Page 9 of Matchmaking On The Menu

WELCOME TO BOUDICA SPRINGS

Population 2,843

Below it, someone added a smaller hand-painted board.

HOME OF THE ANNUAL HARVEST FESTIVAL.

I snort. In LA, the welcome sign would’ve been sponsored by a luxury car brand and flanked by flashing billboards bright enough to give half the population a seizure while advertising the latest blockbuster. Here? Someone has nailed a plastic pumpkin to the post.

Is it flashy? No. Classy? Definitely not. Cool? Damn straight.

I ease into town at a comfortable crawl. The sounds that greet me are cheerful. Kids laugh somewhere nearby. A dog barks enthusiastically at nothing in particular. Neighbors who’ve clearly known each other for decades wave across lawns, shouting greetings. No honking. No gridlocked traffic. No delivery scooters darting between lanes and pissing off every driver within fifty feet. Just people living their lives, following the comfortable rhythm of a place where everyone seems to know exactly where they belong.

The baker bakes.

The barber cuts hair.

The farmer farms.

Simple.

Meanwhile, I’ve spent the last three years introducing myself through magazine covers and gallery exhibitions because I’m not entirely sure who I am without them anymore.

Longing slams into me. What would it feel like to know where I belong again?

A breeze rustles through the massive oak trees lining the street, their branches stretching overhead like a natural umbrella against the afternoon sun. The whole town looks like the set of one of those Christmas movies my dad used to watch when I was growing up. As a teenager, I complained whenever he put one on, rolling my eyes at the predictable endings and syrupy music. Now I’d give anything to sit beside him on that old couch again. It was a simpler time.

The quiet stretches out ahead of me as the main street narrows into smaller roads and older buildings. Eventually, the houses become few and far between. The trailer park sitting on the right gives way to open fields and long stretches of grass dotted with freshly painted mailboxes. The town might be old, but it’s easy to see the people here take pride in where they live.

My apartment sits right at the edge of town, in a building with 1815 etched into the brick above the doorway. If those walls could talk, I’d probably stop the car just to listen.

The apartment is quiet and clean—exactly what I asked for. The movers delivered my boxes and furniture, which were now draped with drop cloths.

After dumping my bags inside, I head straight back to the Jeep for the one thing I refused to let the movers touch: my camera. Some people have emotional support animals; I have photography equipment.

I line everything up on the kitchen counter. My Canon EOS R5 Mark II. The lenses, memory cards, tripod. The familiar routine settles me. Not enough, but it’s something.

By the time I’ve unpacked the essentials, sunlight stretches across the floor in long, golden strips, and my stomach is threatening legal action. When I open the fridge and find it bare, I shake my head. What did I expect to find? I guess I’ll have to get something delivered. I search for delivery on my phone and turn up empty. Apparently, Boudica Springs believes in leaving your house for food.

I probably should have researched this before packing up and leaving. Although, that’s not exactly easy to do when the decision to move happens somewhere between midnight panic and screw it, I’m leaving.

I lean back against the counter, the edge digging into my spine, and let out a slow breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way out. My fingers drag through my hair, catching slightly like I’ve been doing it too often. Which… yeah, I have.

My shoulders pull tight, a dull ache settling in my lower spine, and I press my palm into the small of my back, trying to work it out. All right, looks like I’ll have to socialize—exactly what I was hoping to avoid for a while. I stare back at my phone, hesitating for one last second before I type.

Food near me.

The results don’t look promising. One Safeway. One independent grocery store, likely owned by the town’s founding family members. A bar on the other side of town (definitely need to try their beer before attempting their food). Two fast-food places (hmm, I should scope out the town a little more before trusting anything mass-produced). And one diner.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering like there’ll be more options. The diner has four-and-half stars. Seems promising. Not that I have much choice.

I drag my gaze away, jaw tightening as the quiet settles in again, thick and unfamiliar. Too much space. Too much time to think.

Nope. Food. Focus on food.

Despite it being fall, the late-afternoon air still holds a lingering warmth that tricks you into thinking the day isn’t already slipping away. I grab my jacket, hesitating before putting it on, like I’m bracing for something more than just the weather. Which I probably am.

The Jeep glides over the cracked tar, the steering wheel steady beneath my hands as I head back into town. For some reason, the drive feels longer, as though time is dragging its feet just to mess with me. Probably because my stomach feels like it’s trying to crawl up my throat and make a run for it to the nearest place that serves deep fried anything.