My doorbell rings at seven o’clock sharp. Samson barks, and my heart flutters. All day I’ve replayed Jake’s words and the way he looked when he said them. Good. It’s a date. They are easily spoken, innocuous words, yet I can’t help but assign them meaning. I check my reflection one last time in my downstairs bathroom mirror, grab two cans of green beans off my kitchen counter, wrap a scarf around my neck, give Samson a good-bye kiss between his eyes, and step outside onto the porch.
“Hi,” I say, a little too breathlessly.
“You look nice.”
“Thanks. So do you.” He wears what he normally wears—flannel shirt showing beneath an unzipped Carhartt and well-worn jeans. Only he’s clean-shaven and sans his usual baseball hat. I’m probably reading too much into that too.
Jake holds up a plastic bag that already contains one can of pumpkin pie filling and another of cranberry sauce. I place my green beans inside.
“Shall we?” he asks.
Nodding, I pull my hair out from beneath my scarf and zip my coat all the way up. My breaths escape in puffs of iridescent white before disappearing into the night as we stroll through my front yard, down the street, toward the center of town.
I can’t tell if the electricity I feel between us is a real thing or self-fabricated. All I know is that I’m hyperaware of all things Jake—the way he shortens his stride to match mine, the way his slightly-longer-than-usual hair curls up a bit over his ear, the closeness of our knuckles. All of it has me more nervous than I should be. “So how’s your dad doing?” I ask.
“Pretty good. His arthritis has been flaring up with the colder weather, but he’s never been much of a complainer.”
“Like father, like son.”
Jake smiles.
As we walk and talk about everything but the wedding, I try not to feel guilty about Lily, who called earlier and asked if I wanted to grab a bite to eat at Patty’s before heading to the festival. Every year we’ve gone together, even when I was with Chase, since he always had to work. I felt awkward telling her that I was going with Jake and tried to make up for it by inviting her to join us, then immediately regretted it because I wasn’t sure of Jake’s intentions. What if his words—Good. It’s a date.—weren’t innocuous at all? What if Jake really did want this to be a date? It didn’t matter, though, because Lily declined. We could find each other there. I’m pretty sure her glum tone had less to do with me and more to do with Liam—who is away on another one of his trips and hasn’t returned Lily’s phone calls.
“You’re kind of quiet,” Jake says. “Something on your mind?”
“My brother’s just being my brother.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s giving Lily mixed signals. She’s starting to fall for him again, and now he’s backing off.” Our arms swing in rhythm with our footsteps. I can’t tell if he wants to take my hand or not, so I leave it out of my pocket, despite the cold and no gloves.
“N-C-L.”
“Huh?”
Jake chuckles. “No Commitment Liam.”
“Oh, yeah.” That had been his nickname in high school. Unfortunately for Lily, the nickname still applies today.
“For what it’s worth, I think your brother has always had a thing for Lily. He just doesn’t have any clue what to do about it.”
“Well, he better figure it out soon. She won’t wait forever.”
Jake scratches his jaw, his brow furrowing as the growing hum of activity catches my attention. We’ve officially reached the town square, where children jump in the bounce house, costume-clad teenagers solicit townsfolk to play carnival games, and the animals in the petting zoo oink and squawk and bleat. Several people meander around the baking booths, sampling various pumpkin-inspired recipes, voting for their favorite. Now is when Jake takes my hand, which makes me think the gesture really is for show.
We find Patty first, halfway hidden by a friendly-faced scarecrow. She works in front of a table stacked high with canned food.
“Evening, Patty,” Jake says.
She stops sorting the cans into boxes and beams at our joined hands, the whites of her eyes looking even whiter against the night and her dark skin. “Well, if it isn’t our town lovebirds.”
She has taken to calling us this so often, it’s caught on. I can’t go in for my Monday morning coffee without hearing the phrase from Jake’s great-uncle Al and his buddy Rupert, at least twice. “Seems like a great turnout this year.”
“You’re telling me. Lily really outdid herself.”
Jake sets the plastic bag with our cans on the table. “Here’s some more to add to the pantry. Happy fall harvest.”
Patty wishes us the same. We wave good-bye and walk through the display of antique tractors—on loan from a few of Mayfair’s local farmers—then head straight for the candied apples, which weigh more than any food item should ever be allowed to weigh. We take sticky bites while checking out the jack-o’-lanterns, which range from impressively elaborate to crudely simple, all submitted by Mayfair residents. Jake finds one with an uncanny resemblance to our old history teacher, Mr. DeVree, who had a giant forehead and the world’s largest comb-over. I put a tally mark on the sheet in front of it. At the end of the festival, the person with the most tallies takes home a pumpkin-carving trophy. Phil Nixon has seven proudly displayed on the front counter of his convenience store.
“Mr. DeVree gets your vote, huh?”
“For the sake of nostalgia.”
Jake slowly tilts his head at the pumpkin. “I’m not sure it’s really supposed to be him though.”
“Too late. Penciled tally marks cannot be revoked.” I toss the remains of my apple into a nearby garbage can and lick the stickiness from my fingers. When I finish, Jake is staring at me. “What?”
“You have some caramel . . .” He touches his lip.
“Oh.” Embarrassed, I try to rub the caramel away. “Did I get it?”
“No.” Jake steps closer and touches his lip again. “It’s right here.”
I try more toward the left.
Jake’s mouth pulls up into a half smile.
“It’s still there?”
“Here, let me.” He gently wipes the corner of my upper lip with the pad of his thumb, our bodies so close they are almost touching, the scent of cedar emanating from his skin.
I look up at him through my eyelashes. As our eyes lock, there’s something in his expression—an intensity that has my heartbeat picking up speed. For one crazy second, I’m positive he’s going to kiss me. But then his eyelids flutter and he steps away.
“Hey, Lily,” Jake says, rubbing the back of his neck.
I spin around and find Lily standing not too far behind us, a sharpness in her green eyes that leaves me feeling flustered, as if I’ve been caught breaking the rules. “Hey, when’d you get here?”
“A while ago.” Her attention flicks from Jake to me. “Was I interrupting something?”
I laugh—a nervous, too-loud laugh that is followed by a silence so painful I’m dying to fill it. Lily might be keeping her thoughts to herself when it comes to this engagement, but her opinion has been clear from the start, and right now I don’t want to deal with it. I stick my hands into my coat pockets. “Did you vote for your favorite pumpkin?”
“Not yet.”
“Jake and I haven’t tasted any of the recipes. We were going to go try some if you want to come along.” As much as I don’t want to extend the invitation, this is Lily. I can’t leave her behind while I trounce off with Jake.
She shrugs.
As we make our way past the gazebo, where Wayne and his son shuck corn like it’s the race of their lives, it’s obvious that Lily is making a concerted effort to avoid Jake. I can tell he notices it too by the furrow in his brow. It leaves me feeling stuck in the middle—like the two are fighting and it’s up to me to get them to make up. “We’re getting our dresses altered tomorrow at two,” I remind her. The tailor had kindly agreed to come in on a Sunday afternoon to accommodate my hectic schedule.
“I know.”
“Have you been fitted for your tux yet?” I ask Jake.
He glances at Lily, whose rotten mood has tossed an invisible blanket of tension over what was shaping up to be a very enjoyable evening. I try to remind myself that she’s upset about Liam, but it doesn’t help as much as it should. “I went yesterday. Liam’s going this Tuesday when he gets back.”
We reach the booths with all the baked goods. I try to enjoy the yummy smell of brown sugar, cinnamon, and pumpkin spice, but the awkwardness between my two best friends is beyond distracting. So much so that I barely taste my bite of Clara O’Malley’s famous chocolate pumpkin bread.
“So how does this work?” Lily finally asks. “Am I supposed to throw you a bachelorette party? I’m not sure I understand the etiquette for this type of situation.”
I shoot Lily a look.
She ignores me. “Is Liam throwing you a bachelor party?”
Jake’s furrow deepens. “I’m not really a bachelor party kind of guy.”
I hurry over to the next booth, where Eloise stands beside a glorious-looking pumpkin cake with ivory whipped cream frosting, tiny pieces to sample tucked inside Dixie cups. “This looks delicious, Eloise,” I say, handing one to Jake, another to Lily.
“If you like it, it’s not too late to change your wedding cake order to pumpkin!” She smiles serenely—the perfect picture of a grandmotherly baker. “So, have you two decided where you’re going for your honeymoon?”
I swallow my bite of cake, hating Lily’s hot stare on the side of my face. “Oh, we’re, uh . . . not taking one.”
Eloise’s serene smile crumples. “No honeymoon? Oh, but you have to take a honeymoon. It’s the most romantic part.”
Lily’s stare does not relent. It is an annoying, unwelcome reminder that this story I’m living isn’t real. That it’s only a matter of time before the alarm clock goes off and forces me awake. Resentment stirs in my chest. “We didn’t have time to plan one.”
“Well, maybe you can take a late one, in the wintertime.” Her face brightens. “You could take your wife skiing,” she says to Jake. “A nice lodge with a fireplace so you can enjoy a crackling fire at night. Sounds romantic, don’t you think?”
Jake agrees, and we thank Eloise for the taste of cake and move on to a whole table filled with pumpkin pie. I don’t have an appetite for any of it.
“You’ll want to be careful on those ski lifts,” Lily says. “Emma’s afraid of heights.”
“I know,” Jake says.
“So, am I supposed to get you a wedding gift?”
I narrow my eyes at my friend.
“Or am I allowed to skip the pretense?”
“Lily,” I say sharply.
“It’s an honest question.”
Maybe so, but I don’t want to hear it. “Look, I know you’re upset about Liam.”
“This has nothing to do with Liam.”
Jake pulls at his collar.
I can’t stand his discomfort. I can’t even stand my own. My frustration mounts. I don’t want to deal with this right now. Not tonight. “I’ll be back.”
“Where are you going?” Jake asks.
“To get some cider.” Without giving either a chance to object or follow, I pivot on my heels and weave through the crowd, reality threatening to descend. I do my best to fight it. What is Lily’s deal anyway? It’s not like my choices are harming anyone, and it’s not like she’s never made a questionably moral decision before either. Jake understands. Liam understands. I know my mom will understand. So why can’t Lily?
As I cross my arms and continue walking, the clop, clop, clop of horse hooves and the sound of my name break through my internal venting. I look up from my shoes and spot my parents sitting in a horse-drawn carriage, illuminated by the streetlight, finishing the loop around the square. Mom sits on the edge of the bench and waves in my direction as the driver brings the horse to a stop. I walk up beside them.
“What are you doing here all by yourself?” Mom says. “I thought you were coming with Jake.”
“I did. I was just trying to find us some cider.” I look over my shoulder, toward the baking booths. “He’s back there with Lily.”
Her mother radar must be on full alert, because her eyes flicker in that way they do whenever she senses I’m in turmoil. “Why don’t you take a ride with your dad and I’ll go find us some cider.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. Enjoy a carriage ride with your dad. I’ll find Jake and Lily and let them know where you are.” The driver helps Mom down from the carriage, then helps me up. I sit on the bench, wrap my arm around Dad’s, and rest my head on his shoulder, savoring the rise and fall of his breathing. We ride without speaking for a while, taking in the sounds of the festival, the clopping of the horse hooves, the crisp evening air, and the moonlight spilling its light onto the tops of the trees. It’s not until we round the second corner that I remove my head from his shoulder and look at him. “You’ve been looking healthy, Dad.”
“I’ve been feeling healthy.”
The statement has my hope growing into something desperate and unwieldy, something that refuses to be contained.
“The meds are doing a great job at managing the headaches and nausea.”
“Maybe it’s not the meds,” I offer.
“Maybe.”
But he doesn’t believe it. I can tell. “You don’t think it’s possible? All the people who are praying for you to be healed—our whole church, this town—you don’t think God can answer?”
“I know he can, honey.” He pats my hand. “I’m just not sure he will.”
And just like that, the dream I’ve been living in pops. As if it were nothing more substantial than a soap bubble.