8. Lily
Lily
Sunday dinner at my parents’ house had always been a command performance, but this week felt different.
There was an electric anticipation in the air, a barely contained excitement that made my stomach churn with dread.
I could sense it the moment Olivia and I walked through the back door—the way conversations paused mid-sentence, the knowing glances exchanged over casserole dishes, the suspicious number of “coincidental” family members who had decided to drop by.
My mother was practically vibrating with barely contained glee as she bustled around the kitchen, her movements more animated than usual. She kept shooting me looks that were equal parts triumphant and expectant, like she was waiting for me to announce something momentous.
“Lily, darling!” Aunt Carol materialized at my elbow before I’d even hung up my coat, her voice pitched at that particular frequency that meant gossip was about to be deployed. “I saw the most adorable picture of you on Facebook yesterday — you and that handsome man of yours at the farmers market!”
A few heads at the counter nodded; Uncle Mike had chatted about torque with him at dinner, and Ben had introduced him when he’d crashed on the couch for a couple nights, but most people had only offered a passing hello. The photo was the first time a lot of them had really seen him with me.
My blood turned to ice water in my veins. “Oh. That.”
“That?” Carol’s eyes widened with theatrical shock. “Lily Rose Sage, that was the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen! The way he was looking at you... and that tender little moment with the—what was it? Popcorn?”
“Kettle corn,” I corrected automatically, my face burning.
“Even more romantic!” she gushed. “So rustic and charming. Margaret,” she called out, “you simply must show her the comments. People are calling you two the most adorable couple in Autumn Grove!”
My mother appeared as if summoned, her phone already in hand and her smile so wide it looked like it might crack her face. “Oh, honey, you have to see this. June’s post has over sixty likes now, and the comments... well, they’re just lovely.”
She thrust her phone at me, and there it was in all its high-definition glory.
The photo was even worse than I remembered—or better, depending on your perspective.
June had somehow captured the exact moment Mario’s thumb had brushed the corner of my mouth, my eyes closed in what looked like blissful contentment.
The autumn light caught us perfectly, making the whole scene look like something from a romantic movie poster.
The comments were a parade of heart emojis and effusive praise:
Linda M.: Such a beautiful couple! True love at any age!
Pastor Williams: God’s timing is always perfect. Blessings to you both!
Sarah from the vegetable stand: I KNEW IT! The way you two looked at each other yesterday... my heart!
Mrs. Wilkins: Reminds me of my late Harold. Real love when you see it!
And then, the one that made my stomach drop completely:
Mayor Gable: When’s the wedding? Autumn Grove loves a good love story!
“The mayor commented on it,” I said weakly, my voice barely a whisper.
“He’s such a romantic,” my mother sighed happily. “Remember when he officiated the Kim wedding? Made everyone cry with that speech about love being the foundation of community.”
“Mom...” I started, but she was already scrolling through more comments.
“Oh, and look at this one from Mrs. Kowalski! She says you two remind her of her grandparents, who were married for fifty-eight years. Fifty-eight years, Lily! Isn’t that wonderful?”
Uncle Mike wandered over with a beer in his hand and a knowing grin on his face. “So where is he today? The famous racecar driver? I was hoping to talk shop with him. I’ve got a ’78 Camaro that’s been giving me trouble.”
“He’s... busy,” I managed, setting down my mother’s phone before I dropped it. “He had plans.”
“Probably planning something special,” Aunt Carol said with a theatrical wink. “Mark my words, that man is smitten. You can see it in his eyes in that photo. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”
My cousin Jenny, who had been quietly setting the table, looked up with interest. “Wait, are we talking about Lily’s boyfriend? The one from the Facebook post? Because seriously, Lil, he’s gorgeous. Like, magazine-cover gorgeous. How did you even meet someone like that?”
“It’s complicated,” I said, the same useless phrase I’d been deploying for weeks.
“Love always is,” my father chimed in from his chair by the window, not looking up from his newspaper. “The best things usually are.”
“Dad, please...”
But the family freight train of enthusiasm was impossible to stop. Olivia, who had been coloring at the kitchen table, suddenly piped up with the devastating honesty of a seven-year-old.
“Mario helped me build my Halloween costume,” she announced proudly. “He knows all about cars and aerodynamics, and he let me paint his fingernail pink for the speed boost.”
The room went silent. Every adult head swiveled toward my daughter, then back to me, their expressions ranging from delighted to smug to downright triumphant.
“He helped with her costume?” my mother breathed, pressing a hand to her heart. “Oh, Lily. That’s... That’s so...”
“Domestic,” Aunt Carol finished with satisfaction. “A man who’s good with children. That’s husband material right there.”
“Mom!” I protested, but the damage was done. The word ‘husband’ hung in the air like incense, heavy with implication and hope.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, unrepentant, “a man doesn’t spend time helping a woman’s child unless he’s serious about her. Mark my words.”
My mother was nodding vigorously. “Carol’s right. And the way he looks at you in that photo... Lily, I’ve been praying for this day for years. To see you happy again, to see you with someone who appreciates you...”
Her voice grew thick with emotion, and I felt my resolve cracking. This was exactly what I’d been afraid of. Not just the gossip or the pressure, but this—the hope. The joy on my family’s faces, the dreams they were building around a relationship that didn’t exist.
“You don’t understand,” I started, but Uncle Mike was already talking over me.
“When do we get to meet him properly? I mean, really meet him, not just those quick hellos at church or the festival. Bring him to Sunday dinner!”
“Yes!” my mother exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “Next week! I’ll make my famous lasagna. And that chocolate cake he liked at the church social.”
“How do you know he liked the cake?” I asked weakly.
“June told me. She said she saw him go back for seconds.” My mother’s smile was radiant. “A man with an appetite is a good sign, you know. Shows he appreciates the finer things in life.”
The conversation spiraled from there. Plans were made for Sunday dinner. Menu discussions ensued. My father was dispatched to find his “good” polo shirt for the occasion. Aunt Carol started talking about whether it was too early to start planning an engagement party.
I felt like I was drowning in their enthusiasm, suffocated by their love and expectations.
Every word they spoke dug me deeper into a hole I didn’t know how to climb out of.
How could I tell them it was all a lie? How could I explain that the man they were already planning Christmas dinners with was just a temporary arrangement, a shield against exactly this kind of pressure?
“I need some air,” I announced abruptly, standing up from the table.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Ben.
Mom’s already planning the wedding. Hope you know what you’re doing, sis.
Of course he would be smug — he’d been the one to hatch the whole fake dating plan — his texts always read like a victory lap. Another buzz, this one from my mother.
Should I invite Mario’s parents to dinner, too? Or is it too soon? I don’t want to overwhelm him.
I stared at the screen. Ben told me that Mario hadn’t spoken to his parents in years. They lived in Italy, and the idea of them flying in felt wildly impractical. Then, impossibly, a third text from a number I didn’t recognize.
Hi Lily! This is June. Hope you don’t mind, but Channel 8 called about the photo. They want to do a segment on local love stories for their Valentine’s feature. So exciting! Call me!
Channel 8. The local news station wanted to interview us about our relationship.
I stared at the phone in my hand, watching as the texts kept coming. More family members chiming in with dinner suggestions. Friends I hadn’t heard from in months suddenly reaching out to congratulate me. The entire town, it seemed, had appointed themselves stakeholders in my love life.
This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. The spotlight, the pressure, the expectations. And now it was spiraling completely out of control, fed by a single Facebook photo and the town’s insatiable appetite for romance.
I pictured Mario, probably holed up in his little rental cottage, blissfully unaware that Channel 8 wanted to interview him about his “feelings” for me. He’d come here to hide; I’d accidentally made him the star of Autumn Grove’s favorite fairy tale.
The back door opened behind me, and my mother appeared with a concerned expression and a cup of hot cider.
“Are you sure you’re alright, sweetheart?” she asked, settling onto the porch swing beside me. “You seem… overwhelmed.”
I took the cider gratefully, wrapping my hands around its warmth. “It’s just a lot, Mom. Everyone’s so excited, and I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“Oh, honey.” She smoothed my hair back from my face, the gesture soft and automatic. “You could never disappoint us. We’re just so happy to see you happy. You’ve been alone for so long, carrying everything by yourself. It’s wonderful to see you letting someone help shoulder the load.”
Her words hit me in a way that surprised me. They weren’t wrong — I’d been doing everything myself for years — and the idea of someone sharing that weight felt, in a small, dizzying way, like relief.
“I like him,” I admitted before I could stop myself, the thought arriving like a small, guilty confession. Not love. Not even close. Just … like. A warm flicker that made my chest unclench for the first time in weeks.
My mother’s face softened into that mix of hope and vindication she wore so well. “See? That’s what I mean. The man in that photo — the one who helped your daughter with her costume and looks at you like you’re precious — that’s a man who stays.”
I wanted to tell her the truth, that this was an arrangement, that Ben had masterminded it, that we’d agreed on rules.
That it was supposed to be boring, safe, and temporary.
But the words felt small and useless against the swell of everyone else’s excitement.
And the last thing I wanted to do was pop the fragile balloon of joy hovering over my family’s heads.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said softly.
“I know I am.” She squeezed my hand. “Now come inside before you catch cold. Dinner’s almost ready, and I want to hear all about that Halloween costume project. Every detail.”
As we walked back into the warm, noisy kitchen, the plan I’d signed up for felt suddenly bigger. I needed Mario to understand how out-of-hand things were getting. I needed him to agree on the next steps, to help tamp down the publicity and the invitations and the invasive questions.
The problem was that I worried he’d back out of our deal, that he wouldn’t want to keep pretending once the circus grew.
He’d signed up for a quiet, boring fake relationship, not this town-wide spectacle with news crews and engagement chatter.
And the truth that made my stomach flip was this: I was already starting to like him enough that I couldn’t handle us blowing up on national television.
We were in this together now, whether we liked it or not.