Page 2 of Matchmaking On The Menu

And Grandma? Grandma doesn’t tolerate lateness.

I’m pedaling so fast that when I spot the forest-green awning of our family diner, my foot slips off the pedal. The metal teeth of the footplate whip around and crack into my shin. I suck in a sharp breath, the sting exploding up my leg as the bike wobbles beneath me. For one horrifying second, I’m convinced I’m about to face-plant in front of the early-morning regulars. Please not today. Not in front of Mr. Davenport. If he has his teeth in, I’d hate for him to swallow them when he laughs.

I wrestle the handlebars back under control, dignity hanging by a thread, my shin throbbing.

“Son of a half-baked Christmas cake! That hurts.”

I ditch the offending bike around the back and half-hobble, half-run to the front doors. Usually, I’d go in through the back, but it feels like it will make me look more guilty today. The bell chimes like the gavels of a thousand judges. Court is in session, and I am guilty of first-degree tardiness.

But then the scents and sounds greet me. Coffee, bacon, maple syrup. The low hum of conversation alongside the scrape of cutlery. I absorb the comfort of it all. This place always feels more like home than my actual house ever has. Which would be perfect if it wasn’t also the reason I’m still stuck here.

Stuck.

Ugh, that word hits me right in the solar plexus.

Once upon a time, I was supposed to graduate, leave Boudica Springs, get a reporting job, and see the world.

Easy-peasy.

Except somewhere between the dream and real life, I turned twenty-seven and have nothing to show but headlines about my own existence, because it’s the only thing around here that changes.

And sadly, not by much.

Quadri walks past with a coffee pot in one hand and an apron in the other, which she hands me. She’s all dark, long limbs, and effortless grace. I, meanwhile, am compact chaos in black jeans.

“I’ve been working on your eulogy. Have to say I’m pretty proud of it so far.”

I throw my cousin a look. “Thanks for your faith in me. But just in case, don’t forget to delete all my smutty books off my Kindle.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“And get rid of my toys.”

“Uh… I’m leaving that up to Shelly.”

“What’s that now?” My best friend walks over and tugs my bag off my shoulder. “You’re dead.”

“I heard, that’s why I’m delegating you to get rid of my toy collection.”

She whips her head toward Quadri, braids swinging and freckles stark against her pale skin. She looks like a curvy Strawberry Shortcake having an existential crisis. “Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who insisted she get one.”

“Every girl deserves consistency. Batteries don’t disappear when things get complicated,” Shelly says. It lands like a joke, but there’s a flicker of something in her eyes that doesn’t match her grin.

I’m about to ask Shelly if she’s okay—she recently went through a bad breakup—when I catch Grandma watching me from behind the counter. To anyone else, her expression would look neutral, maybe even distant. I know better. This isn’t her quiet, drifting-off look. This is the one that lets me sit in my own realization. The one that says: You’re late. And you’re better than this.

“Shit. I better face the music.”

My feet feel heavier than they did on the bike as I make my way over to her. Quadri detours to a table with a bottle of ketchup no one asked for, and Shelly vanishes into the back with my bag. So much for moral support.

The thing is, despite the jokes, Grandma isn’t the scary kind of authority. She’s worse. She’s the warm blanket, the steady hand. The hug that fixes everything, and the voice that tells you when you’ve messed up. Disappointing her? That’s what kills me.

I stop in front of her. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t owe me sorry,” she says. “You owe me your best.”

Ouch. Okay, so she didn’t kill and bury me, but she may as well have.