Page 35 of Matchmaking On The Menu

The flash cuts through the moment like a crack of lightning, bright and gone before I can fully register it.

I freeze anyway.

It’s instinct more than anything else that has my body going still even as the music carries on around me, people brushing past like nothing happened, like I didn’t just feel that split-second interruption slice clean through everything.

But I did. I felt it. Saw that quick burst of light from somewhere just beyond the edge of the crowd.

My gaze lifts, scanning, searching for the source until it lands on a figure standing a little apart from everyone else.

Tall. Still. Watching.

A hooded cloak drapes over broad shoulders, dark against the warm glow of the tent, the fabric falling in clean, deliberate lines that make him look like he’s placed himself there on purpose. Like he belongs exactly where he’s standing while the rest of us are just moving through it.

The mask catches the light.

A gold-and-white Venetian jester covers the upper half of his face, the intricate detailing curling over his cheekbones, the edges glinting with every slight shift of his head. Small golden bells line the tips, still for now, but I can imagine the sound they’d make if he moved.

Something about him seems… familiar. Which makes no sense, because he’s wearing a mask. Yet there’s a pull I can’t quite name, and he doesn’t quite fit here.

Or maybe he does, just not in the way the rest of us do. It’s like we’re all part of the chaos and he’s standing just outside it, watching, untouched.

He’s holding a camera. My stomach drops. Oh. Oh no.

I push through the crowd before I can talk myself out of it, my pulse quickening for an entirely different reason now. Something sharper than embarrassment, heavier than annoyance fills me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t step back. Doesn’t even pretend he wasn’t just violating my privacy.

I hear Shelly asking me where I’m going but ignore her in my single-minded mission. Stopping a few feet in front of him, my breath still uneven from dancing, irritation sparks quick and bright, easier to hold onto than whatever else is trying to creep in.

“Did you just take my picture?”

7

TEDDY

LIGHT’S RIGHT. SUBJECT UNPLANNED

I didn’t come here to take photos, but that’s a little hard to prove, considering the camera is already in my hand, the familiar weight settled into my grip like it belongs there. I carry it the same way I carry my phone or my keys—without thinking. It’s part of me at this point.

The plan had been simple: drive into town, check things out, grab something to eat, head back before the noise got under my skin. I met Beverly earlier and was relieved when she told me her daughter wasn’t coming to the festival. Thank God for small mercies, especially since I had forgotten about that whole matchmaking conversation. If I’d remembered, I wouldn’t have come.

Instead of making it an in-and-out situation, though, I’ve been weaving my way through the festival like an invisible tether of sorts was wrapped somewhere around my ribs, pulling me forward one slow step at a time.

I blame the lights. They’re everywhere. Colorful bulbs strung between stalls, wrapped around poles, woven through branches like someone tried to copy the constellations and almost got it right.

Almost.

The air is laden with sweet and savory scents. Hay mixed with pumpkin spice and cider. Music drifts through the air, each stall competing for the loudest beat. With all the sounds clashing and overlapping, it should be chaos, but somehow it works. It settles around me, a constant hum of people and laughter that feels dangerously close to belonging.

My shoulders should be tight by now. My jaw locked. The familiar itch to leave already building. But it’s not.

In LA, my nights were always crowded, loud, full of people, but it never felt like this. Everyone there was in their own orbit, their own head, performing for the masses and deeply alone. Even when I was in the middle of it, I wasn’t in it. This here is teeming with life.

“I loooooove the harvest festival!”

The voice cuts across the noise, and I turn to see a little old lady in the middle of the walkway, wearing a floral dress and sensible shoes, her gray curls set just a little too neatly. But something’s not quite right. Her face is too smooth, too perfect, the smile stretched just far enough to feel deliberate instead of natural.

“I really love it,” she adds, beaming at a group of strangers who look like they’re wondering if they should call social services. One of them nods politely. Another takes a step back. I watch for a second longer than I need to as she adjusts her shawl with complete confidence, like this is exactly where she belongs. Like this is normal.

“I love the harvest festival,” she says again, as if repetition might make it less unsettling.