Page 28 of Matchmaking On The Menu

My mother’s voice carries through my in-law suite on a breeze but feels like a raging storm. A hurricane destroying hopes and dreams.

I swallow the lump in my throat and close the email, the image of that life vanishing. What the hell am I doing?

“Be right out.”

I close the laptop and slide it back onto the corner of my desk. The application will still be there tomorrow. One more day isn’t going to make a difference.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

6

DANNICA

LOCAL WOMAN SURROUNDED BY SUGAR, CHAOS, AND POOR DECISIONS

If anyone asked me an hour ago what my plans were for tonight, I would’ve said something responsible like drinking tea while staring at a blinking cursor and dissolving under the crushing weight of everything I’m supposed to be doing and somehow not doing.

Or, if I was being honest, I might’ve called it “living” and spent the evening writing practice articles no one’s ever going to read. Instead, I’m standing in the middle of the Boudica Springs Harvest Festival, dressed like a haunted ice witch with a drink in my hand and glitter in places I’m pretty sure glitter should never be.

LOCAL WOMAN AMBUSHED BY GLITTER, ACCEPTS IT AS PERMANENT PERSONALITY TRAIT.

I should’ve known better than to assume I’d get a quiet night doing the things I love, especially with Quadri and Shelly in my life. I love them, I really do, but they have a deeply ingrained belief that if I’m not neck-deep in people and questionable alcohol choices, then I must be in desperate need of rescuing. Just to be clear, I’m not. I’ve told them that. Repeatedly. They just choose not to hear it.

I tried to argue the logistics by telling her I didn’t have a costume, which was a mistake because Quadri is nothing if not resourceful. The woman could probably fix a hot air balloon with a hair tie and a piece of bubble gum, then she’d judge you for doubting her. She disappeared into her closet and came back with a pale blue prom dress like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. The skirt was soft and flowing, which was good because while we’re about the same size up top, that cannot be said for the bottom half of me. And the last thing I wanted to do was fight a zipper on festival night.

I expected to feel ridiculous when I put it on, but it didn’t. That alone should have rung some warning bells, but did I tell them that? Hell no.

To complete the outfit, she dug through what felt like a hundred hat boxes before producing a skull mask covered in rhinestones that catches the light with every movement. Instead of covering the top half of my face like a mask usually would, this one sat low, curving over my mouth and cheekbones. It was bold, and made me feel like I was hiding and still being seen at the same time. I didn’t have time to unpack that, though, because Shelly had already decided my face was her next project.

“Do not move,” she’d said, which is never a comforting instruction when someone is holding multiple brushes.

I considered arguing. Spoiler alert, I did not. There are battles you pick in life, and Shelly with access to makeup is not one of them.

By the time she was done, I barely recognized myself. She’d turned my face pale and icy, without making me look like I’d just lost a fight with a ghost. My hair was pulled up into something soft and elegant, with just enough loose strands to make it look intentional instead of forced. Add in the costume jewelry, and suddenly the whole thing came together in a way that was annoyingly effective.

I stared at my reflection, waiting for that little voice in my head to point out what doesn’t work, what needs fixing, what could be better.

It didn’t. And that was new.

Shelly, of course, took full credit. Quadri agreed with the kind of quiet satisfaction that suggested she’d known exactly how this would turn out all along, and I found myself not even arguing, which was probably the clearest sign that something strange was happening.

Because the truth is… I kind of loved it.

LOCAL WOMAN ENJOYS HERSELF, AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING

For a split second, I wonder if he’s here. The guy from the diner. It’s the kind of event that pulls people in, right? Out-of-towners, festival crowds, locals. Everyone ends up at these events. I don’t even know why that thought shows up like it has a right to be there. He was just passing through. I shake it off before it can settle into anything resembling expectation.

“This was a good decision,” Shelly declares, her plastic cup of questionable neon liquid already half empty.

“It’s been ten minutes,” I say, because accuracy matters, even when no one appreciates it.

“And you haven’t complained once,” Quadri adds, eyeing me like she’s waiting for the exact moment when I realize where I am and start protesting on principle.

I might. It’s early.

“I complained when you made me wear this dress,” I point out, tugging lightly at the fabric as if it might suddenly revert to something unremarkable.

“You said, and I quote, ‘this is uncompromisingly out of my comfort zone.’”