Page 112 of Matchmaking On The Menu

She sucks in her breath. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yeah,” I say, because there’s no point pretending it’s anything else. “I am.”

I can hear her smile again, radiant and warm. “Okay,” she says.

22

DANNICA

LOCAL WOMAN PLACES EMOTIONAL DAMAGE INSIDE MENUS

I finish my little write-up about meeting Teddy, about trying to figure out who he is, and about the ridiculous shit Shelly, Quadri, and Mary pulled to shove us together like they were directing a small-town romance movie. As I read it over, I linger on the parts where he appears. The way I described him. The way I described how I felt. My chest tightens a little, because it is all there, whether I meant to put it there or not.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, like they might suddenly decide to stage a full-blown rebellion. I flex them once, then again, but the tension doesn’t leave. I’d dragged each sentence out of my brain, kicking and screaming, but now that it’s done, that almost feels like the easy part. Letting it exist outside of me is something else entirely.

I read the last line again, my pulse picking up for no good reason. Or maybe for a very obvious one. This is not just a story. It’s how I saw him, how I noticed him, how I kept noticing him even when I told myself not to. My stomach twists as I hit print.

The machine hums to life, loud in the quiet of the house. I’m suddenly acutely aware of every sound. The soft whir of the printer. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall. My heartbeat, a little too fast, like it’s trying to keep up with something I haven’t admitted to yet.

My house actually has a printer, which somehow makes the fact that the girls went to the print/custom frame/office/wire transfer/money order/custom pet tag store even funnier. I let out a small breath that almost turns into a laugh, but it fades quickly as the first page slides out.

I reach for it before it’s fully done, my fingers brushing warm paper. I stack the pages together, tapping them against the counter to straighten them even though they’re already aligned. It gives my hands something to do.

This is fine. It’s just words. Just paper.

Except it’s not.

My shoulders have crept up without me noticing, and there’s a low, restless energy sitting just under my skin that I can’t quite shake.

With the printed pages in hand, I step outside. Cool air hits my face, sharp enough to make me inhale a little deeper, like it’s trying to talk me out of this. Like it knows I’m about to do something I can’t undo. I pause on the doorstep a second longer than I need to, looking down at the pages. If people read this, they will know.

That thought settles in heavier than I expect. Not just that I wrote something, but what I chose to put on the page. It’s all my thoughts, all the things I notice. The way I turn moments over in my head until they mean more than they probably should. It’s all there now, laid out in plain text. There’s nowhere to hide in it.

Nerves, sharp and insistent, twist low in my stomach. But underneath that, something steadier hums. Something quieter. Pride, maybe. Or relief.

Because for once, I didn’t stop myself halfway through. I didn’t overthink it into silence or decide it wasn’t good enough before anyone else had the chance to. I finished it. I printed it. And now I’m about to let other people see it.

My fingers curl around the paper, like I might fold it back in on itself and tuck it somewhere safe where no one else can touch it. Where no one else can have an opinion. Because once it’s out there, it’s not just mine anymore. They’ll read it and decide what it’s worth. They’ll decide what I’m worth. My breath catches at that, just for a second.

I force it out slowly, pressing the pages flat as if I can smooth out the doubt along with them. Then I force my feet to move. Because standing here isn’t going to make this any easier.

The grocery store comes into view, exactly the same as it always has been. Same faded sign. Same automatic doors that hesitate like they’re considering whether I’m worth the effort before letting me in. I have walked this path approximately one thousand times without incident.

Today, however, I appear to be approaching it like someone about to make a life-altering decision. Which, to be clear, I am not. I am simply carrying several sheets of paper. Several sheets of paper that contain my thoughts. My actual thoughts. Printed. For other people to read.

Oh, God.

My steps slow without permission. My body has quietly decided we are not emotionally equipped for this and is attempting a tactical retreat. I tighten my grip on the pages, then loosen it again, because crushing them to death will not solve the problem. Unfortunately.

It shouldn’t feel like this. It’s just a piece of paper with a few paragraphs. Just my inner world, neatly formatted and ready for public consumption like some sort of emotional sampler platter. I press my lips together and exhale through my nose.

This was a mistake.

Correction. This was a bold creative choice that I am now regretting in real time.

Because it’s not just paper. It’s me.

Not in a dramatic, tragic-heroine way. Just in all the smaller, more embarrassing ways. The way I think, the things I notice. The fact that I apparently cannot experience a single moment without turning it into some kind of reflective essay.