10. Dannica
DANNICA
SMALL TOWN COLLECTIVELY DECIDES LOCAL WOMAN IS THEIR BUSINESS
By nine a.m., I am, much to my mortification, a public figure.
Not in a Jennifer-Lawrence-released-a-new-movie kind of way. No. More in an everyone-within-a-ten-mile-radius-knows-I-was-kissed-by-a-masked-stranger-and-has-thoughts-about-it kind of way.
I come back from the kitchen and set the coffee pot down before reaching for the specials board.
Today’s special is Aunty Grace’s banana cream pie.
It won the Harvest Festival pie competition for the third year running, which means she’s insufferable about it.
Not that I blame her. The pie is legendary.
As soon as I step behind the counter, I feel it. That tiny hitch in conversation. A chair scraping halfway before stopping. Voices dipping, then bouncing back a little too loudly, like they’re trying to cover something that’s already obvious.
My name doesn’t get said, but I can feel the looks before I catch them. Little taps against my skin. Quick and curious. Not even trying that hard to be subtle. One lingers too long on my face. Another drops to my mouth.
Oh.
Oh no.
Heat floods up my neck so fast it’s honestly impressive. I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the counter like it might save me. Maybe if I don’t look at them, they’ll forget I exist.
They won’t.
If anything, they seem increasingly committed to remembering.
The bell over the diner door doesn’t stop ringing as everyone comes in to gawk at me, like they might see or hear something no one else does. I feel like the bearded lady at a carnival.
Granted, this is a small town where not much happens, but surely something else came out of the festival. Someone must’ve fallen into the dunk tank. Gotten into a fight. Accidentally eaten twelve funnel cakes and required medical intervention. Something.
By the third chime in two seconds, I stop looking up altogether. By the fifth, I’m gripping the coffee pot so hard I might actually snap the handle. Ever since Mystery Man entered my life, it feels like I’m cursed by that damn bell.
“This is a nightmare,” I mutter, as I draw what I hope will look like a pie.
“It’s a headline,” Quadri corrects from next to me. “And not even a bad one.”
I focus very hard on the board in front of me as if it might evaporate if I don’t supervise it.
“How’s this one? Local woman kisses mystery man, regrets life choices immediately.”
I huff out a quiet breath, hoping that settles it. It doesn’t. It’s easier to make it sound ridiculous than admit I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About him. About the way he held me like there was nowhere else he’d rather be. I immediately give myself a mental shake. This is not helping.
“Catchy,” Shelly says, breezing past me with a tray. “But it needs more scandal.”
“It does not need more scandal.”
“Everything needs more scandal.”
I open my mouth to argue because she is objectively wrong, but the words stall in my throat when a familiar hum drifts from booth five.
“Mmhmm.”
My shoulders tighten automatically and I don’t even have to look. Mr. Davenport is sitting in a spot that is not his usual place, glaring at Tommy Stone like the man stole something sacred and not just his stool at the counter. Then his gaze flicks to me.
Ah. There it is.
He folds his hands over his stomach, his expression settling into something far too expectant, like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning. And not because of the seat.
I narrow my eyes as I approach, already bracing myself. Not for a complaint, but for a myriad of questions.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“Mmhmm,” he repeats, which in his language translates roughly to I absolutely will. “You got yourself a beau, Dannica?” he asks, his dentures firmly in place today, unfortunately.
I set his mug down with perhaps a touch more force than necessary. “I liked you better when you lost your teeth.”
He grins. “Made it harder to ask the important questions.”
“I didn’t get a beau,” I say, reaching for the sugar jar even though he doesn’t take sugar. “I got ambushed by a man with a camera and poor decision-making skills.”
It’s easier to say it like that. Easier than explaining why it didn’t feel like an ambush at all.
“Mmhmm,” he says again, entirely unconvinced.
“Traitor,” I mutter, topping up his coffee anyway. I’m still capable of customer service even if I’m being socially eviscerated.
Unfortunately, Mr. Davenport isn’t the only one with opinions.
Every table seems to have something to say, and every version of the story gets a little more dramatic the further it travels. By the time I make it back behind the counter, I’m reasonably certain half the town thinks I’ve either met my soulmate or joined a traveling circus.
Imani is already perched on one of the bar stools like she owns the place—which, to be fair, she kind of does in spirit.
“Girl,” she says, pointing at me like I’ve personally offended her, “you need to get in my chair immediately.”
“What for?” I touch my hair, suddenly aware of the way it’s gone darker with the season. I thought it looked okay.
“To recreate the masterpiece your hair was in last night. I saw photos.” She fingers a strand. “Who did it, by the way?”
As if summoned, Shelly pops up beside me. “That would be me.”
Imani gasps. “You did that?”
Shelly immediately puffs up with pride. “I did.”
“Okay, no, because that was art,” Imani says, jumping off her seat and rounding the counter. “We’re recreating it. Immediately.”
Her hand closes around my wrist before I can step back and I stumble forward, catching myself on the edge of the counter.
“I’m working,” I protest, automatically glancing around the room. Of course, half the diner is watching this unfold like it’s part of the morning’s entertainment.
“You’re surviving,” Imani corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“Coffee,” I say weakly, gesturing behind me. “People need coffee.”
“People need answers,” Shelly counters unhelpfully.
I level them both with a look. “You are not putting me in a salon chair to get answers out of me.”
Imani smiles slowly. “We’ll see.”
“I’m on shift.”
“You have a few moments.”
“I have responsibilities.”
“You had a man,” she says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “A mysterious one.”
I press my lips together a little harder than necessary, like I can physically hold the memory in place if I don’t let it slip out. “It was just a dance.” If I keep it small, maybe it’ll stay that way.
“And a kiss,” Shelly adds helpfully.
Traitor.
“Technically, it was a mask?—”
“A kiss,” Shelly repeats.
My mouth still remembers the pressure of it. The heat. The fact that he hadn’t pulled away right away. I immediately reach for another mug. Then another. I needed to keep busy. Be normal.
“It doesn’t count,” I say a little too quickly.
Imani clutches her chest. “In public? At the festival? With a masked stranger?” She shakes her head like she’s overwhelmed. “The drama. The romance. The mystery. I love it. How can it not count?”
“You all need to get lives,” I tell them, even as my mouth twitches dangerously close to a smile.
“We have. This is the hottest thing to happen in Boudica Springs in months,” Shelly sings.
“Years, if you ask me,” Imani adds.
“Your belly suggests otherwise,” I grumble.
“Oh yeah, can’t forget that.” Imani rubs her stomach and gets that faraway look people develop the second a baby enters the equation.
Something stirs inside me. I quickly shove it back into whatever emotional cupboard it escaped from.
“DANNICA!”
I don’t even need to turn around. I know those voices. My shoulders tense automatically, a split second before impact. I brace myself as two small bodies barrel toward the counter like sugar-fueled missiles—fast, loud, and entirely too pleased with whatever information they’re about to weaponize.
“Is it true?” Royal demands, climbing onto a stool with crayons and a piece of paper clutched in one hand. He’s our resident artist. The kitchen fridge currently hosts enough of his drawings to qualify as a gallery.
“Did you find your prince?” Naveah asks, her eyes wide with delight.
I blink at them, my brain lagging a full second behind the question. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The one from the ball!” Royal says.
“But then he ran away,” Naveah adds.
“Like Cinderella!”
I just stare at them, trying to figure out how we got from one slow dance to a full-blown fairy-tale retelling. Slowly, I turn my head toward Imani, who is suddenly fascinated with her fingernails.
“I didn’t tell them any of this.”
“Then who did?” I ask, planting my hands on my hips.
“They hear everything that goes on in the shop. It’s been busy.”
“That’s because the entire town goes running to you with their gossip.”
She shrugs. “I can’t help it if people treat me like their therapist.”
“A therapist is supposed to keep secrets.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to be the therapist. Just that people think I am.”
I press my lips together hard.
I will not indulge the two future journalists currently staring at me with matching expressions of determination. They use their love for me to extract information on a regular basis. Not today.
“So, was he your prince?” Naveah asks.
I press my fingers to my temples, wishing I could stop this conversation from progressing any further.
“Okay, first of all, he is not a prince.”
“A duke?” Naveah suggests.
“A knight?” Royal offers.
“Neither,” I say a little too quickly. “He’s a stranger. A random man who happened to be in the same place I was at the same time.”
If I keep it simple enough, basic enough, maybe it’ll start to feel that way.
“And kissed you,” Shelly adds, completely committed to this narrative.
My stomach immediately drops. This is not a conversation that should be happening in front of five-year-olds.
“Technically—”
I stop because there is absolutely no version of that sentence that makes it sound less than what it was. Unfortunately, my mouth still remembers it. Which is wildly unhelpful when the blush creeps up my neck. “It was on the mask,” I snap.
“Still counts,” Imani states.
The twins exchange a look.
“He sounds like a prince,” Royal decides.
“What did Mrs. Leverman say?” Naveah taps a finger against her cheek. “Oh yeah. She said he sounds like a runner.”
Fucking fat fritters in a fryer.
The worst part is Mrs. Leverman might not be wrong.
Relief slips in before I can stop it. I point at Naveah. “Thank you. Finally. A voice of reason.”
“She means he ran away,” Royal clarifies.
The relief doesn’t last. “I know what she meant,” I say flatly.
Sure, I am relieved nothing more came of the kiss, because I have obligations and decisions to make.
But also, he ran away.
By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted. Emotionally, socially, existentially, and possibly spiritually. My face hurts from fake smiling, and my brain feels like it’s been picked over and put back wrong.
“I need a drink,” Shelly announces, untying her apron. “And details.”
“Yes,” Quadri agrees. “Primarily details.”
Mary nods. “Details would be good.”
I grab my bag and start backing toward the door, desperately hoping distance might somehow save me.
“You guys saw. So no.”
Shelly gasps. “Seeing is not the same thing as details.”
“No.”
“I supported you,” she says, looking genuinely offended. “I encouraged you. I facilitated romance.”
I huff out a tired breath, adjusting the strap on my bag just to have something to do with my hands. “You shoved me at a stranger and ran away.”
“Exactly. I facilitated,” she repeats.
My mouth twitches despite myself, but I don’t let it turn into a smile. “I’m going home.”
“To avoid us,” Quadri says.
“To avoid this.” I gesture vaguely at all of them. “And the very obvious interrogation you’re planning.”
Shelly clutches her chest. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“Mary would,” Quadri adds.
Mary smiles. “We all would.”
I point at her. “Thank you.”
Shelly narrows her eyes. “You can’t just not talk about it.”
“I can,” I say, a little firmer than necessary. “And I will. Because it was one dance with a random guy who was clearly just having fun.”
The words sound flat the second they leave my mouth.
“And kissing you,” Shelly mutters.
“Kissing the mask,” I correct.
“A kiss is a kiss.”
“He’s not a prince,” I snap. “And I am not a blushing damsel.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Debatable,” Shelly says.
“Goodbye.”
I turn before they can say anything else.
If I stay much longer, they’ll wear me down.
Worse, a small part of me wants them to.
Wants to talk about the dance and the kiss and the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.
That’s dangerous territory, especially if Naveah and Mrs. Leverman are right about him being a runner.
The three of them groan as I push through the door, the bell jingling behind me like it’s laughing at my life choices. Cool air hits my face, sharp and anchoring, and I breathe it in deeply. The ride home is quiet, the town having settled back to its usual rhythm after the festival.
When I get home, the noise has faded. The questions, the teasing, the constant speculation. It should feel like relief, but it doesn’t.
I drop my bag by the door and sit down at my computer, staring at the screen for a long moment before moving the mouse. Silence stretches around me. After the day’s chaos, I should be grateful for it.
I pull up the job listing, and it isn’t any less intimidating.
Applications: 100+
I lean back in my chair and exhale slowly, my shoulders finally dropping now that no one’s watching.
A hundred people who are probably more qualified. More experienced. More everything. It would probably be a waste of time to even try.
Right?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, not yet willing to commit to typing. Because if I start, I have to finish. And if I finish, I might actually have to decide what I want.
I stare at the screen.
And don’t move.