When the food is plated and the candles are flickering low, I slide my chair a little closer to his. The laughter quiets, the kind of hush that isn’t awkward but full.
“So,” he says, reaching for my hand, “are you really okay? After the storm? After everything?”
I nod. “I’m more okay than I’ve been in a while.”
His eyes warm. “That’s my girl.”
I freeze for a second at the phrase. Not because it feels wrong. Because it feels exactly right.
“I’m trying to stop letting fear set the tone. To reach out instead of retreat.”
“You’re doing more than trying, Addy. You’re showing up.”
He doesn’t let go of my gaze or my hand, and I feel something click into place, something simple and solid and real.
The fireflies blink in the bushes, the lights above us hum, and my heart beats quiet and steady. For a moment, everything feels like it’s finally in place — me, Dylan, this whole strange-but-beautiful second chapter I didn’t know I’d get.
Then Dylan taps his phone and opens the shared planning spreadsheet we started mid-meal.
“Okay,” he says, scooting closer. “So we’ve got the silent auction narrowed down, three confirmed sponsors, and your aunt’s cousin with the fiddle band. What’s left?”
“Finalizing signage, confirming the food truck for late-night snacks, and deciding on the main dessert,” I say, pulling my own copy up.
He looks at me, hopeful. “Please tell me we’re going with maple pecan pie.”
I grin. “Of course. It’s local, crowd-pleasing, and Butter & Crust makes a gluten-free version that doesn’t taste like cardboard.”
“Then it’s official,” he says, tapping it in. “We’re about to be the hottest pie-themed fundraiser in Ontario.”
We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes again — this time with an email notification from the township permit office.
Subject: Re: Fundraiser Event – Dunk Tank Permit Request
My stomach tightens as I skim the first few lines. Dylan notices the change in my expression.
“What’s wrong?”
“They’re denying the dunk tank request,” I say slowly. “Says here the application violates updated bylaws regarding temporary water structures in commercial zones. The wording is vague, but… it’s a no.”
“I thought you filed that paperwork last week.”
“I did.” I scroll through the email. “Wait. The name on the denial is Gerald MacDonald. That surname feels familiar…”
“He’s Cassandra’s father. He’s the mayor of Birch Harbor.”
“That can’t be a coincidence.”
“No,” he mutters. “It can’t.”
I sit back, screen still glowing in my palm. It’s just one detail, one item on a long checklist, but it hits harder than it should. Like a crack in the foundation. Something I should’ve caught. Should’ve navigated better.
“I should’ve known about this,” I say. “I should’ve worked around it, filed it differently, looped in a sponsor with more influence...”
“Addy,” Dylan says gently, covering my hand. “You didn’t miss anything. You got blindsided. There’s a difference.”
I nod, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. Not entirely.
We sit in silence for a moment, our spreadsheets forgotten, the pie menu feeling suddenly less triumphant.
