Matchmaking On The Menu

1. Dannica

DANNICA

Light floods through a crack in my blackout curtains and hits my face. I squint against it as a headline drafts itself in my head.

LOCAL WOMAN ASSAULTED BY SUN, CLAIMS CURTAINS “DID THEIR BEST.”

I groan as I stretch, my twenty-seven-year-old body aching like I’m seventy-three and composing a strongly worded letter about mattress quality.

Something in my lower back makes a noise that sounds expensive.

This habit of sleeping like I’m auditioning for Cirque du Soleil has to stop.

At this rate, I’m personally funding my chiropractor’s second home.

Mom and Gran have tried every trick in the book to get me to sleep in a healthy position. Short of tying me down—which I’m certain has been floated as a viable option—I continue to wake up tangled in my sheets like I’ve been prize fighting and lost.

Still, aside from the structural concerns of my spine, I feel good. Really good. I haven’t felt this well rested in a long time. Months, maybe. I grin. Today is going to be a great day.

That’s when it hits me.

No alarm.

My eyes snap to my bedside table. Please tell me I turned it off in my sleep like a responsible adult and not…

I grab my phone. It comes away from the charger far too easily.

Oh no!

I press the side button. Nothing.

I press it again. Still nothing. I sit bolt upright. The screen is black. Springing out of bed, I race for the door of the in-law suite. If that clock in the dining room says anything past six-thirty, I’m dead. And I don’t mean metaphorically. Grandma will kill me and bury me somewhere tasteful.

I skid into the main house, nearly taking out the side table Mom insists is “antique” but is actually just heavy. The grandfather clock stands in the corner like a silent judge. I look up.

6:53.

No.

No, no, no, no, no!

“Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.”

I glare at the clock like it had personally unplugged my phone.

Six fifty-three means: coffee’s not started; feral truckers; Quadri’s dry remarks; Grandma’s cutting one-liners—delivered with a hug, of course.

Shit!

I spin on my heel and sprint back to my room. So much for being well rested. By noon, I’ll be refilling coffee with the energy of a woman paying for her sins.

“Today is going to be a great day, my big ass.”

I grimace. If Shelly heard my negative self-talk, she’d give me another lecture and send me more self-help podcasts.

She’s been my best friend since kindergarten, so I should be used to it.

I shouldn’t even open them, but part of me wonders if she’d know I didn’t, so I do.

I listen to them all. Personally? I don’t mind my pear shape.

I like my curves. As I always say, when God was handing out boobs, I was in the ass line. Which is exactly where I wanted to be.

In the bathroom, I line up my skincare products like soldiers awaiting inspection. For a second, I consider skipping the routine, but then the headline hits.

LOCAL WOMAN SKIPS SKINCARE ROUTINE, IMMEDIATELY RELAPSES INTO FIVE-YEAR ADULT ACNE ERA.

That settles it. I run through my regimen, terrified of triggering another batch of adult acne.

I had it for five years—from nineteen to twenty-four—and I do not want to go through that again.

I’d much rather risk my demise than do all that again.

At least my skin will look good enough for an open casket.

I tug on black jeans and a bright blue top, nearly bruising a hip as I shimmy into the jeans.

Do I have all my things? Bag. Phone. Keys.

Check. I bolt out the front door and jump on my bike, pedaling hard enough for it to count as cardio.

The diner is barely down the road, but late is late, even when your last name is on the sign.

And Grandma? Grandma doesn’t tolerate lateness.

I’m pedaling so fast that when I spot the forest-green awning of our family diner, my foot slips off the pedal.

The metal teeth of the footplate whip around and crack into my shin.

I suck in a sharp breath, the sting exploding up my leg as the bike wobbles beneath me.

For one horrifying second, I’m convinced I’m about to face-plant in front of the early-morning regulars.

Please not today. Not in front of Mr. Davenport.

If he has his teeth in, I’d hate for him to swallow them when he laughs.

I wrestle the handlebars back under control, dignity hanging by a thread, my shin throbbing.

“Son of a half-baked Christmas cake! That hurts.”

I ditch the offending bike around the back and half-hobble, half-run to the front doors.

Usually, I’d go in through the back, but it feels like it will make me look more guilty today.

The bell chimes like the gavels of a thousand judges.

Court is in session, and I am guilty of first-degree tardiness.

But then the scents and sounds greet me.

Coffee, bacon, maple syrup. The low hum of conversation alongside the scrape of cutlery.

I absorb the comfort of it all. This place always feels more like home than my actual house ever has.

Which would be perfect if it wasn’t also the reason I’m still stuck here.

Stuck.

Ugh, that word hits me right in the solar plexus.

Once upon a time, I was supposed to graduate, leave Boudica Springs, get a reporting job, and see the world.

Easy-peasy.

Except somewhere between the dream and real life, I turned twenty-seven and have nothing to show but headlines about my own existence, because it’s the only thing around here that changes.

And sadly, not by much.

Quadri walks past with a coffee pot in one hand and an apron in the other, which she hands me. She’s all dark, long limbs, and effortless grace. I, meanwhile, am compact chaos in black jeans.

“I’ve been working on your eulogy. Have to say I’m pretty proud of it so far.”

I throw my cousin a look. “Thanks for your faith in me. But just in case, don’t forget to delete all my smutty books off my Kindle.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And get rid of my toys.”

“Uh… I’m leaving that up to Shelly.”

“What’s that now?” My best friend walks over and tugs my bag off my shoulder. “You’re dead.”

“I heard, that’s why I’m delegating you to get rid of my toy collection.”

She whips her head toward Quadri, braids swinging and freckles stark against her pale skin. She looks like a curvy Strawberry Shortcake having an existential crisis. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who insisted she get one.”

“Every girl deserves consistency. Batteries don’t disappear when things get complicated,” Shelly says. It lands like a joke, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that doesn’t match her grin.

I’m about to ask Shelly if she’s okay—she recently went through a bad breakup—when I catch Grandma watching me from behind the counter.

To anyone else, her expression would look neutral, maybe even distant.

I know better. This isn’t her quiet, drifting-off look.

This is the one that lets me sit in my own realization.

The one that says: You’re late. And you’re better than this.

“Shit. I better face the music.”

My feet feel heavier than they did on the bike as I make my way over to her. Quadri detours to a table with a bottle of ketchup no one asked for, and Shelly vanishes into the back with my bag. So much for moral support.

The thing is, despite the jokes, Grandma isn’t the scary kind of authority. She’s worse. She’s the warm blanket, the steady hand. The hug that fixes everything, and the voice that tells you when you’ve messed up. Disappointing her? That’s what kills me.

I stop in front of her. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t owe me sorry,” she says. “You owe me your best.”

Ouch. Okay, so she didn’t kill and bury me, but she may as well have.

She cups my face, her weathered palms warm and steady, and studies me like she’s trying to read something written beneath my skin.

For a second, I think she’s going to say more.

Then that faraway look slips into her eyes, the one where she disappears into her own thoughts.

I swear I’d love thirty seconds in her mind.

She seems to realize she’s drifted off and presses a coffee pot into my hands. “You’ve wasted enough time for today.”

And just like that, she heads into the kitchen.

Mary, Quadri’s cousin on her dad’s side, steps up beside me, her blue eyes watchful, soft, blonde waves cascading down her shoulders. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but table three needs a refill.”

The crease between my eyes deepens. Why is she apologizing? It’s my job. But then I turn around, and my stomach sinks. I whip my head back to her. “It’s not Sunday.”

“We were all just as shocked.”

“I’ll give you all my tips for the day if you do it.”

She scrunches her nose apologetically. “Grandma said if any of us help you today, we’re on dish duty the rest of the week.”

I grimace. “But…”

“I know.” Giving my arm a gentle squeeze, she slips into the storeroom.

Fuck all the fried fish.

This is the last thing I need today. I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I can do this. So what if I’m about to walk into the lion’s den with a steak tied around my neck? I’ve got lady balls. Except right now, my lady balls have shriveled up and crawled somewhere behind my liver.

Beverly McNaire is already staring at me, her microbladed eyebrows arched so high they could pass for bangs.

Her blood-red nails tap an impatient rhythm against the table.

When I still don’t move, she lifts her empty cup and waves it at me.

The stack of gold bracelets on her wrist joins the protest, chiming sharply.

Okay, here we go.

I place one foot in front of the other, my tennis shoes squeaking obnoxiously against the tiled floor. Since when do they do that? Or are my self-preservation instincts just cranking up the volume on everything?

My mouth goes dry. I haven’t even had coffee yet. I briefly consider swigging straight from the pot but shut that idea down fast. No need to give Beverly something new to clutch her pearls over.