Page 55 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
“Like learning that glitter nail polish supposedly makes you aerodynamically faster,” he continued, his eyes finding Olivia’s face in the crowd. “Like discovering that some people attack broken cash registers with floral tape and somehow make that endearing instead of alarming.”
Despite my best efforts, tears were burning behind my eyes. I would not cry. Not again. Not in front of half the town.
“I’ve spent over twenty years of my life being told that winning was everything,” Mario said, his voice carrying the weight of old pain.
“That success meant trophies and speed and glory. That staying in one place, slowing down, choosing simple over spectacular—that those things were for people who couldn’t hack it in the real world.”
He held up the pumpkin then, turning it so we could all see what he’d carved into its surface. In shaky, imperfect letters that looked like they’d been cut by someone more accustomed to precision tools than pumpkin knives, was a single word: “STAY.”
“But I was wrong,” he said simply. “Success isn’t about winning anymore. It’s about choosing to stay when staying feels impossible. It’s about learning to be still instead of always running toward the next finish line. It’s about knowing that some things—some people—are worth more than any job title or approval from people who only love you when you’re useful to them.”
My vision was blurring now, no matter how hard I blinked.
Mario set the pumpkin down and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out something that caught the afternoon light and scattered it in tiny rainbows. Even from thirty feet away, I could see the shimmer of pink glitter embedded in twisted metal.
He held it up—a ring he’d clearly crafted from a bent washer, wire, and Olivia’s glitter glued over the top. Rough, imperfect, but sturdy.
“A very wise seven-year-old made me a ring once,” he said, his voice carrying across the square. “She told me it was for when I proposed to her mom. And I’m not proposing today—we have a lot of trust to rebuild first, a lot of real conversations to have.”
A ripple of murmurs moved through the crowd.
“But I am making a promise,” he continued, his eyes locked on mine. “I’m promising to stay. To learn how to be the kind of man who doesn’t run when things get complicated. To be here for toilet repairs and heritage projects and whatever comes next.” His voice dropped, though the microphone still carried it. “If you’ll let me try.”
The entire square fell silent. I could feel two hundred pairs of eyes swiveling toward me like sunflowers following the sun. Olivia tugged on my sleeve.
“Mom,” she whispered, not nearly as quietly as she probably thought. “This is the part where you say something.”
But my throat had closed completely. I couldn’t speak past the tangle of hope and fear and love that was choking me.
So I did the only thing I could think of.
I stood up.
The crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as I walked toward the platform, Olivia’s hand still firmly in mine. People stepped aside, creating a path, and I was dimly aware of phones appearing, of June probably broadcasting this whole scene live to her Facebook followers.
Mario climbed down from the platform to meet us halfway, and suddenly we were standing face to face in the middle of the town square, with half of Autumn Grove as our audience.
“You turned down the job?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
“This morning,” he confirmed. “Sent the email an hour ago.”
“Your father won’t understand.”
“My father will have to learn that I make my own choices now.” His smile was rueful. “More than twenty years late, but better late than never.”
“The town thinks we’ve lost our minds.”
“We probably have.”
“My daughter already loves you,” I said, the words coming out raw and honest. “If you leave again?—”
“I won’t.” His voice was fierce, certain. “I love her too. And I love her mother, who’s brave enough to build a life on her own terms and stubborn enough to fix broken machines with office supplies.”
Olivia tugged on Mario’s jacket, demanding his attention. “Are you staying for real this time? Not just pretending?”
He crouched down to her level, his expression serious. “For real,piccola. If that’s okay with you and your mom.”
She studied his face with the intensity of a federal judge. “Can you handle June’s Facebook group? Because they’re very intense about relationship updates.”
