Chapter One
Holly
“He’s going to ask,” Bryn says.
I take a second to study her. We’re both dressed up for our birthday dinner, and since we’re fraternal twins—not identical—it’s not conceited of me to say she looks fine as hell in her blue summer dress. Our waiter has given her at least one lingering glance, which suggests I’m not the only one who’s noticed. Still, I know my sister’s smiles like people with bum knees pretend they know the weather, and this one’s brittle.
She doesn’t look like a woman’s been waiting six years for her boyfriend to grow a pair and pop the question.
Her boyfriend Matt’s okay. I mean, he’d be fantastic if you happen to like white bread sandwiches filled with mayonnaise and potato chips. I don’t, I guess, because the thought is enough to make me lose my appetite, and I shove my appetizer plate away. The food’s good, too, dammit. We’re at Salt and Bone, one of Highland Hills’s best restaurants in my humble opinion, mainly because the tourists haven’t discovered it yet. The name could use some work, but no one thought to consult me.
Bryn frowns at me. “You said you were hungry. The word ‘starving’ was used.”
I force a smile. “It’s our birthday dinner. I’ll accept nothing less than three courses. I’m playing the long game.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, which makes sense, since I’m not the sort to ignore food now for the prospect of food later.
I don’t think she should marry Matt. There’s a more significant problem than his similarity to unappetizing food: she wants kids, and he doesn’t. Personally, I want to have kids as much as I want to eat that white bread sandwich, but if that’s what she wants, she shouldn’t settle.
“You’re being weird about Matt,” Bryn says, her gaze narrowing on me.
“And you’re being confrontational.” I wave at the set up in front of us, the appetizer platter, the two glasses of wine, the delicious bread basket I’m going to ask the server to refill at least twice. “This is a celebration. Let’s celebrate.”
Bryn sets down the fork she was playing with, which is not a good omen.
“You think I should ask him about kids again before I say yes.”
“Well, yes,” I say slowly, hoping it’ll give her the chance to really hear what she’s saying. “Typically it’s good to want the same things as the man you’re about to marry.”
She pushes her appetizer plate away too.
“I’d hoped you’d be happy for me.”
“I’ll be happy for you if you’re happy,” I say pointedly, because I’m far from sure she is. She’s comfortable enough, sure. She’s fond of him. But she’s not head-over-heels in love with him. Never has been.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re not even interested in dating anyone for more than a few weeks. Of course you think I’m making the safe choice.”
She’s not wrong.
There’s only one boy who ever made me question that decision, and I say boy, because this was back in high school, before I developed any street smarts and a shellacked coating to my heart. I tilt my head, studying her. “Pretty ironic considering we’re professional matchmakers, huh? Maybe I should consider a new day job.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she grumbles.
“Yes, you did. You sound like Nana.” Our grandmother likes to pretend she’s taken a backstage role in our family matchmaking company, Mayberry Matchmakers, but she does her damnedest to insert herself into every decision, large or small. Case and point: Bryn and I came up with a fabulous, if I do say so myself, idea for a matchmaking app that would mimic the matchmaking experience. Our A.I. matchmaker would be like a friendly guide, making the whole online thing seem more accessible—kind of like getting set up by a knowledgeable friend. Anyway, Nana forbade us from shopping the idea around, and since she owns the brand, we were screwed. Which means we spend our days rewriting—and sometimes completely fabricating—people’s online dating profiles and setting up gimmicky speed dating events in an attempt to keep our dying business on life support.
Like I said, the worst.
Besides, Nana seems determined to tell me at least ten times a day that my fertile years have almost passed me by. To which I usually respond with something like,Promise?You’d think Bryn would get a pass given she has a partner, but Nana’s nitpicking knows no end. She has a vocabulary of different withering looks she rolls out for different occasions. It makes me jealous of our younger sisters, Willow and Ivy, who left Highland Hills as soon as they could. Our brother Rowan is still here, stuck like we are, although he’s skillfully avoided the orbital pull of Nana and Mayberry Matchmakers.
I’m a self-taught programmer, and I make most of my money from side hustles. Truth is, I could quit the family business in half a heartbeat. I would, too, and without any regret, but I don’t want to leave Bryn.
If I leave, I worry she really will become like our grandmother.
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” Bryn says, frowning.
She’s right, but she started it.
Yes, I’m a second grader in an adult’s body.
