Page 46 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Three, two, one!” our host yells into the air, and applause and laughter ring out.

Our town reporter is circling, ready to go in for the kill of the story of small-town New England residents out-baking each other. If they wanted drama, they got it. I’m pretty sure we’ve had one injury (non-fatal), three burned desserts (fatal to cakes, at least), and four hundred ways that Graham has taken over my mind (verdict: unsure).

After bringing our second round of desserts to the judges’ table, I wait with hands clasped behind my back. It takes ages for everyone to get judged. A line of us arrange ourselves in a makeshift formation. There’s trash-talking (mostly from Gladys, who isn’t even participating) but mainly laughter. I keep to myself for the most part. After all, I came here to win.

Perhaps I didn’t realize it before, but my inner challenger is telling me I have to win this year of all years. Graham has traveled all over the world, sampling the best of foods. And here I am, in this humble baking competition. I’ve never been ashamed of what I do, but I promised him I would go on adventures when I left LA. I declared my dream to see the world and never made good on it. I have to make good on it.

Harold walks to the makeshift podium near the pavilion decorated with old-timey banners and balloons whirling their way toward the powder-blue sky. A microphone appears. “Right, well, let’s hear from our judges.”

Liam walks around with a boom box, playing music I know must be crushing his soul. He’s an artist forced to play from the monstrosity of official Bake Fest music that is decades old. What I think must be a cassette tape whirs within the machine. He sets it on the ground with more force than I’ve ever seen him use and pulls a harmonica from the back of his jeans. A. Harmonica.

He starts to play it, the tin-sounding music fading against his talented rhythm, the boom box forgotten in a heap that will most likely show up in the consignment shop around the corner by tomorrow. I hold back a laugh as Harold tries to figure out where the music is coming from.

“Judith Wilkins.” Her name is announced, and Judith walks up to the judges’ table, her hands shaking a bit as they play with the greying hair twisted in a knot at the top of her neck.

The names just keep coming, a dozen contestants in all, before they finally get to me. “Lily Thomas.”

I take a breath and do a little hop toward the front like I lost my dignity when my name was called. An amused laugh rustles through the crowd. Honestly, I’m not paid nearly enough for the entertainment I bring to this town.

Liam changes the tune to “Baby” by the Biebs—you haven’t lived until you’ve heard it on a harmonica—and I hang my head in defeat. Most of the demographic collected here today won’t recognize the song, but it still makes me laugh.

The judges are doing their thing. Harold has moved to the end of the table and is eating like his life depends on it. I swear he scrapes his fork enough times that I want to tell him to just lick the plate and put us out of our misery before he decides he’s done.

I turn around, telling myself it’s to see Sparrow and Rafe cheering me on. But my heart warms when I spot Graham at the front of the spectators. He seems to be hanging on every word, brow furrowed, carefully watching the judges’ expressions, because of course he is. He’s taking in every movement, every word, and he’s making assessments and calculations of my odds of winning.

I feel my heart leap a little. Something about him living here in Birch Borough is unraveling the walls I’ve built bit by bit. I thought I was reacting to his proximity, but I’m not.

I see Graham starting to belong. He has a secret handshake with the Andrews kids now. Gladys looks at him like he’s her nephew, no longer just a handsome man to trick into being in her somewhat scandalous calendar. I’m unraveling because my heart warms when he shows up for town events. It’s not because Graham doesn’t think there’s anything better than Birch Borough. He’s lived across the country and defended plenty of celebrities before Rafe (who is kind of a celebrity in his own right due to his family’s French fashion house). It’s because he chooses to be present in these moments. Usually, he’s all calculations and wanting to know the facts, but here, he’s right where he is, taking everything in without pretense every time you see him.

He catches my eye. I flash him a grin, not even caring to make a witty comeback or trying to tear him down. Somewhere in me, I know I need to stop digging up what has taken me so long to plant. I have to stop trying to be on the apps, swiping right (or left), when the love of my life is here.

Maybe I can learn a thing or two from being more in the moment like Graham. After all, it was thinking too much of the future that caused me to run from what we had in the first place. It was never him, and it was nothing he did. I can blame the surprise of the ring all I want, but he didn’t read our relationship wrong. It wasn’t too fast. I was the one who didn’t stand up again when I was brought to the mat by my fear.

The energy that crackles between us is alive and well. It’s so strong that I don’t hear my name mentioned. I only turn when Graham nods and looks behind me, a smile overtaking his face. I shake myself out of my trance and finally become aware of the clapping all around me. I hear the cheers in the crowd from Sparrow and Rafe.

“That a girl!”

Without even turning around, I know the compliment came from Graham. I’m convinced I could pick the man’s voice out of a crowd, even in the middle of a Boston sports game.

“Lily Thomas, please claim your prize!”

I walk to the front of the crowd, relief hitting my shoulders and tears threatening to spill. I brush them away with the back of my hand and walk up to the podium to grab my gift card and plate. This year, a little egg is painted in the corner of the logo. It is almost as if they knew this was my year to win another one of these humble prizes.

I nod my thanks and hop down the stairs, heading immediately toward my station before I’m bombarded by more people. I’m hoping to avoid the town journalists, but there’s no luck of that. I’m pulled in for a photo for an article for The Seacoast Gazette, our local magazine publication. A group of those wild youth (or, as Schmidt from New Girl would say, “youths”) clamors around. They are really darlings but just want to take unflattering selfies with me to post on their social channels.

It’s only when it’s five or thirty minutes later that I finally make it back to my station to stash my prizes in a large tote and pull out a container from the supply shelf.

“Ahh! Lils, you did it!”

My smile is genuine as I start hacking at the leftover brownies and dishing them up to my friends, even Liam. Graham stands off to the side, silently observing with a soft smile on his face. He’s not looking at me, but still, he looks happy.

While my friends—well, our friends, since Graham has been making them with or without me—talk about Liam’s harmonica solo, I move toward Graham. He’s positioned near the edge of the table, so I walk backward, smiling and hoping that no one notices my attempt to be subtle.

“Well done, Lils. I’m happy for you.”

I pivot to face him in surprise. He still isn’t looking at me.

“And you didn’t sabotage me once,” I reply. The twitch in his jaw gives his amusement away. “I made you something,” I continue softly.

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