Chapter 28 Layla
Layla
The office smells like kettle corn.
I suspect it’s Nancy’s candle, but am too lazy to get up and walk past her desk now that I’ve settled in.
Fall Fest has left a ghost—the kind that has vendors continuing to call with questions about outstanding invoices, boxes that have yet to be put in storage, and leftover goodies everyone says they don’t want to take home. The break room is full of junk food.
I pulled it off. There were no fires, no ambulance rides, no Facebook comments hating on anything we’d planned. The mayor shook my hand like I invented the event, and his single son, Tim, grinned at me until it got uncomfortable.
I stare at my computer, at a blank document titled Star Lake Winter/Spring Activity Guide.
Email dings. I open a note from a Mrs. Denise Knutson, who wants to know if pickleball will return to its regular schedule now that the godforsaken festival is over. She also wanted to make mention that a new paddle policy should be implemented because of “paddle hogs.”
Long sigh.
I type back, in the soothing language of municipal diplomacy, and thank her for her input.
Focus, Layla. You’re supposed to be working on the activity guide. It’s due at the end of the week.
I start breaking the document into sections: Kids. Teens. Adults. Seniors.
I plug in dates for youth basketball, open gym, craft nights. My fingers remember how to do this even as my brain tries to climb out the window and run back toward Arizona.
The door swings open without a knock, because privacy is a myth in this building. Margo sashays in and leans on the doorframe, donut in one hand, clipboard in the other. She takes a bite and swallows before walking all the way in and plopping into a chair.
“I come bearing news,” she announces.
“Do I need to brace myself?”
“Eh. Depends on what your thoughts are on the board approving more funding for next year’s festival, and Angelina already throwing your hat into the ring to organize it.”
I shake my head. “No. No way. June is a far better fit than I am!”
Margo neither agrees nor disagrees with me, instead barreling ahead with more news. “Grant from Parks says the new LED lights for the baseball diamond have arrived and he’ll install this week.”
This is not information I need to know, but I nod anyway. “Great, that place is way too dark with half the lights burned out.”
Margo wiggles her eyebrows. “Speaking of Grant . . .”
Oh, here we go. The real reason she’s in my office. “Margo.”
“What?” She shrugs innocently, taking another bite of donut. “I’m simply reporting that he asked if you were coming by the maintenance yard today.”
“When do I ever go to the maintenance yard?” Never, that’s when.
“Mm-hmm. He may have mentioned you looked cute at Fall Fest.”
I laugh. “He said that?”
“He did. The direct quote: She was running around in that green jacket, looking like a snack.” Margo pulls a face. “Men and their metaphors. Anyway, he’s single.”
“Yes, I am well aware that Grant is single.” I swivel to my screen so she can’t see my eyes roll.
“It’s nice. I’m not . . . I mean, if he needs anything for the baseball field, he can email me, but otherwise, I’m not interested.
” I went to school with Grant’s sister Casey, and the last thing I need is to date a guy whose entire family knows all the stupid shit I did as a teenager.
No thanks.
Margo watches me for a beat too long. “You okay?”
“Yup.”
She doesn’t believe me. “Does your sulking have anything to do with that vacation you were on?”
I am not sulking, and that . . . “Wasn’t a vacation,” I say.
“Then what was it?”
I hesitate. “I was . . . visiting family,” I lie.
Margo is the last person I’m going to be honest with. If I tell her I was in Arizona with Hayes Fielder, she will tell Angelina, and the last thing I want is a lecture about using my PTO for frivolous travel, even though it’s none of her business what I do in my free time.
In Star Lake, everyone’s business is everyone’s business.
Think: Gilmore Girls–level nosy.
Margo plants her clipboard on her hip. “Well. Now that you’re done visiting family”—she air quotes—“maybe you should consider dating. Casually! Nothing like dipping your toe into the lake. I hear from Lana Grinwold that the apps are pretty good now. She met a widower named Morty on Golden Singles.”
Yup. Exactly what I need.
Lana and Morty as my dating mentors.
“Pretty good? Since when? Last time I checked”—which was never—“it was ninety percent fish photos and guys bragging they’re six feet when they’re five-seven in boots.”
“Don’t be so negative.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I don’t have the bandwidth to make small talk with Trent, thirty-nine, aspiring entrepreneur, who only has one blurry photo of himself from ten years ago and a bio that says looking for my partner in crime.
” I huff, swiveling back to my screen before my face gives me away. “I’m working on the activity guide.”
Jeez, do I sound bitter?
Margo picks a few sprinkles off the pink donut frosting, sets them on her tongue, and chews. “You look like a person who could use a little fun. And a man who’s going to bring you flowers.”
That gets my attention, and I look at her again.
A man who brings me flowers.
“I’m not prying—and I’m trying to keep it professional. But, dear . . .” my coworker says quietly. “If you’re lonely, you don’t have to pretend you’re not. The apps are a tool for everyone.”
I stare at the cursor blinking in Adult Programs. “Maybe I’m not lonely,” I say, too quickly. “Maybe I’m picky.”
And has she forgotten we live in a tiny resort town? Men are in short supply. I went to grade school with most of the eligible bachelors in town, most of them not so eligible.
“You’re allowed to be picky,” she says, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Pick someone who makes you feel like the best version of yourself. Or at least someone who doesn’t pose with a trout.”
All men in this area pose with their fish. Or their dog. Or an elk. Or pose beside a boat/tree/mountain—take your pick! “I’m not downloading a dating app at work.”
Margo shrugs. “Who’s gonna know? Angelina? That nag is gone for the day, and I’m not gonna tell a soul.” She stands, brushing donut crumbs onto the carpet. “Can’t hurt to look. What girl doesn’t love a little window-shopping on their lunch break?” She winks at me. “I won’t tell.”
Margo sashays out of my office, back from whence she came, closing my door behind her.
“Hmph,” I scoff. “A man who brings me flowers.”
Flowers. Do I even like those?
Yes, yes I do, and the last man who gave them to me was my father for my graduation. And you know what? I Deserve Them, Dammit!
Why not? They’re not a grand gesture, but if a man is thinking of me in the grocery store and grabs a bouquet . . . that means something, doesn’t it?
I grab my cell. No new message from Hayes.
“Of course there isn’t,” I grumble, poking open the dating app I’ve had on my phone for years that I’ve never officially created an account for.
Name: Layla.
Age: Blah.
Pictures: I scroll through my camera roll. Smile at a few of me and Faith. Fall Fest action shots. The further down I go, the younger and more carefree I look. Some pictures of me with my parents’ dog, Snapper. Hiking. Kayaking. Holiday photos with my friends and family.
Then, there’s photos of me with Blake.
Delete, delete, delete.
Screw that guy! I wasn’t good enough for him then, and he’s not good enough to stay in my gallery.
Bio: Will beat you at cornhole. Loves cinnamon rolls, winter nights, fireplaces, sailing in the summer—and a gentleman. Someone who holds doors. Enjoys date night. Holding hands.
There. That’s not asking much, is it?
I hit Save and bite down on my bottom lip as matches begin appearing, and because I live where I live, I broaden my search to include the “neighboring town” fifty miles away. An hour is better than an airplane ride away, yeah?
A face appears, and it’s Duncan Riley, my middle-school boyfriend.
Swipe left.
Carl Lang. Moved here from Portland and works for the city salting the roads during the winter and clearing hiking trails in the summer, but no way am I dating someone from work!
Left!
Pete Drapper, who runs the small grocery store in town. Shit. Pete is single? How did I not know he and Breanna broke up? Dang, I wonder if anyone in the office would know the gritty details.
“No, Layla—we are not gossiping!” I continue swiping left.
See Tim, the mayor’s son. Grant from the maintenance department. Ethan McGuire, Faith’s brother, who just divorced his wife, Stella, because he caught her cheating, and damn does that dude come with baggage I do not have the time to explain.
Wait.
Hold up now—who’s this?
Who is this handsome face I don’t recognize?
A local man I’m not familiar with? Could it be true?
Grady G., thirty-four. He’s in a flannel, forearms front and center, looking like a brochure titled “Dependable Local Man.” His bio reads, Looking for someone who loves the outdoors and small-town life. No kids yet but would like a few.
Well crap. That’s mostly me!
I read the bio again—outdoors, small-town life, wants kids one day—and my brain does the quick math of compatible on paper while my chest mutters, Not Hayes.
Still. I don’t have to marry him. We can talk and possibly go on one date.
One! Harmless.
Besides. We might not match.
My thumb hovers over the heart. Swipe right.
The screen explodes with confetti—It’s a Match! Say hi to Grady.
And so, it begins . . .