5. Lily
Lily
Our first official fake date was a masterclass in awkwardness, scheduled for a Wednesday night at the Pumpkin Ridge Festival’s opening hayride.
The entire arrangement felt like a terrible, ill-fitting Halloween costume I was being forced to wear.
On the outside, it was supposed to look one way— Look, Lily Sage finally has a boyfriend!
—but on the inside, I was just me, sweating with anxiety and trying not to trip over the seams.
The rules of our ridiculous contract echoed in my head as I got ready: A performance. Bare minimum. No real feelings. It was like a mantra for the emotionally constipated.
My mother had, of course, been ecstatic.
When I’d called to tell her Mario and I were going to the hayride “as a date,” there had been a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line, followed by a sound I could only describe as pure, unadulterated triumph.
She’d immediately volunteered to take Olivia for the evening so we could have a “proper romantic night.”
The fact that Olivia was coming with us anyway because the Sage Family Deal included my seven-year-old was a detail I chose to omit. One victory at a time for Margaret.
So there I stood at the festival entrance, clutching Olivia’s hand, searching the crowd for my co-conspirator.
The grounds were alive, a stark contrast to the quiet, half-finished state they’d been in a few days ago.
Strings of golden lights twinkled overhead, casting a warm glow on the sea of families in cozy sweaters and flannel.
The air was thick with the competing aromas of kettle corn, hot cider, and the faint, sweet smell of hay from the waiting wagons.
Laughter and country music spilled from hidden speakers, creating a cheerful cacophony that did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves.
“Is Mario going to be our boyfriend tonight, Mommy?” Olivia asked, her voice carrying with the startling clarity only a child can produce in a crowd.
“He is going to be our … friend,” I said through a gritted smile, patting her head. “Our very good friend who Mommy is going on a date with. It’s practice.”
She seemed to accept this, which was a relief. Explaining the nuances of a fake-dating scheme to a seven-year-old was a parenting hurdle I was not yet prepared to clear.
Then I saw him. He was standing near the ticket booth, a solitary, dark figure in a sea of autumnal cheer.
He was wearing faded jeans and a black hoodie, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched against the festive atmosphere as if it were a physical assault.
He looked less like he was on a date and more like he was waiting for a covert intelligence briefing in a hostile foreign territory.
My stomach did a nervous flip. No real feelings. It’s a performance.
I took a deep breath, plastered on a smile that felt like it might crack my face, and waved him over. “Mario! Over here!”
He turned, his expression unreadable, and made his way toward us, moving through the crowd with an economy of motion that was both graceful and vaguely intimidating.
“Hey,” he said when he reached us, his gaze flicking from me to Olivia and back again.
“Hi,” I chirped, my voice an octave too high. “Glad you could make it! Isn’t this fun?” I gestured vaguely at the joyful chaos surrounding us.
He grunted. It was a sound that conveyed a universe of dissent.
Olivia, however, was undeterred by his broody aura. She let go of my hand and marched right up to him. “Are you going to hold Mommy’s hand tonight?” she demanded. “On a date, you have to hold hands. It’s the rules.”
My blood ran cold. I’d forgotten I was fake-dating with a tiny, adorable chaperone who was also an expert on romantic comedy tropes.
Mario looked down at Olivia, a flicker of something—panic? confusion?—in his dark eyes. He seemed momentarily thrown, a race car driver confronted with a problem that couldn’t be solved with a gear change.
“We’ll see,” he managed, his voice a low rumble.
“Okay! Time for the hayride!” I announced, grabbing both their hands and dragging them toward the long line for the rides. “My mom saved us a spot on the next wagon.”
Of course she had. She was standing at the front of the line with my dad, Ben, and Aunt Carol, beaming at us like the director of a play watching her two lead actors finally take the stage.
June was there, too, a few people behind them, her phone already peeking out of her pocket. The audience was assembled. Showtime.
We were herded onto a large, flatbed wagon pulled by a rumbling green tractor.
The floor was covered in a thick layer of hay, and rough-hewn wooden benches lined the sides.
My family had, with a complete lack of subtlety, saved spots for us on a corner bench, a little separated from them.
It was the hayride equivalent of the romantic table for two in a crowded restaurant.
I sat down, pulling Olivia onto my lap. Mario sat beside me, leaving a careful six inches of space between us. He looked profoundly uncomfortable, like he’d been forced to sit on a pile of itchy, unpredictable spiders.
The tractor lurched forward, and the ride began.
We rumbled out of the main festival area and onto a dirt path that wound through the woods surrounding the park.
The trees were strung with more lights, casting an enchanted, spooky glow on the path ahead.
People on the wagon laughed and chattered, pointing out carved pumpkins hidden in the woods.
I felt the weight of my family’s expectant gazes. I glanced at Mario. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight. This was not going to work if we looked like two strangers being held hostage by a tractor.
“Okay,” I whispered, leaning toward him. “Rule two. Public-facing relationship. Bare minimum.”
He shot me a dark look. “I’m aware of the terms.”
“Then you’re aware that ‘sitting a foot away from me looking like you’re contemplating murder’ is not part of the bare minimum.”
He let out a quiet, frustrated sigh that smelled faintly of coffee. “Fine.”
Then, in a move that was both stiff and shockingly sudden, he reached over and took my hand.
My brain short-circuited.
His hand was large, warm, and dry. His fingers laced through mine with a practiced ease that was completely at odds with the rigid set of his shoulders.
It felt … solid. Substantial. My hand, which was usually holding a pair of floral shears or wiping up some unidentifiable spill, felt small and ridiculously delicate enclosed in his.
I stared at our joined hands, resting on the rough wooden bench between us. It was a prop. A strategic tool to sell a story. But my pulse didn’t seem to get the memo. It started that frantic, kettle-corn hopping again.
I forced myself to look up, to smile at him like this was the most natural thing in the world. He was still staring straight ahead, but I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw. Oh, he hated this. The thought gave me a small, petty spike of satisfaction.
“There,” I whispered. “See? Not so bad.”
“Debatable,” he muttered under his breath.
Across the wagon, my mother caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up so enthusiastic it nearly dislocated her shoulder. I gave her a wobbly smile back. Olivia, content that the “rules” were being followed, was now happily pointing out squirrels in the trees.
For the next ten minutes, we sat like that, a portrait of manufactured romance.
We were a silent, stiff island in a sea of happy, chattering people.
I pointed at a particularly well-carved pumpkin that looked like the mayor, and Mario made a noncommittal noise.
He shifted his weight, and our shoulders brushed.
A tiny spark of warmth shot down my arm, a pleasant, traitorous little zap.
I told myself it was just static from my orange wool sweater.
The tractor rumbled deeper into the woods, the path growing darker and more remote.
The lights of the festival were just a faint glow behind us.
And then, e poi ... it happened.The steady, throaty rumble of the tractor’s engine sputtered.
Once. Twice. It coughed, a sick, wheezing sound, and then died completely.
We rolled to a stop in a patch of profound darkness, the path ahead unlit.
A collective groan went through the wagon. Someone’s kid started to cry. The driver, a teenager who looked about seventeen, hopped down and opened the engine compartment, a look of sheer panic on his face.
“Uh, just a little engine trouble, folks,” he called out, his voice cracking. “Should have us up and running in a jiffy!”
He did not sound like he would have us up and running in a jiffy.
The festive atmosphere on the wagon evaporated, replaced by a restless, annoyed buzz. People started pulling out their phones, the sudden glare of the screens blinding in the dark. My family was murmuring amongst themselves.
“Well,” Ben said loudly from across the wagon. “Looks like you two got some extra romantic alone time!”
I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. The hay, the tractor, all of it.
Then things escalated. In the sudden shuffling and commotion, someone near the front of the wagon bumped into a teetering stack of decorative hay bales that had been piled in the center.
They weren’t heavy, but they were bulky.
The top bale wobbled, swayed, and then tipped over directly toward our bench.
It happened in a flash. There was a collective gasp. I instinctively pulled Olivia closer, turning to shield her. But before the bale could hit us, an arm shot out in front of me. Mario.
He didn’t even seem to think about it. He just reacted. His body twisted, his arm catching the falling bale with a soft whump . He grunted with the effort, easily shoving the bale back into the pile. But the initial momentum threw him off balance. He stumbled sideways, directly into me.