Page 8 of Matchmaking On The Menu

“The next Grandma?” I shake my head. “Grandma’s still very much alive and running the place. We don’t need another Grandma.”

Panic rises fast and sharp because I know what they’re really saying. This isn’t a promotion. It’s a future in a life I already know by heart. The stupid thing is, part of me wants it.

I love the place. I love the regulars. I love knowing Mr. Davenport’s order before he sits down, and which truckers will ask for extra coffee before they’ve even taken off their jackets. I love that Grandma built something people depend on, and I love being part of it.

But if I say yes, what happens to the girl who was supposed to leave? What happens to the notebooks full of story ideas and the dream I’ve had since I was twelve? What happens to the version of me who was going to chase stories and see the world?

And if I say no?

If I walk away from all of this and chase journalism, what if I fail? What if I leave behind the people I love only to discover I was never good enough to make it as a reporter in the first place? What if Grandma is right about me, and I’m wrong about myself? Or worse, what if I’m right?

My fingers twist into the hem of my shirt, knuckles whitening as I scan the table for a glass of water. Grandma gets up without a word and disappears into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a cold bottle of water, which she sets on a coaster in front of me.

“Dannica,” she says softly, “we know you can do this.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Just think about it. For me.”

Pack your bags, Dannica. You’re going on a guilt trip.

I stand, the heavy oak chair scraping across the wooden floors and grating on my over-sensitized sensory system.

“I’m beat. I should probably turn in. Don’t want to be late again tomorrow.” My pulse is loud in my ears, and heat floods my body. I wrap my fingers tight around the plastic bottle. The room gets smaller and smaller with every second I look at their expectant faces. “G…good night.”

“Good night, honey,” Mom says.

“You aren’t as trapped as you think you are, child,” Grandma states, her smile warm.

I force myself to walk out of the room instead of running, controlling the urge to race outside so I can fill my lungs with the chilled air. I enter my in-law suite and rush to my bedroom. Closing the door gently, I lean against the frame, dragging in huge gulps of air.

I keep telling myself this is a compliment. They mean well.

Then why do I feel like someone has locked the door and thrown away the key?

2

TEDDY

WAITING FOR THE SHOT THAT DOESN’T COME

“All right, Teddy, you’re in the country now, might as well get some fresh air.”

The only voice answering me as I roll down the window is Bon Jovi pouring out of the Jeep’s speakers. I’ve changed the song six or seven times already, chasing something that might quiet the restless buzzing crawling under my skin.

It’s not even energy. Not really. More like static because my brain won’t land on a single clear thought.

I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, the rhythm uneven, impatient, as the road narrows from highway to a quiet two-lane lined with trees trimmed so neatly they almost look fake. I ease my foot off the gas. The Jeep doesn’t like it—nor do I. It feels unnatural to me. Like I’m doing something wrong. Like if I don’t keep moving, something’s going to catch up to me. Still, I force it, force myself, to take things in.

It’s not as easy as it looks. Slowing down isn’t exactly my default setting. But apparently burning out in spectacular fashion isn’t either, so here we are. Boudica Springs.

Warm air drifts into the Jeep, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and… is that… a faint whiff of dung? I think it is. Weirdly, it makes me smile. It’s honest. Not trying to be anything other than what it is.

In LA, the air always smells like peanut oil and exhaust fumes—sickly sweet, thick enough to taste. It settles into your clothes, your skin, your lungs until it feels like you’re wearing the city instead of living in it. By the end of the day, I’m desperate to peel my shirt off, to scrub the city off, to breathe something that doesn’t feel manufactured. It feels like I’m not going to have to try that hard here.

That’s the thing about a rut. It creeps in slow enough that you don’t notice, until one day the air feels wrong. Too thick. Too close. Like every breath gets trapped halfway down, and no matter how far I go, I’m still dragging the same stale air in with me. Out here, the wind carries dirt, grass, and the occasional farmyard reminder that something nearby is very much alive. I take a deep breath. It smells like space.

Up ahead, a weathered wooden sign comes into view.