laminated card but all titled Romantic Coordination Trial.
My mind translates it to Public Humiliation with Props.
It’s printed in a swirly, vaguely romantic font I suspect is Allura, the kind that dares you to take it seriously while still making you wonder if you’re signing up for a couples’ retreat or a prank show.
First task: walk twenty feet while balancing a balloon between our backs without using our hands.
Maisie leans backwards to press against the balloon I’m gripping behind my back and instructs with confidence, “Just think of me as structurally sound with a questionable center of gravity.”
“Comforting.”
We manage two steps, shoulders awkwardly sloped and spines locked tighter than a busted wrench, before Maisie wheezes with laughter. The balloon is slick against my back, staticky and stretched with rubber-tight strain. Every time we shift even slightly out of sync, it threatens to pop free.
I try not to focus on how her warmth radiates in waves, even with the balloon between us, how her bright laugh jumps through me. It knocks me sideways in the smallest way, not in a lightning-bolt way, just a subtle jolt, but the sound sits there in my chest, pitapatting.
She’s much shorter than me, but somehow we manage to regain balance and continue forward.
Her laughter bubbles up again, uncontrollably this time, and we lose our coordinated posture and stability.
The balloon shoots skyward, a hostage escaping its confinement, and all I can do is watch it drift skyward.
She dissolves into giggles that shake both of us from the inside out.
Without the balloon, we end up awkwardly leaning back-to-back, slumped into each other in a Leaning Tower of Pisa situation, one misstep from toppling. Finally, Maisie slides to the ground.
Team Barbie’s World gives us a pity clap, though it’s hard to tell if she and Ken did much better, their balloon burst halfway through. And now they’re both wearing matching patches of static-flattened hair and strained smiles, trying to play it off like it was part of the plan.
Before we reach the next station, I spot a couple near the hedgerow, one in a fringed denim jacket and cowboy boots, the other with a headful of lilac purple hair. Team Jam Session, if I remember how Maisie described them.
The cowgirl’s stance is confident, one boot up on a raised planter box, as if she’s ready to lead a trail ride.
The guy with the purple hair is half-dancing down the sidewalk, shoulders loose, head bobbing, following his own private beat.
The scent of lavender sachets drift in as we near the contest station.
Somehow, the connection between the bright hair and the soft lavender herbal notes feels seamless, the scent meant to follow that flash of color.
Our second competition of the day involves tossing lavender pouches into flower pots while blindfolded.
I’ll be throwing. Maisie will be my eyes.
I’m already holding the small bag and standing at the marked toss line.
I won’t be able to see a thing once Maisie ties the scarf. It’s her job to direct me verbally.
Maisie ties the scarf around my eyes. “Trust me?”
“More than the balloon.”
“Start tossing,” Millie shouts.
Maisie guides me with exaggerated instructions. “Aim left! No, your other left. That’s a birdbath, not a flower pot.”
A cheer goes up from somewhere nearby, followed by a gasp and someone shouting, “Duck!” I hear the unmistakable plop of something landing in liquid behind us.
I’m guessing lemonade. I peek under the scarf to see Luis completely off course.
Amanda is furious and spinning in circles, a malfunctioning compass come to life.
I turn my focus back to our team, and concentrate, tossing a second sachet. Maisie narrates as quickly as an auction caller, “It’s arcing. So graceful. We have a chance and…nope.”
I lift the scarf to watch the pouch land in the middle of a tray of mini scones, scattering them like cats startled by a loud noise. A dramatic sigh goes up from the snack table, followed by a slow clap from Dot Wallace, who’s apparently on judging duty right now.
Maisie chortles. “Bullseye.”
A piggyback relay across a grid of heart-shaped markers is the next contest in this so-called compatibility walk.
“You want to ride or run?” I ask.
She eyes me, then shrugs. “I already survived one ridiculous fall when the balloon vanished from between us, what’s the worst that could happen now? Might as well trust you not to drop me.”
She’s lighter than I expect. Strong, though, firm from the kind of work that builds lean muscle, not from showing off in a gym.
My hands tense for a second when I notice what’s beneath my touch beyond the muscle.
I’m used to dealing with wood, hammers, and power tools, utilitarian and hard surfaces.
But Maisie’s body has give and pillowy softness where a woman’s body should, and it’s been a long time since I’ve felt that.