Chapter 11
JULES
Light sneaks past the curtains.
My skull swells.
But worth it.
Two Tylenol. A glass of water.
A slow breath as my fingers brush my mouth, tracing the ghost of last night’s kiss.
I refuse to overthink it.
The town square is already alive.
White tents bloom like sails, peaches gleam in crates, kettle corn snaps in its kettle, and the air smells of butter and basil.
Mrs. Hargreeve has her famous pies stacked high, steam fogging the plastic lids.
“Three,” I tell her. “Peach crumb, blueberry lattice, and one classic apple. Picnic emergency.”
“Emergencies are my specialty.”
She tucks napkins under the elastic bands and slips a paper bag of cinnamon sugar “for dusting.”
With the boxes in my arms, I head back.
Three perfect solutions for dessert, and one very imperfect tangle of thoughts I’m trying not to name.
By two, the BnB lawn is a beautiful mess.
Kids chase each other around the oak, checkered blankets ripple in the breeze, and buffet tables stripe the grass like a parade devoted to carbs.
At the edge of the property, near the split-rail fence and the rolling fields beyond, sits the thing Maddie and Riot built with the confidence of people who should never be trusted with a staple gun.
The Apology Booth.
A white pop-up canopy.
A sagging sheet clipped to a folding table.
A curtain that looks suspiciously like a repurposed shower liner.
A cardboard sign: APOLOGIES 5￠, the cent sign drawn backward.
Paper hearts flap in the breeze, as if romance could be held together with tape and printer paper.
Mrs. Dorsey stands guard at the entrance with a mason jar and a fistful of tokens.
Every guest gets two wooden nickels at the gate.
“Use them before dessert,” she declares.
“And don’t forget, the tokens double as raffle entries!”
Riot, glowing with pride, seizes the mic.
“One lucky winner walks away tonight with the ultimate prize: a deluxe chip-and-dip platter, salsa moat included. Stainless steel. Dishwasher safe. Truly life-changing.”
The crowd laughs, half-cheering like he’s announced a car giveaway.
Then Maddie strides up with a plastic bin stacked with chips and slow cookers, and Riot’s voice cracks mid-sentence.
He drops the mic and bolts to her side.
“Nacho gear,” he announces, as if unveiling crown jewels.
He unpacks with heist-movie precision: chips, beans, pickled jalape?os, queso in a slow cooker, and a tiny chef’s torch he lifts with reverence.
“For caramelized cheese,” he declares, solemn as a surgeon.
“God help us,” Maddie says, smiling anyway.
Faith arrives with a tray of her famous scones, warm under a thin sugar glaze.
One of her girlfriends follows with a casserole dish.
“Au gratin,” the woman whispers, like a secret.
Faith smiles, then turns to me with the kind of grace that makes my cheeks warm.
“Jules, you look stunning. I’m so glad it hasn’t been months this time. It feels good to see you again.”
Her eyes glint with mischief.
“Calvin mentioned last night,” she adds softly, almost a wink, before fussing over the casserole.
A wink. That’s all it takes to knock me sideways.
I can’t decide if I want to hide behind the scones or demand to know exactly what Calvin said.
Then Mrs. Dorsey rolls in with a five-gallon drink dispenser like it belongs in a museum.
“Surprise! Fresh raspberry lemonade,” she crows.
“I squeezed for an hour. An hour! Made the syrup from scratch. Just pack your cup with ice and let it drain straight into your belly.”
She presses a cup into my hands before I can protest.
I sip.
“It’s perfect, honestly.”
Then, I feel him before I see him.
A door opening in my chest.
Calvin steps onto the lawn carrying his meatloaf like it’s sacramental, tomato glaze glossy, parsley scattered like confetti.
Plain T-shirt, quiet focus that makes everyone else look loud.
He sets the loaf down beside the pies.
Close enough that I feel him.
“Trade you,” he says softly.
Our eyes catch.
His smile is small and devastating.
“Hi.” My breath stumbles.
“Hi,” he echoes, like it’s been years.
We stand there smiling like fools, and his look says he’s still thinking about last night.
I tilt my head toward the scones.
“Your mom already sold you out,” I murmur. “Guess you’re not great at secrets.”
His grin flashes quick, crooked, devastating. Then he reins it in.
Cara screeches as she bolts past me.
“Look who finally got here!”
Rodney trudges from the gravel lot with a wicker picnic basket, forearms straining as Cara collides into him and wraps him up like a present.
She laces their fingers together, new-couple energy spilling until the rest of us can’t help but smile.
He opens the basket like a magician: champagne on ice, bacon-wrapped dates tucked in foil, shrimp kabobs with cocktail sauce so red it could stop traffic.
“Mmmm, bacon-wrapped dates?”
Cara kisses his cheek, then his jaw.
“You’re my hero.”
Rodney spots Calvin and freezes.
“Whoa.” His face goes red. “I mean, hi.”
Calvin laughs, easy and warm.
He offers a hand.
“Hey, man. Don’t make me blush.”
Rodney grips it, still flustered.
“I, uh, listened to your podcast on the way over.
That bit about not accepting ‘good enough’... fire.”
Cara presses her face to his shoulder to hide a grin. “Who are you here for, anyway? Him or me?”
Calvin leans slightly toward me, his shoulder brushing mine. “He’s more nervous than I was last night.”
Heat climbs my cheeks.
I pretend to fuss with the pie lids. “You’re still nervous.”
“Only around you.”
I sip raspberry lemonade, fighting a smile, as Cara beams at Rodney like he hung the moon.
Riot climbs onto a crate and taps the mic until the speaker squeals.
“Listen up, citizens! Rules of the booth.
Two tokens each.
Use ’em before dessert or lose ’em forever.
Pick a person. Step inside.
Apologize like your mama’s watching.
Crying? Encouraged.
Cheap shots? Banned.
Attempt poetry and you owe me nachos.”
A knot of teenagers rattle a mason jar already heavy with bills and quarters.
“Side bets!” one hollers. “Five bucks says someone cries.”
“Two if they kiss!”
“Ten if Mrs. Dorsey joins in!”
They laugh, craning their necks to spot her.
Mrs. Dorsey is oblivious, mid-demonstration at the lemonade table, showing off her squeezing technique to a helpless bystander.
Riot bows low, bookie and emcee rolled into one.
“All wagers nonrefundable. But the odds are good, people. Very good.”
Maddie sidles up, tugging my sleeve, chin tilted toward the booth.
“You going to try it?”
Too casual.
“Absolutely not,” I say, absolutely lying.
Riot spends his first token like he’s betting the house.
He bows to Mrs. Dorsey, flicks the brim of a sheriff hat, and drags Maddie toward the booth like it’s a stage door.
The curtain swooshes shut, and the speaker crackles to life.
“Uh, hi,” Riot says, voice booming.
“I’d like to apologize for the bubble incident two summers ago.”
Maddie snorts.
“When you turned the library fountain into a foam volcano?”
“Allegedly. I was young. I was reckless…. Fine, I did it. And I apologize…because I have no remorse. I’d do it again.”
Mrs. Dorsey clutches her pearls.
“Scandalous! The nerve!”
Maddie’s laughter shakes the curtain.
“You’re ridiculous.”
They burst out, bowing like vaudeville stars before sealing it with a kiss that sends hoots and whistles ripping across the lawn.
From the dessert table, Faith calls out, calm as a bell.
“We already knew it was you, Riot.”
Riot clutches his chest, staggering back like he’s been shot, then sweeps another bow.
Maddie, token in hand, points it at Mrs. Dorsey like a summons.
“Ma’am,” she says solemnly, “I must apologize.”
Mrs. Dorsey squares her shoulders.
“Oh, my dear sweetheart, what on earth?”
“I’ve been smuggling muffins in my purse,” Maddie blurts inside the tent.
“Blueberry’s my weakness. Sometimes two.”
Gasps ripple before laughter breaks wide open.
“That’s why I started using decoy trays,” Mrs. Dorsey replies, perfectly prim. “And a false bottom in the basket. Try me.”
Maddie laughs as they step out, arms embracing.
“You knew?”
“Nothing gets past me, sweetheart.”
She sweeps her finger in a slow circle at the crowd.
“I see everything.”
A wink seals it.
Rodney, riding a wave of Cara’s good mood, lifts his wooden nickel like a toast and tugs her toward the curtain.
Mrs. Dorsey plucks the coin from his palm with ceremony and waves them inside.
The crowd cheers, helpless against how beautiful and besotted they are.
Inside, his voice turns warm through the mic.
“I apologize for not finding you sooner.”
A collective ohhh lifts the hair on my arms.
Cara, dramatic as opera, sniffles.
“I accept. But I also pre-apologize for this.”
A squeak, a muffled ow, and the shuffle of curtains.
Laughter peels across the lawn.
“That’s for not finding me sooner.”
Applause chases them out of the booth, flushed and triumphant.
Calvin doesn’t miss a beat.
He slides me a plate, the first slice of meatloaf cut neat as a ritual, with a scoop of potatoes and a bright spoonful of salad tucked beside it.
“For quality control,” he says.
“Mm. Bold of you to assume I’ll rate it higher than Mrs. Dorsey’s sauerkraut.”
I keep my tone solemn, just to see him grin.
That one dimple appears.
“Guess I’ll have to bribe the judge.”
Later, Cara clutches her chest dramatically and points straight at me.
“Take me to confession.”
She presses a token into Mrs. Dorsey’s hand and yanks me along.
The curtain swishes closed, the world narrowing to two squeaky folding chairs.
Our knees knock the table.
Cara grips my hands, eyes gleaming.
“I apologize to Jules Avery for stealing her karaoke song six years ago.
‘Since U Been Gone’ is my go-to, and it was wrong.
But every time I sing it, it feels so right.”
“Whatever,” I shrug.
“But you owe me harmony next time.”
We stumble back into daylight to giggles.
Across the tables, Calvin is plating meatloaf with a patience that looks too much like care.
He glances up, catches me watching, and the look we share is small and steady.
It lands deeper than I expect.
I cover it with a quick thumbs-up, a verdict on the meatloaf.
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin.
Riot lifts the mic.
“Next,” he calls.
“Volunteers, victims, repentant carb thieves.”
A little stampede forms.
Mr. Reilly steps in with his brother to confess to borrowing a fishing rod in 1999 and never returning it.
A preteen girl drags her mother in to admit she deleted the family playlist.
A boy admits to snapping his sister’s bike chain on purpose.
An older woman solemnly apologizes for hating her husband’s haircut for forty years.
Then two grandparents go in and come out kissing like they’re nineteen.
Whispers ripple across the lawn.
“Ten says Cara cries again.”
“No, Rodney. Closet crier.”
“Shh.”
“You shh.”
Riot drifts past with his torch like he is carrying a sacred flame, then panics.
“Madd, we are out of peppers. Chips, stat.”
Maddie points him to the stash, rolling her eyes.
The air is warm and full.
Bees hum over clover.
Plates clink.
The booth swallows another pair and spits them back out happier.
A group of townsfolk opens a camp chair at the perfect angle to watch the curtain gap, as if that counts as privacy.
“Place your bets,” someone hisses.
“Jules and Cal are next. Jar’s about to overflow.”
I look anywhere but at Calvin and fail again.
He’s under the oak with his mom, laughing.
Of course he spots me; I never hide well.
He sends a small chin-tip my way as he murmurs something to her before standing and brushing his palms on his jeans.
He is coming straight to me.
My pulse hammers.
The ground tilts me toward him.
He leans close, low enough only I can hear.
“The jar’s about to overflow.”
A quick wink, conspiratorial.
Like we’re already inside together.
Riot points his mic like a referee’s whistle.
“Who’s next? Who’s brave?”
His grin is wolfish as he jabs a finger at us.
“Don’t be cowards.
This is a public service.”
Calvin flicks his token into the air.
Riot snatches it one-handed, raising it like a trophy.
The lawn surges.
Voices collide into chant.
My name, his, rising like a drumbeat.
And before I can catch my breath, Calvin’s hand finds mine.
Warm.
Certain.
The crowd roars.
The curtain waits.