24. BBQ & Planning
BBQ & PLANNING
Addison
I should be riding high. The wedding was a triumph, the storm is old news, and my inbox is quieter than it’s been in months.
Meredith’s thank-you note is taped to my fridge beside a magnet shaped like a cupcake.
Her handwriting is careful, still half-shaky from the emotion of it all: You made it magical. Thank you for coming back.
There’s a hummingbird charm in the gift basket too — a subtle, perfect nod to the arch Dylan finished building, then helped rebuild. I pulled it off. No. We pulled it off.
And still, I’m scrolling Twitter with one eye and refreshing my inbox with the other, like I’m waiting for the punchline.
It comes in the form of a text.
Simon Baxter. Naturally. I renamed his contact in my phone since his last text.
The village idiot / Simon.
Cute little wedding stunt. Very you. Just be careful. Clients won’t always forgive unprofessional entanglements — especially ones that go viral. You know how fast reputations can turn.
I stare at the screen. The audacity. The condescension practically drips through the font.
Six months ago, that message would have gutted me. Even last week, it might’ve sent me spiraling into a pit of apology drafts and self-doubt. But now? Now, I let out a laugh — sharp, surprised, but real.
It bubbles up and out of me, startling in its freedom. He still thinks he can shake me with a single line of passive-aggressive nonsense? That I’ll backpedal just because he used the word “entanglement”?
No, thank you.
I scroll to my inbox, tap open the glowing testimonial I received yesterday from Mr Langford’s office. It’s formal and brief, as expected, but the words still make me sit up straighter.
Ms. Bennett demonstrated outstanding professionalism under pressure and went above and beyond to ensure the success of our family’s event. Her composure, creativity, and leadership were indispensable.
I screenshot it, attach it to a reply.
Funny, Langford had a different take.
Then I mute the thread.
A year ago, my reaction to Simon might have been panic. Today, it’s punctuation. He’s a period at the end of a sentence I’ve already rewritten.
I set my phone facedown and exhale. It doesn’t catch in my chest like it used to. My home is quiet, sunlight spilling across the wood floors, and I can almost hear the faint echo of clapping from the wedding as if the orchard is still applauding.
Refilling my mug, I settle at my desk and stare at my website’s “About” page. It’s always been clean. Professional. Safe. I wrote it after Simon and I split our business partnership, when I was determined to rebuild with polish and poise. The kind of copy that keeps people from asking questions.
But now it feels… empty. Not false, but unfinished.
Addison Bennett Events: modern elegance with a touch of whimsy. We plan, coordinate, and deliver unforgettable moments. Serving Ontario and beyond.
Accurate, but where’s me in any of that?
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I don’t overthink it. I don’t ask Dylan or Maggie or Google what sounds most marketable. I just write what I feel.
We believe beauty can be found even in the unexpected. That grace under pressure matters just as much as perfectly folded linens.
We work hard. We lead with kindness. We believe every event is a collaboration between vision, trust, and a planner who will show up, rain or shine.
Literally.
I read it twice, then hit publish before I can second-guess myself. That little rush, not of fear but of pride, hums under my skin. I think it’s what confidence feels like when it’s brand new.
I sit back, staring at my balcony through the glass doors. It’s still a little messy — a crooked planter here, a forgotten citronella candle there — but the light outside is soft and golden, the way it gets in late September when the air starts whispering that summer’s almost over.
And I want to share it. Not the brand or the testimonial or the reputation, but this. The quiet pride. The homemade marinade already soaking into skewers in the fridge. The fact that I thought of Dylan last night when I dusted off the patio chairs.
I could text him. Or call. Or pretend I need help finalizing the fundraiser guest list.
But that’s not who I want to be anymore.
So I open my voice memo app and hit record.
“Hey. I was going to text, but… this felt better. Um, hi.”
I pause, laugh a little.
“I was thinking it’s probably time we start planning the fundraiser. And also… I just want to see you. Not in a hurricane or under an arch. Just you, me, and grilled stuff on my balcony. Tonight, if you’re free. Bring your appetite. And maybe your opinions on fairy lights. Let me know.”
I listen to it once. Then I send it before I can chicken out.
Dylan.
Be there around 6:15.
* * *
T he hours between then and when he knocks feel oddly charged, not nervous.
I fluff the outdoor pillows, light the good candle, and put actual effort into plating the food instead of dumping everything on the tray at once.
My speakers hum with a playlist that’s part jazz, part indie acoustic, and I realize I’m…
happy. Not proving anything. Just being.
When Dylan shows up at six-fifteen on the dot, he’s carrying a bottle of cider and a tote bag full of grilling tools. I raise an eyebrow as he holds up a set of tongs like a bouquet.
“I didn’t want to assume you had proper equipment,” he says.
“You’ve known me for what, two months? And already you think I’m a culinary hazard?”
“Not a hazard. A delightful mystery.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek... just my cheek, but the press of his lips lingers. He smells like cedar and citrus and something warm and familiar. I think he might smell like safety.
I lead him through to the balcony, and he whistles low as he sees the lights strung and glowing. “You went full Pinterest out here.”
“Don’t act surprised. I live for this kind of stuff.”
We fall into an easy rhythm. He flips the skewers with the confidence of a man who’s cooked for a firehouse, and I toss the salad with slightly more grace than I had last time I tried not to drop a bowl mid-event.
We talk shop, brainstorm fundraiser themes, rule out “Stop, Drop, and Glow” on principle, and laugh over his suggestion that we add a s’mores station and call it “Burn Baby Burn.”
When the food is plated and the candles are flickering low, I slide my chair a little closer to his. The laughter quiets, the kind of hush that isn’t awkward but full.
“So,” he says, reaching for my hand, “are you really okay? After the storm? After everything?”
I nod. “I’m more okay than I’ve been in a while.”
His eyes warm. “That’s my girl.”
I freeze for a second at the phrase. Not because it feels wrong. Because it feels exactly right.
“I’m trying to stop letting fear set the tone. To reach out instead of retreat.”
“You’re doing more than trying, Addy. You’re showing up.”
He doesn’t let go of my gaze or my hand, and I feel something click into place, something simple and solid and real.
The fireflies blink in the bushes, the lights above us hum, and my heart beats quiet and steady. For a moment, everything feels like it’s finally in place — me, Dylan, this whole strange-but-beautiful second chapter I didn’t know I’d get.
Then Dylan taps his phone and opens the shared planning spreadsheet we started mid-meal.
“Okay,” he says, scooting closer. “So we’ve got the silent auction narrowed down, three confirmed sponsors, and your aunt’s cousin with the fiddle band. What’s left?”
“Finalizing signage, confirming the food truck for late-night snacks, and deciding on the main dessert,” I say, pulling my own copy up.
He looks at me, hopeful. “Please tell me we’re going with maple pecan pie.”
I grin. “Of course. It’s local, crowd-pleasing, and Butter & Crust makes a gluten-free version that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”
“Then it’s official,” he says, tapping it in. “We’re about to be the hottest pie-themed fundraiser in Ontario.”
We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes again — this time with an email notification from the township permit office.
Subject: Re: Fundraiser Event – Dunk Tank Permit Request
My stomach tightens as I skim the first few lines. Dylan notices the change in my expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re denying the dunk tank request,” I say slowly. “Says here the application violates updated bylaws regarding temporary water structures in commercial zones. The wording is vague, but… it’s a no.”
“I thought you filed that paperwork last week.”
“I did.” I scroll through the email. “Wait. The name on the denial is Gerald MacDonald. That surname feels familiar…”
“He’s Cassandra’s father. He’s the mayor of Birch Harbor.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No,” he mutters. “It can’t.”
I sit back, screen still glowing in my palm. It’s just one detail, one item on a long checklist, but it hits harder than it should. Like a crack in the foundation. Something I should’ve caught. Should’ve navigated better.
“I should’ve known about this,” I say. “I should’ve worked around it, filed it differently, looped in a sponsor with more influence...”
“Addy,” Dylan says gently, covering my hand. “You didn’t miss anything. You got blindsided. There’s a difference.”
I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. Not entirely.
We sit in silence for a moment, our spreadsheets forgotten, the pie menu feeling suddenly less triumphant.
“I’ll fix it,” I say finally. “Even if I have to turn that dunk tank into a ‘foam splash photo booth’ or get the mayor’s nephew to co-sign a temporary variance.”
Dylan smiles. “Now that sounds like the Addison Bennett I know.”
But the fireflies don’t look quite as magical anymore. And the playlist humming through the speakers feels like a reminder: we still have work to do. And not just pie and string lights. Politics. Permits. Pull.
This fundraiser might be personal — but it’s also going to be a fight.
And I’m not about to lose.