Chapter 9
And the Winner Is
Maisie
Ihaven’t stopped thinking about that song. Not since he played it. Not since the way my name seemed to echo in the space between the notes, even if he never said it out loud.
And now it’s morning. The last day of the festival.
I told myself things wouldn’t feel different. That we’d laugh off last evening and pretend that it didn’t matter. But the truth is, it did. It mattered to me. And now I’m hoping it mattered to him.
Will it be awkward when I see him again? Will he retreat into that carefully guarded cocoon of his, denying that everything on the porch even happened and tucking himself in like a turtle pulling its head back into its shell—a slow-motion, emotional disappearing act?
Or worse, will he act as though it did matter, and I won’t know what to do with that?
Across the square, Team Let’s Go Viral is offering autographs. Not on pie tins this year; the pie-throwing contest was eliminated from the festival last year after a rogue blackberry incident and three stained bridesmaid dresses.
So Cassie is using the repurposed lid of a Tillamook marionberry pie ice cream container.
While twirling audaciously, she’s miming autographs with an imaginary sharpie as if everyone asked for her signature.
Nico bows repeatedly beside her; anyone not from here would believe he’d just won Sweetpines’ version of an Oscar.
“To our fans,” he says with mock solemnity. “Thank you for believing in true love…and lactose.”
I watch from a distance, arms crossed, one hip leaning against the old produce cart someone turned into a festival info stand.
“They’re already planning their acceptance speech,” I jeer.
“I heard they pre-wrote one,” Jenna adds, sidling up with two lemonades and a smirk. “Something about ‘manifesting the inevitable.’”
Peaches races past on what can only be described as a sugar rush, a winner’s ribbon clamped triumphantly in her mouth.
Her tail swings side to side behind her, a kite swaying in an early spring breeze.
A little boy yells in delight and chases her through the square, his shoes slapping the pavement as Peaches darts through folding chairs and lawn games, weaving with the precision of someone who’s been training for this moment all her life.
No one knows where she got the ribbon.
Again.
“Do we think she stole it from the craft table or the judges’ tent?” I ask.
“Honestly? Could be either,” Jenna replies.
The final voting event for the Sweetpines Matchmaking Festival is, naturally, delightfully unorganized. Townsfolk cast their ballots not in a formal box or digital poll, but through a pipeline of themed jars scattered across downtown businesses.
At Botaniq?e, our voting method is recycled honey jars tied with raffia.
People vote by dropping a flower petal into whichever team’s jar they think should win.
By midday, Beau’s and mine is already half full, and the scents of lavender and marigold are mixing in a way I’m not sure is entirely legal in aromatherapy.
At the Griddle & Grain, Marty’s created an elaborate labeling system.
“Best Questionable Chemistry” is written in permanent marker on one soup bowl.
“Best Pie Bribe” on another. And finally, “Sweetpines Sweethearts Festival Winners” winds around the third jar.
Voters use wooden coffee stir sticks to cast their vote, writing the name of their chosen winning couple on them.
Peaches, of course, tries to chew one like it’s beef jerky.
Pen swoops in, scoops the soggy stick from her mouth, and replaces it with a heart-shaped biscuit.
I watch from Botaniqué’s front window as locals meander between businesses, casting votes. I can’t decide if I’m more charmed or unnerved. Probably both.
Because this isn’t just about a weekend getaway. It’s what the weekend means.
The Stitch Sisters are campaigning for Beau and me like we’re running for office.
Reenie’s at the lemonade stand handing out couple-themed stickers like currency and singing along with the music from her portable radio.
Dot’s making the rounds in her red sunhat, asking leading questions with sugar-sweet smiles: “Wouldn’t you just love to send these two on a well-earned vacation? ”
Peaches has one of those stickers stuck to her fur, “TEAM MAISIE & BEAU” in sparkly block letters—slightly crooked, courtesy of one of the Simpson twins. Probably Sawyer, with his endless decal stash and mild obsession with Peaches.
At first, I laughed. Now… I’m not sure what I feel.
People are watching and whispering. Not unkindly. They look hopeful, like they want to believe the magic of the quilt worked. Invested. As though they already see Beau and me as a real couple in love.
It’s tempting to believe it too. But that requires running beyond my fears.
I wish I could shrug it all off the way I usually do when people say I’m too much, too loud, too everything. But I can’t this time.
Because if we win, it won’t be for show.
It will prove they sensed authenticity, believing that I am worthy, quirks and all, of someone like Beau.
It’ll mean they saw the version of me that’s been showing up beside Beau—and chose her.
Believed in her and approved of me being loved by Beau. It’s mind-boggling.
That maybe I’m not too much. Maybe I’m just right.
It’s exhilarating. And terrifying.
Somewhere between the potluck sabotage, our walk through town, and that song on the porch, I stopped pretending. And part of me started wanting... not the prize.
Him.
Which is absurd. Right?
Why would Beau choose me any more than Gray did—or didn’t?
I spot him across the square, bent over a food truck helping Parker from Team Barbie’s World. Flannel sleeves rolled, focused, relaxed. I imagine walking over, saying something casual. Ordinary and mundane. Something about drill bits or how unfair it is that he looks so calm.
But I stay put.
Because even if Sweetpines votes for us… does he? Does he want me—the version I didn’t rehearse, the one who slipped in when I stopped faking?
And maybe the bigger question is: Am I ready to believe I’m being accepted, chosen as me? The true Maisie.
I clear my throat, but that doesn’t do anything to dislodge the knot forming between my heart and my chin.
And then I remember the way he looked at me on the porch as the last note faded. A look that couldn’t lie. Not even by omission.
He doesn’t know I’m watching, and that sends a zapping tremor down my spine, that shiver you get with the first step into cold water, startled but drawn forward anyway.
“He’s good at fixing things,” Jenna says beside me, tone annoyingly perceptive.
“Yeah. Handy types are great until something emotional breaks. Then it’s all measuring tapes and distance.”
“You sure that’s him?” she asks understandingly. “Not Gray in your rearview mirror?”
I don’t answer.
Around town, the speculation has gotten absurd.
Marty’s scribbling odds at the diner counter using cinnamon roll orders to track favorites. Every time someone orders pecan on their rolls with extra cream cheese frosting, he puts a tick under “Maisie & Beau.” Apparently, we’re trending.
The Quilt Club set up an unofficial betting pool in the back corner of Stitched Together.
Each couple’s name was scrawled on its own manila envelope, thumbtacked to a corkboard beneath a sign that read: “Strictly for Fun (and Fabric).” Locals slipped in folded bills with their predictions, wagering on who would win the contest.
The prize? A custom quilt and bragging rights. Franny kept a spreadsheet. Dot kept watch. Reenie insisted it was “absolutely not gambling” rather community engagement with an incentive. I tried to opt out. Reenie told me, “Dearheart, that train left the station three contests ago.”
As the last jelly bean is cast into the “Most Likely to End Up Married” voting jar at the hardware store, the ground under the square nearly rumbles with anticipation. Somewhere behind me, I hear Reenie whisper, “Let’s give the people a moment. Finales deserve a little build-up.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Beau appears at my side half a minute after I step away from Jenna, and for one breathless second, my heart thunders. Neither of us turns toward the other.
We just…find each other.
At first, it’s only proximity, a drift toward the same patch of shade near the cider stand. But the moment we realize we’re side by side, something clicks into place. My shoulder brushes his. The contact is brief but grounding. Warm in a way that reaches beneath the nerves still zinging inside me.
It’s natural and unplanned, as though gravity did the work.
And then, just as the expectation in the air triples, the loudspeaker crackles to life. The announcer is Millie, bless her heart, trying to act like she’s never done this before.
“Ahem. Attention, Sweetpines! The time has come,” she declares with the flair of someone who’s clearly practiced in front of a mirror.
“The moment you’ve all been waiting for. The voting has been tabulated, quadruple-checked, and tastefully gossiped about.”
I glance at Beau, and his eyes lock on mine.
Like dance partners moving fluidly together, our hands clasp between us. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and strong. We both look down at the same instant, then up—two startled jack-in-the-boxes—just in time to hear:
“Maisie Quinn and Beau Callahan! Let’s give it up for Team Beau & Maisie.”
The square erupts with cheers, thrilled chatter, and a few whoops from the direction of the Griddle & Grain.
“Congratulations!” Millie crows, milking it now. “You are the winners of this year’s Sweetpines Sweethearts Getaway Weekend!”
Applause explodes around me. Cassie gasps so loudly I think for an instant that we won second place instead. But no. Team Let’s Go Viral is clapping too, in that polished, photogenic way that makes you feel as though they’re already writing their complaint email.
And me?
I’m frozen.
The whole square is clapping. Pen is crying. Marty lifts his coffee in our direction like a toast. The Stitch Sisters clasp hands in a circle and do a little bouncing shuffle, a quilted victory dance only they understand.
Somewhere near the apple cider stand, Peaches takes credit with a sharp bark.
I check Beau’s face, bolstering myself for a flare of discomfort. A shift in his expression, a telltale blink, anything that might signal he’s dreading this. That the week wasn’t bad enough. Now we’ve won ourselves a weekend alone.
Instead, he appears composed, unconcerned. Quiet.
But it’s a quiet that makes me second-guess everything. Not closed off, exactly, but unreadable in a way that scrapes against the nerves I’ve just barely managed to calm.
I wonder if I’m witnessing the start of his magician disappearing act—pulling away, retreating behind the wall we both pretended didn’t exist last night.
I brace for distance. For dismissal. For him to fade into the crowd, making his escape.
And suddenly, he drops my hand, turning to walk in the other direction. My heart plummets.
Seriously? Did I completely misread everything?
He should be the one getting an Oscar for his pretend dating me, because clearly, he is adamantly opposed to spending this getaway with me.
But then, as I watch with a slack jaw, I realize he’s not walking far. Instead, I glimpse him stooping down near where he’d been helping Parker and picking something up off the ground.
Something dark and bulky.
I’m dumbfounded when he lifts what I now see plainly is a duffel bag over one shoulder and starts walking toward me.
It takes me a second to understand what’s happening.
He already packed.
“Wait,” I say, stepping forward as he nears me, my heart rabbiting. “We don’t have to go. We can back out if you want. It doesn’t have to be…”
He simply keeps walking, each step decided and convincing in a way that I believe he’s made up his mind. He’s come to a conclusion and isn’t second-guessing it.
The duffel rides his shoulder, bumping lightly against his back with each step. His blue-gray eyes lock on mine. Then he tips his chin in that uniquely Beau way that says more than words ever could.
No performance.
No pretending.
Just…him.
Striding determinedly toward me. I’m the place he’s heading to. Not the prize at the end of a contest.
And suddenly, all the noise around me blurs.
Because I know I don’t want to talk him out of it.
I want to go.
I want to see what happens when it’s just the two of us—no quilt squares, no staged events, no faking it.
Just one pine-framed cabin near the Little Kilchis River.
And whatever comes next.