CHAPTER ONE

Annie
I am convinced dating was created by an evil villain to torture
humanity. Dramatic? Not in the least. For introverts like me with
social anxiety, the process of dating is equivalent to waxing your
bikini line. Menstrual cramps on day two of your cycle. An
emergency dental procedure you weren’t expecting—and guess
what: they’re fresh out of novocaine.
“Again, I’m so sorry about the beer,” I say to the man sitting
across from me.
“It’s fine,” he says in a clipped way that means it’s absolutely not
fine.
This is not going well. Not that it has ever gone well for me in
the past, but this time it really isn’t. I think turning a man off in the
first ten minutes of a date is my new record. Because John, the man
sitting across from me with a sopping-wet, beer-stained polo and
khakis from the drink I accidentally knocked across the table onto
his lap, looks ready to bolt. Can’t blame him.
Why did I think I could do this? It’s been years since I dated, and
even back then I never liked it much. I’m a person who avoids
attention at all costs. Who can’t think of a single thing to say when a
man sitting across from her is intently staring at her.
Again, I ask myself, Why are you here, Annie?!
Oh right. It was the brownie. Well, first it was the realization that
even after opening the flower shop my mom had always dreamed of,
the nagging something-is-missing feeling still pesters me. So I
decided it’s time to put a plan in motion to settle down with my
perfect someone—because that’s the only box left unchecked in my
life. And since I’ve been drooling over John (the man my sisters and
I always refer to as Hot Bank Teller), I thought he might be the
perfect candidate for the job.
The job in question has very strict criteria based on the bursting
with-love marriage my parents had. One, he must live in town and
have roots here in Rome, Kentucky; two, he must have a stable job;
three, he must be kind and also be supportive of my career; and
four, he must want a family.
Those are the only things that matter to me.
So the last time I went to the bank to deposit a check, I used up
my Once-a-Year Extroverted Moment and asked him if he’d like to go
out sometime. He miraculously said yes, and I spent the next week
recuperating from the stress and anxiety I suffered in asking.
Anyway, when I proposed meeting somewhere a little outside of
Rome to have fresh scenery (and keep our nosy, single-stoplight
town out of my business), he suggested Peppercorn, a nice
restaurant about thirty minutes away. And when I looked it up, Yelp
said this place has an excellent giant brownie. It doesn’t get better
than that.
The dessert is literally the only reason I’m still sitting here on this
painfully awkward date.
I wish I could text my sisters right now and ask them what to do.
But that requires them actually knowing I’m on a date, which would
open me up to the sort of attention I’ve been trying to avoid. The
very minute my sisters find out about my quest to find a husband—
everyone else will know too. I would really hate to have Mabel (the
woman who’s like a grandma to me) attempt to set me up with
every eligible bachelor she knows. So I’m keeping it a secret—like
most things in my life.
The only reason I’m pushing through my terrible social anxiety
now is because I’m fully confident that marriage is the Thing that’s
missing. I wish I could call my parents to get their opinion, but
because they died when I was three, that will never be an option. So
instead, I’m following in their footsteps. Happily married by the age
of twenty-eight. That gives me just under a year to find the person I
want to spend the rest of my life with.
Too bad I have to date first.
I smile up at John, hoping that’s going to lessen his annoyance
at wearing my drink. But I’m Annie Walker: shy, socially anxious,
introvert extraordinaire who senses this man doesn’t want to spend
another second in my company. And that makes my smile feel like a
wobbly grimace. I imagine it resembles a snarl. My nostrils might
even be flaring.
I can’t do this.
John clears his throat and tries his own attempt at a casual
smile. Admittedly, his is better than mine. “So…what’s it like owning
a flower shop?” He sounds bored.
I want to unzip my skin and run my bones all the way to Mexico.
My heart is racing, and this swanky restaurant is too loud. I don’t
belong here. My sisters, Madison and Emily, however, would love it.
“Annie?” John prompts again when I don’t answer right away.
Right! Conversation. You can do this, Annie. No need to clam up
because the man asked you about a topic you actually like. Flowers.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy.
I swallow and prepare for my answer. “Um—it’s fun.” John waits
a moment and then tips forward slightly, clearly expecting me to say
more. “Really fun,” I tack on to appease his desire for a sentence
with a higher word count.
I would elaborate, but now the only thing swirling around my
brain is the reproductive cycle of flowers (which I find deeply
fascinating), but I have a distinct feeling that John is not the type to
marvel at life science. So I clamp my mouth shut again.
“So it’s…really fun?” he asks and I nod. “Well, good.” He breathes
in deeply and then settles back in his chair and looks away. We
bathe in uncomfortable silence. This would prompt most people to
say something—anything—but not me. I freeze up even more. The
weight of carrying on a conversation is too heavy for my shoulders.
I am the quiet one in my family. The one with her nose always in
a book because she prefers worlds where she doesn’t have to
interact with other humans. It’s so much easier to read about
relationships than to foster them. Less dangerous too. I can’t offend
anyone written into a book. I can’t say the wrong thing. And book
characters don’t make judgments about me.
When John pulls out his cell phone and starts scrolling, I realize I
have to take a stab at some sort of conversation, or this night is
going to be over before it starts. “So, John,” I begin, and then during
the next ten minutes I pretty much black out as I blabber nonstop,
only regaining consciousness as I’m finishing up with, “And that’s
why the primary purpose of the flower is reproduction.”
“Wow. Okay. That was…a lot of information about flowers,” he
says with an expression resembling something close to haunted.
Clearly my stab at conversation went right through him, and he’s
bleeding out.
I smile timidly and glance around for our waitress. It’s so busy in
here she hasn’t been around to take our order after getting our
drinks. I could really use an interruption right about now.
Nothing.
“So—uh—do you at least have any hobbies?” he asks.
Oh geez, “at least.” I’m already so far off his dating radar that
he’s looking for an at least to redeem me in some small way.
I clench the fabric of my dress under the table. I do have a
hobby—but even my sisters don’t know about it, so I sure as crap
am not going to share it with this man who looks like spending time
with me is causing him physical discomfort.
“Flowers sort of are my hobby as well as my career.”
“Right,” he says blandly because I’ve once again shut down any
conversational avenues. Why am I like this? I need to talk. Ask him
questions! Why can’t I think of any? My brain is a whiteboard,
polished clean.
But he’s tapping his finger on the table now and looking away
from me.
In a fit of panic, I blurt the first thing that comes to my head. “I
want to get married.”
Oh look, I’ve finally said something that gets John’s attention.
He stares at me, open-mouthed and in shock, because, yep, I
just mentioned marriage during a date that was already tanking.
Trying to recover, I tag on, “Oh no, not to you!” My smile fades
when I see his face contort. “Well, maybe to you. Who knows? If
things go well tonight anything can happen.” Now I realize I’ve made
it sound like we’re absolutely going to bed together tonight, and
John has to pleasure me well enough to win me over. Super.
“Sorry—no, I didn’t mean you have to be good at you know
what…for me to marry you. I’m sure there’s a learning curve when it
comes to that sort of thing.”
Now his face drains of all color because I’m making this so much
worse. John blink, blink, blinks at me, completely at a loss for how
to respond. There’s no salvaging this date.
“Will you excuse me, John? I need to use the bathroom.” And
regroup. And possibly climb out the window and run away.
He’s so relieved he will be exempt from my company for a few
minutes that he eagerly nods. “Yes, take your time!”
I
stand on wobbly legs and walk across the restaurant,
irrationally feeling like everyone in here is staring at how awkwardly
this dress fits me. It’s my sister’s dress, so it’s a little long on me. It
hugs all my curves like it’s supposed to but then drowns my knees
and hovers midcalves, unlike where it hits on Emily, just above her
knees. She wears this dress on her many successful dates because
she doesn’t have an ounce of social anxiety. I stole it out of her
closet and stowed it away in my purse so she wouldn’t notice when I
left our house and ask where I was going. I didn’t have anything of
my own to wear because I never go on nice dates (I haven’t been
on one since three years ago, when one progressed very similarly to
this one).
I would have taken a dress from my other sister, but Madison is
the size of a spritely fairy, and there’s no way any of her dresses
would get over my hips.
After what feels like a mile-long walk, I make it to the bathroom
and sink back against the wall. The automatic hand dryer goes off at
my shoulder, making me jump out of my skin and shriek.
“All right, Annie, pull yourself together. You can do this,” I say
while scooting away from the hand dryers and pulling my phone
from my purse. I swipe across it to open a text conversation with my
soon-to-be sister-in-law, Amelia. She’s the only person who knows
I’m on a date tonight.
Ever since Amelia (you might know her as Rae Rose, world
famous pop star) came to town a little over a year ago and fell in
love with my older brother, we’ve had an instant bond I can’t quite
explain. Like she was always meant to be in our family. And despite
the fact that she’s new to the family, I trust her in a way that I don’t
trust many other people. Which is why I text her now.
ANNIE: HELP!!!!
AMELIA: Oh no! Not going well?
ANNIE: I spilled my drink on him. And then told him I want to get
married.
AMELIA: Yikes! Do you like him that much?
ANNIE: No, I hate him.
AMELIA: Hmm, confusing. Can you bail?
ANNIE: No! That’s so rude!
AMELIA: Em and Maddie are coming over in a few minutes. Just
tell him you had something come up and then come hang out
with us!
ANNIE: I can’t do that to him after spilling a drink on him and
then insinuating he has to please me in bed or he won’t make
the marriage cut.
AMELIA: Oh my gosh. So much to unpack there.
ANNIE: I’ll just eat fast. Don’t start a movie without me.
AMELIA: Good luck!! Bring me home a brownie. They have the
best