13. Lily
Lily
The crisp October air carried the scent of woodsmoke and caramel apples as I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, wrestling with my pumpkin-colored cardigan.
Outside, maple leaves drifted past the window like confetti, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the high school marching band practicing for the Halloween parade.
“Mom, we’re going to be late!” Olivia’s voice drifted up from downstairs, already pitched with the manic energy that only came from wearing a costume she was desperately proud of.
I gave up on the cardigan—it was either “trying too hard” or “festive mom,” and honestly, after a week of dodging wedding questions at the grocery store, I’d take festive mom.
The entire town had been buzzing since June’s proposal rumors started circulating.
Yesterday, Mrs. Smithers had cornered me at the post office to ask about my “something blue” preferences.
My phone buzzed against the dresser. A text from Mario.
On my way. June just stopped me to ask if I prefer roses or peonies. For “no particular reason.”
Despite the circus our lives had become, I smiled. We’d been texting more lately—little observations about June’s matchmaking schemes, shared eye-rolls over my mother’s increasingly unsubtle hints. It felt dangerously close to what real couples probably did.
“Coming!” I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs, where Olivia was doing final adjustments to her cardboard spoiler. The kitchen smelled like the pumpkin spice muffins I’d stress-baked at dawn, and golden afternoon light streamed through the windows, making her sequined helmet sparkle.
“Do you think Mario will remember to come?” She asked, testing the structural integrity of her racing stripes for the hundredth time.
“He said he would, baby.”
“Good. Because I told Mrs. Smithers, he was basically my dad, and she said that was ‘premature.’” Olivia rolled her eyes with seven-year-old disdain. “But I think she’s just jealous because her boyfriend can’t even fix a bicycle.”
“Olivia Rose?—”
“What? It’s true! Remember when her bike got a flat at the farmers market and he just stood there looking confused while Mario fixed it in like two minutes?”
The doorbell rang, saving me from a lecture about comparing potential father figures based on their mechanical abilities.
Mario stood on our porch, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
But he’d made an effort—dark wash jeans, a cream-colored cashmere sweater that brought out his eyes, and he’d even attempted to tame his hair.
The sight of him trying so hard for us made my chest warm in that dangerous way I kept telling myself to ignore.
“You came!” Olivia launched herself at him like a sequined missile.
“I promised, didn’t I?” He caught her easily, careful not to crush her costume. “Ready to show everyone the fastest car in Autumn Grove?”
“The fastest AND sparkliest,” she corrected, doing a little spin that made her cardboard chassis squeak. “Mom, take a picture! June says documentation is important for relationship development.”
“June says a lot of things,” Mario muttered, but he was smiling.
I pulled out my phone, watching them through the screen. Olivia beaming up at him, Mario’s genuine laugh at something she whispered—it looked so natural, so right, that for a moment I forgot it was all pretend.
The school parking lot was pure Halloween chaos when we arrived.
Parents wielding cameras like weapons, kids in costumes ranging from store-bought superheroes to elaborate homemade creations that probably cost more than my car payment.
The scent of cider and donuts drifted from the PTA bake sale booth, mixing with the sharp autumn air and someone’s overpowering pumpkin spice perfume.
The moment we stepped out of the car, I felt the familiar weight of small-town scrutiny.
“There they are,” someone whispered, not quite quietly enough.
“Don’t they look like a perfect little family?” another voice added.
Mario’s shoulders tensed beside me, and I wanted to explain it was just harmless small-town nosiness, but Olivia had already grabbed both our hands with the authority of a tiny event coordinator.
“You have to stand right there,” she instructed, pointing to a prime viewing spot near the gymnasium entrance. “So I can see you when my class walks by. And Mario, you have to wave, not just nod. Waving is more supportive.”
“Got it,” he said solemnly. “Supportive waving.”
She ran off to join her classmates, leaving Mario and me standing among the other parents. I was hyperaware of everything—the careful distance we maintained, the way he shifted when Mrs. Benson from the school library approached us with that knowing smile.
“Lily, how wonderful to see you here with Mario,” she said warmly. “Olivia must be thrilled to have him supporting her.”
“Oh, we’re just—” I started.
“She talks about him constantly,” Mrs. Benson continued, oblivious to my discomfort. “How he taught her about aerodynamics, how he fixes things around your house. Yesterday she wrote a story for creative writing about a racecar driver who saves the day with a very sparkly car.”
I glanced at Mario, who had found something fascinating to study on the side of the building.
A flush crept up his neck, and I wondered if he was thinking about that afternoon in my kitchen, surrounded by cardboard and glitter, teaching my daughter about drag coefficients like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“That sounds like Olivia,” I managed.
The parade started before Mrs. Benson could extract any more details about our “relationship.” Class by class, the costumed kids walked through the gymnasium, their excited chatter echoing off the high ceilings. When Olivia’s class appeared, she spotted us immediately, her whole face lighting up.
“That’s my mom and Mario!” she announced to anyone within a three-block radius. “Mario helped build my car! He knows about REAL racecars! He was a racecar driver!”
She gave us an enthusiastic wave that nearly sent her cardboard spoiler flying. Mario lifted his hand in return—a proper, supportive wave as requested—and Olivia practically glowed with pride.
Several parents turned to look at us with those knowing smiles I’d grown to dread. The ones that said they were already planning our engagement party and had opinions about whether we’d have a spring or fall wedding.
After the parade, Olivia dragged us to her classroom for the traditional juice-box-and-cookies reception. Mrs. Williams, her teacher, was waiting with the kind of smile that meant she had questions.
“Mr. Marrone,” she said warmly. “Olivia’s been telling us all about you. She says you’re teaching her Italian?”
“Just a few words,” Mario replied carefully, like he was navigating a diplomatic negotiation.
“Well, she taught the entire class how to count to ten yesterday. You’ve made quite an impression.” Mrs. Williams beamed. “The children are fascinated by your racing career.”
Olivia materialized at his side, tugging on his shirt with sticky fingers. “Mrs. Williams, tell him about the Family Heritage project!”
My stomach dropped to somewhere around my ankles. I’d completely forgotten about that project.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Williams said, her eyes lighting up. “Next month, students will be presenting about their family traditions. Olivia’s very excited to include some Italian customs.”
“Because Mario’s going to be family,” Olivia announced with the confidence of someone stating an obvious scientific fact. “He’s part of our family now.”
The classroom went quiet. Not completely silent—kids were still chattering, juice boxes were still being slurped—but I felt every adult ear in the room tune in to our conversation. Mario’s jaw worked like he was trying to form words that wouldn’t come.
“Sweetheart,” I started, my voice climbing toward the panic register, “Mario’s very busy, and we shouldn’t assume?—”
“But he promised to help!” Olivia’s face started to crumble, her lower lip trembling in a way that usually preceded a total meltdown. “He said he’d teach me about Italian holidays and food and everything!”
The silence stretched. I could practically hear the other parents holding their breath, waiting to see how this would unfold. Mario looked trapped, caught between disappointing a seven-year-old and making promises he might not be able to keep.
Then something shifted in his expression. His shoulders straightened, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet but certain.
“I did promise,” he said. Everyone in earshot turned to look at him. “I promised to help with your project, piccola . And I will.”
Olivia’s face lit up like Christmas morning, and she threw her arms around his waist. Over her head, Mario’s eyes met mine, and I saw my own panic reflected there.
We were in so deep, and it wasn’t just about us anymore.
My seven-year-old daughter had woven him into her life with the complete faith that he would stay.
“Picture time!” Mrs. Williams announced, producing a camera from nowhere. “Let’s get one of Olivia with her family!”
Before either of us could protest, Olivia had arranged us for the photo—her in the middle, Mario and me flanking her like awkward bookends.
As the camera clicked, capturing this moment of manufactured family perfection, I felt the weight of what we’d started pressing down on me like a wool coat in July.
This was supposed to be simple. A business arrangement. A seasonal solution.
But looking at Olivia’s radiant face, at the careful way Mario’s hand rested on her shoulder, at how natural this felt despite being completely fake—I realized we’d crossed a line we couldn’t uncross.
In the parking lot afterward, while Olivia ran ahead to show off her costume to a friend from her art class, I turned to Mario.
“She’s getting attached,” I said unnecessarily.
“I know.”
“This is going to hurt her when?—”
“I know.” His voice was rough around the edges. “I didn’t mean for... I just wanted to help with the costume.”
“And the Italian lessons. And fixing our toilet. And being at every event.” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, tinged with frustration at the situation we’d created.
He flinched like I’d slapped him. “You want me to stop? To distance myself?”
I opened my mouth to say yes—that would be the smart thing, the safe thing. But then I saw Olivia racing back toward us, her face bright with joy, practically bouncing as she called out, “Mario, did you see Sarah’s costume? She was a butterfly, but not nearly as fast as my car!”
“No,” I admitted, the word escaping before I could stop it. “I don’t want you to stop. And that terrifies me.”
Something shifted in his expression—a softening around his eyes that made my chest tight. “Lily?—”
“We should get to the festival,” I interrupted, not ready for whatever he was about to say. The air between us felt charged, dangerous. “I promised to help with the cider stand.”
But as we walked to our cars, Olivia chattering between us about the parade and her heritage project and how Tommy Patterson claimed her car wasn’t aerodynamically sound but clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking toward something inevitable.
Something that would either complete us or shatter us entirely.
And I honestly didn’t know which possibility scared me more.