Page 111 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I look up from the camera. “Hey.”

Her eyes narrow. “Were you taking photos of me?”

“Maybe.”

“I knew it. Fame has finally found me.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.”

Curiosity replaces the mock outrage. I turn the camera around and hold it out. Shelly takes one look at the screen and goes completely still. The teasing expression disappears. Her eyes stay fixed on the image for several long seconds.

“That’s my dad.”

Her voice comes out softer than usual. I glance between her and the screen.

“It’s a good photo.”

She swallows. “He’s having a really good day today.”

Something in her voice keeps me quiet.

“He has dementia.”

The words are matter-of-fact. Like she’s said them enough times that they no longer surprise her. I look back at the photograph. Suddenly, it feels more important than it did thirty seconds ago.

“He still knows who I am,” she says quietly. “Most days anyway.” A small smile touches her lips. “Some days he forgets where he put his keys. Some days he forgets why he walked into a room. Some days he forgets when my birthday is.” She studies the image again. “Today he remembered my favorite ice cream.” The smile trembles slightly. “And he remembered the dog’s name.”

My chest tightens. Because I know exactly what she’s really saying. Today was a good day, today he was still here.

I look back at the photograph. “I’m glad you got today.”

Shelly nods. “So am I.”

For a moment neither of us says anything, then I hold the camera out again. “Want me to send it to you?”

Her eyes soften. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “I’d really like that.”

I nod and glance back at the image. Funny, a few weeks ago I’d have walked right past this moment, looking for something bigger. Now, I can’t imagine anything more important.

By the time I head home, my camera is full. Not of celebrities. Not of curated moments designed to impress. But of people. People working, living, existing without trying to be anything other than what they are. And it hits me somewhere along the drive back. This is it. This is what I’ve been missing. Not the scale. Not the status. This. The quiet moments. The honest ones. The ones that don’t need to prove anything to anyone.

I pull into the apartment’s parking lot and sit there for a moment, my hands resting on the wheel, the weight of that realization settling in. I don’t want to leave this. I don’t want to leave this town. Most of all, I don’t want to leave her. Dannica. I dial her number before I can overthink it. She picks up on the third ring.

“Miss me already?” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.”

I huff out a quiet laugh, leaning back in my seat. “What are you doing Sunday?”

“Working. Like a responsible adult.”

“Don’t you close early?”

There’s a pause. “Suspicious question.”

“Come over for dinner,” I say, my heart racing slightly.