The next hour is a masterclass in social navigation, with Maddy as my reluctant guide.
We are a team, a partnership. Every word the townspeople use to describe us is another jab at the boundary we swore we wouldn't cross.
We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, united against matchmaking and polite interrogation.
The irony is thick in every sip of Mrs. Patterson's punch.
"You're handling this well," Maddy observes during a brief lull. "Most city people appear overwhelmed by now."
"It's another form of negotiation," I say. "Understanding motivations, managing expectations, identifying leverage."
"And what's my leverage?"
The question is playful. A ghost of our old rhythm. It catches me off guard.
"You have home-field advantage. And you know where all the bodies are buried, metaphorically speaking."
"Don't be so sure it's metaphorical." She flashes a nervous smile. "Either way, here comes the real test."
She nods toward a group approaching together as if they were a tactical unit.
"The matchmaking committee."
Before I can brace, we're surrounded.
Carol, the third-grade teacher.
Jennifer, the real estate agent.
Diane, the social coordinator.
"Mason," Carol says, "we were discussing how lovely it is to have new people join the community. River Bend has such a great selection of young professionals."
Maddy tenses enough for me to notice. She's getting ready to run interference.
Then Jennifer fires. "Sometimes the best relationships develop naturally, don't they? When people work closely together. Shared goals, shared challenges."
The silence hits hard.
Maddy clears her throat, composed, like someone steering a conversation back onto safer ground.
"Ladies, Mason's still learning River Bend customs. Maybe we let him settle before planning his social calendar."
A masterful deflection, but Jennifer's words hang between us. A truth we're both avoiding.
After they disperse, Maddy drains her punch like someone who's navigated a diplomatic crisis.
"You handled that well," she says, voice tight. "Polite, noncommittal, and enough of a hint of existing attachment to discourage further matchmaking."
"Existing attachment?" I lift a brow.
"Their speculation about us," she says, cheeks pink. "Don't worry, it's a standard deflection technique. They'll assume we're dating or headed that way. It gives us both cover."
"Right," I say. We're building a fortress of lies to hide from a kiss. It's the most illogical, inefficient thing I've ever done. And yet, the thought of ending the act and confessing the truth behind it is terrifying.
The evening passes in the same current of tension. We clean up our empty cake and cookie plates. Stand side-by-side for announcements. Play the part of platonic colleagues. But as we step into the cool night air, the performance strips away, leaving a weightier truth in its place.
"So," she says as we reach her car, keys jingling in her hand, "how was your welcome tour, served with side-eye and Jell-O salad?"
