Joy. I’m not sure what brings me joy these days. It seems I’ve been too busy to think about it.
I shake it off, grab my keys, and head home.
The leftover pie box sits on my passenger seat, buckled in like a precious antique. I swear it’s staring at me. Probably judging me for flaking on dinner and opting for “maple pecan therapy” instead.
I carry it inside, set it on the counter, and glance at the clock. 7:48 p.m. There’s still time to check off a few items from today’s punch list, assuming my brain cooperates for more than six seconds.
I pour myself a glass of water, grab my laptop, and settle into my usual corner of the couch. The open spreadsheet glows too brightly against the lamplight. I squint at the tabs, flipping between the seating chart and timeline like shuffling a deck of anxiety.
Table placements: finalized.
Florist pickup: confirmed.
Catering timeline: slightly shifted because Gina wants a second toast before the first course. Of course she does.
The pie box sits quietly nearby, its sugary scent curling into the air like a dare.
I tell myself I’ll just check one more thing — the vendor call list for tomorrow — and then I’ll close the laptop. But my thoughts drift to this morning.
I remember our elbows bumping over that last pie — cue the rom-com soundtrack — and his laugh, all warm and low, chasing away every bit of Cassandra’s snark. It was the perfect one-two punch protection. I can’t help but grin like a total goofball.
I lean back into the couch, letting my head drop against the cushion. My brain is tired. My feet are tired. My heart… well, I don’t know what my heart is doing.
My phone buzzes. Not Dylan. Maggie.
That’s it. Just the emoji. Then...
How was pie guy?
I sigh and type back.
Crisp crust. Warm center. Terrible at boundaries.
So you’re saying “delicious”
I’m saying he’s distracting. He makes it too easy to let my guard down. It’s confusing.
There’s a beat.
I’m going to pick up Claire and a bottle of Rosé. We’re going to talk this out.
I blink at the screen.
Mags, I’m fine. I swear.
Nope. You’re spiraling in spreadsheet form. ETA 15. Chill the glasses.
You are chaos incarnate.
And yet, you love me. Back soon.
I let the phone drop to the couch with a soft thud. And then I get up to chill the glasses, because there’s no arguing with a woman in motion.
Thirty minutes later, the door swings open and Maggie barrels in, hair windblown, cheeks pink, a clinking bag in one hand and Claire in tow behind her like a cheerful caboose. Claire’s still in overalls, her hair in a messy braid and her smile wide.
“Emergency intervention,” Maggie declares, waving the wine like a baton. “Initiate uncorking protocols.”
Claire laughs. “I said I’d only come if there was pie.”
