Page 13 of Mud & Moxie
Yet today it feels like being under a magnifying glass.
***
Mrs. Latham swoops first, matchbooks tucked like a dossier. “Well. Ray’s girl back from the city—and with a Carter escort.” Her eyes flick between us. “Didn’t think I’d live to see it.”
“Morning, Mrs. Latham,” Dylan says, unbothered. I add, “Love the hydrangea print,” because compliments are social WD-40.
At the jam tent, Mrs. Donnelly thrusts a spoon at me. “Strawberry-rhubarb. Perfect for breakfasts in bed.” She winks so hard I’m afraid she’ll sprain something.
Dylan coughs into his fist. “She’ll take two.”
We’re heckled at Bean There by two teens with eyeliner and bravado. “Miss Wilkes, do you prefer your farmer medium or well-done?” one asks, latte steaming. The other flicks her gaze to Dylan. “You bringing her flowers or just eggs?”
“Protein and petals. Full service,” I shoot back. They dissolve into squeals. Dylan’s shoulder brushes mine, solid and maddeningly calm.
Tom Jenkins pedals by on his bike, knee scabbed as always. “Hey, are you two, like, official? My mom says you used to be.”
“We were never—” I start, but he’s already gone, chain rattling.
A few more stalls down, Mrs. Chang waves from her flower tent. “Madison, daisies are half off for brides this week.”
My cheeks heat. Dylan’s brows hitch, amused despite himself.
***
By the honey stand, rumor hardens into headline. “They’re back together,” a woman announces, bagging carrots. “Always knew they’d circle round.”
“About time,” another agrees, handing me a smile that assumes intimacy we don’t share. “He needs sunshine. She needs grounding.”
Heat climbs my throat. We were never together. But small towns don’t fact-check; they cast. Dylan accepts congratulations with a nod while I scramble for language. If I deny it, I feed the beast. If I say nothing, the beast names our future.
Kids chase each other past the cheese stand, chanting, “Madison’s got a boyfriend!” I want to crawl under the tablecloth and hide. Dylan doesn’t flinch. He lifts a wedge of cheddar, sniffs, and mutters, “Too mild.”
“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, tasting strawberry-rhubarb and panic.
Dylan leans in. “Don’t feed it.”
***
We round the corner by the bakery tent, cinnamon air thick as a hug. Dylan’s voice drops. “Let it stand.”
“I’m not letting Main Street fanfic my life,” I hiss. “We correct them.”
“Every correction is gasoline,” he says. “You want privacy while we fix the farm? Give them a story that keeps them satisfied and out of our hair.”
I stop dead. “Are you seriously suggesting we pretend?”
“Pretend, protect, whatever word helps,” he says. “It buys us time.”
A new voice cuts through. “Pretend what?” Matthew. He’s just stepped out of the hardware store with a bag of nails, eyes cutting from my face to Dylan’s like a blade. “No one is pretending anything with my sister.”
“Matt—” I lower my voice.
He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Dylan. Protective, bristled. “You two want to run a farm together, fine. But if you’re playing games with people’s mouths and my sister’s name, I’m not having it.”
“It’s not a game,” Dylan says, steady. “It’s strategy.”
My heartbeat slams.
