“You’re on the board,” Dorothy cuts in, gesturing toward the back hallway.
“What board?” I ask, though a part of me already knows.
They exchange a glance that screamsshe’s not ready, then Jean sighs. “Might as well show her. She’d find out eventually.”
They lead me to a corkboard tucked beside the restrooms, half-hidden behind a potted plant—like someone tried to be discreet but didn’t really commit. It’s covered in color-coded sticky notes arranged in a rough calendar grid, with names, dates, anddollar amounts.
“The betting board,” I say aloud, stomach sinking. “For when I’ll leave town.”
“That one’s old,” Jean says, waving off a faded corner section. “This is thecurrentpool.”
I step closer. My eyes scan the notes—and yep. These are organized around relationship milestones. Me and Owen. First public display of affection. Official couple status. First town event together. There’s even a “Marriage Proposal Timeline” section, with guesses ranging from Christmas to next summer.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “This is... wildly inappropriate.”
“It’s tradition,” Dorothy says primly. “We’ve had relationship pools since Walt and his wife got together in ‘72. It’s how the town shows it cares.”
“By gambling on people’s personal lives?”
“By caring enough to pay attention,” Jean corrects. “And all the money goes to the community center fund.”
I scan the board again, horrified and weirdly fascinated:
Maggie – $20 – First public kiss at Maple Festival (October)
Walt – $15 – Official dating by Thanksgiving
Marge – $25 – ‘Accidental’ overnight stay at tiny house before windows installed
“Marge is in on this?” I ask, betrayed.
“Margestartedit,” Dorothy says, beaming. “Said she hasn’t seen two people fight their feelings this hard since that Hallmark movie we watched at Christmas.”
I press my fingers to my temples. “So the entire town is... watching us? Waiting?”
“Not the entire town,” Jean offers. “Pastor Dave refuses to participate officially. But his wife put five dollars on a New Year’s Eve kiss.”
“Too late for that one,” someone mutters behind me.
I turn. Doris, holding my takeout bag with the kind of knowing look you only get after thirty years of serving coffee in a town like this.
“How did you—we didn’t?—”
Doris raises an eyebrow. “Honey. I know the difference between ‘professional colleagues’ and ‘we kissed but we’re pretending we didn’t.’”
I take the bag in stunned silence, my carefully constructed bubble of plausible deniability popping like a weak tarp in a storm.
“Don’t look so embarrassed,” Dorothy says, patting my arm. “It’s agoodthing. Owen hasn’t looked at anyone like that since Veronica.”
Her name hits like a pin to a balloon. “We’re just working on the house,” I insist, though it sounds weak even to me. “It’s temporary.”
The three of them exchange a look so loaded it could short-circuit a polygraph. But, mercifully, they let it drop as we return to the front counter.
I pay for the food despite Doris’s protests (“Local celebrities eat free!”) and retreat to the safety of my car. My heart’s pounding. My hands are shaking.
There’s an entire board dedicated to speculating aboutus. Sticky notes charting milestones in a relationship we won’t even admit to. And apparently, the town’s confidence in our chemistry is high enough to warrant a community-center fundraiser.
Are we really that obvious?
