Page 1 of Matchmaking On The Menu

1

DANNICA

LOCAL WOMAN RUNS LATE, QUESTIONS ENTIRE LIFE TRAJECTORY BEFORE 7 A.M.

Light floods through a crack in my blackout curtains and hits my face. I squint against it as a headline drafts itself in my head.

LOCAL WOMAN ASSAULTED BY SUN, CLAIMS CURTAINS “DID THEIR BEST.”

I groan as I stretch, my twenty-seven-year-old body aching like I’m seventy-three and composing a strongly worded letter about mattress quality. Something in my lower back makes a noise that sounds expensive. This habit of sleeping like I’m auditioning for Cirque du Soleil has to stop. At this rate, I’m personally funding my chiropractor’s second home.

Mom and Gran have tried every trick in the book to get me to sleep in a healthy position. Short of tying me down—which I’m certain has been floated as a viable option—I continue to wake up tangled in my sheets like I’ve been prize fighting and lost.

Still, aside from the structural concerns of my spine, I feel good. Really good. I haven’t felt this well rested in a long time. Months, maybe. I grin. Today is going to be a great day.

That’s when it hits me.

No alarm.

My eyes snap to my bedside table. Please tell me I turned it off in my sleep like a responsible adult and not…

I grab my phone. It comes away from the charger far too easily.

Oh no!

I press the side button. Nothing.

I press it again. Still nothing. I sit bolt upright. The screen is black. Springing out of bed, I race for the door of the in-law suite. If that clock in the dining room says anything past six-thirty, I’m dead. And I don’t mean metaphorically. Grandma will kill me and bury me somewhere tasteful.

I skid into the main house, nearly taking out the side table Mom insists is “antique” but is actually just heavy. The grandfather clock stands in the corner like a silent judge. I look up.

6:53.

No.

No, no, no, no, no!

“Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.”

I glare at the clock like it had personally unplugged my phone.

Six fifty-three means: coffee’s not started; feral truckers; Quadri’s dry remarks; Grandma’s cutting one-liners—delivered with a hug, of course.

Shit!

I spin on my heel and sprint back to my room. So much for being well rested. By noon, I’ll be refilling coffee with the energy of a woman paying for her sins.

“Today is going to be a great day, my big ass.”

I grimace. If Shelly heard my negative self-talk, she’d give me another lecture and send me more self-help podcasts. She’s been my best friend since kindergarten, so I should be used to it. I shouldn’t even open them, but part of me wonders if she’d know I didn’t, so I do. I listen to them all. Personally? I don’t mind my pear shape. I like my curves. As I always say, when God was handing out boobs, I was in the ass line. Which is exactly where I wanted to be.

In the bathroom, I line up my skincare products like soldiers awaiting inspection. For a second, I consider skipping the routine, but then the headline hits.

LOCAL WOMAN SKIPS SKINCARE ROUTINE, IMMEDIATELY RELAPSES INTO FIVE-YEAR ADULT ACNE ERA.

That settles it. I run through my regimen, terrified of triggering another batch of adult acne. I had it for five years—from nineteen to twenty-four—and I do not want to go through that again. I’d much rather risk my demise than do all that again. At least my skin will look good enough for an open casket.

I tug on black jeans and a bright blue top, nearly bruising a hip as I shimmy into the jeans. Do I have all my things? Bag. Phone. Keys. Check. I bolt out the front door and jump on my bike, pedaling hard enough for it to count as cardio. The diner is barely down the road, but late is late, even when your last name is on the sign.