Page 24 of Story Of My Heart

“I’d like our stories to be straight. So we don’t have to do any more thinking on the fly.” I rest my arm against the car door, twirling the keys in my fingers. I don’t know what he would do without me. The idea of involving Fallon in any of this felt too risky from the get-go. Trying to find a way to explain everything, while explaining absolutely nothing that Tate didn’t want his family to know, took a lot of mental gymnastics. I think my idea is flimsy at best, but it’ll have to do. And it will only work if Tate sticks to the script.

“We both work in social media marketing. It’s how we met. There’s a new dating app being workshopped. We can’t say a lot because of NDAs and all that. You mentioned something to your boss about being on vacation for the weekend, and he thought it would be a great place to run an in-person trial of the new concepts. It’s what I told Fallon, and if you contradict me, things are going to get weird. I don’t want things to get any weirder than they already have. I like Fallon. And I hate lying to her.”

I also don’t think my brain, body, or soul can take things getting any weirder. Especially not after our practice session earlier. One step at a time.

“Yes, Ma’am. You’re the boss of social situations.”

Looking in the rearview, I see Fallon climbing out of her little sunshine yellow Jeep, her hair now free from its braid and tumbling over her shoulders. She bounds up to the front door of the building, waving for us to follow her.

The VFW hall stands stoic against the skyline, its brickwork faded from years under the sun. The American flag above flutters with a sharp snap in the breeze, carrying a whiff of old barbecue and nostalgia. It’s a relic of community spirit, holding memories of countless gatherings within its walls.

Fallon can barely contain herself when we make it to the entranceway. “I cannot tell you how excited I am about this new app. Everything Piper’s told me so far sounds so promising,” Fallon gushes. It’s amusing watching her throw all of this praise in the air, knowing that Tate can’t take credit for any of it without spilling the beans. I don’t think his ego can take it. He must be screaming on the inside. “You have no idea how bad it is out there for us girls, Tate. No idea. There’s the ghosting, and the breadcrumbing, and the sidelining—and oh, God. The dick pics. So many dick pics. I don’t understand all the unsolicited dick pics. Does it work for anyone, ever?”

“No,” Tate swallows, visibly uncomfortable at the amount of times his baby sister just used the d-word. “I imagine the success rate is at a pretty solid zero.”

“It’s like I either have to confine myself to the absolute wild west warzone that is Tinder, and risk seeing random guys’ junk, or worse, I have to use something boring like Mingle.” Fallon shakes her head sadly, testing out the light switches until she finds the one that controls the main room, twisting the dimmer switch until it looks just right. “People’s parents use Mingle. Thinking about going over there makes me feel like Old Yeller. Just take me out back and put me down already, my time has passed.”

It’s at this point that Tate starts to laugh. He’s trying his best to contain it, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth, but his eyes are starting to water, and it looks like if he doesn’t let a full laugh out soon he’s going to start violently coughing. A giggle slips out, and then another, before he stifles them with a sigh.

“What’s so funny?” Fallon asks, head cocked to the side. “Women take their happily ever afters very seriously, Tate Story.” Of course, she chooses to make fun of the company that paid Tate the GDP of a small country for the rights to his research. They’ve purchased an algorithm created by a man that doesn’t even believe in love, and this is the cultural perception they’re working with already.

“Nothing,” Tate waves his hand, breathing deeply as he tries to stifle another fit of giggles. He clears his throat, finally getting himself under control. “I don’t know. Maybe it was the Old Yeller analogy coming out of someone I still think of as a literal child. You’re a baby. You can’t be done yet. If you’re old, what does that make me? Dust?”

The explanation doesn’t seem to have wholly convinced her, and I find myself needing to get us out of this conversation quickly, before things get weird. And like I said to Tate, I don’t have it in me for any more weird.

I wave a hand through the air. “Come on. Let’s focus. I need to see these facilities if anyone wants chocolate or chocolate lessons.”

Stepping inside, our footsteps echo on the hardwood floor, worn smooth by decades of use. Sunlight streams through lace curtains, casting patterns on the dance floor and illuminating motes of dust in the air. The scent of lemon oil polish battles against the mustier undercurrents. Walls adorned with military memorabilia give the room a dignified air, each plaque and photo telling stories of heroism and sacrifice. Beneath the aging chandeliers, rows of simple folding chairs face a small, raised stage, the setting stripped down but proud in its purpose.

Fallon jumps slightly, remembering our purpose here, and leads me to the kitchen, flipping a few more light switches along the way. As we push through the swinging doors, a wave of nostalgia mixed with the tang of metal and old grease hits me. The room is a time capsule from a bygone era, dominated by a massive, stainless steel hood vent that has witnessed decades of community dinners and pancake breakfasts. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on countertops that have dulled from years of use. Rows of well-worn aluminum pots and pans hang from a rack, each bearing the scuffs and burns of countless meals prepared. The linoleum floor, yellowed with age, creaks under our steps, and the faint, persistent aroma of coffee lingers in the air, a testament to morning gatherings that have started here long before dawn for years.

The kitchen is a bit outdated—I think the main hood vent is from before I was born. I get the feeling that everything could use a good solid wipe down. But otherwise, it’ll work. Fallon is competent and industrious and I can see why she does such a great job coordinating events for the resort.

“How’s this? I can get somebody in here to clean up a little bit, no problem. And if you need any counter appliances that aren’t here, the kitchen at the resort definitely has stuff you can borrow.”

She’s so earnest that I find myself unable to voice a single complaint. “It’s perfect, Fallon. Thanks.”

We amble back toward the main room, not wanting to leave Tate alone for any longer than necessary. He gets into trouble like that. When we find him, he’s pacing across the hardwood dance floor, seemingly measuring the length and width by counting his footsteps. I’m starting to become concerned that I’ve ended up with less of a fun billionaire boss, and more of a Howard Hughes situation.

“Usually places are smaller than you remember them being, but this place feels pretty enormous.” Satisfied by what his footsteps have told him, he turns to look at us. “Are there tables and chairs?”

“Sooo many,” Fallon confirms. “They’re in a storage area in the back of the building. It’s included in the price of the hall rental.”

Tate looks at the room again, then holds his arms out straight in the air to each side, spinning in a slow circle. “Enough space for dancing… do they have a sound system?”

“It’s a regular PA system,” she shrugs. “Nothing fancy. But it works.”

“Perfect. Now, I may be a marketing guy,” Tate comes in close, placing a serious hand on his chin. “But I don’t have the kind of pull here in Sunset Lake that the events coordinator of Go Jump In The Lake has. Can you get the word out for me? Invite everybody. Even if they’re people you think won’t come. Even if they’re not someone you would want to make chocolates with. I don’t care. Invite them.”

Fallon practically glows with excitement, nodding with a smile as she reaches into her pocket for her phone. Tate looks over her shoulder, directly at me.

“We’re going to make this work, right Piper?”

Chocolate making? Sure. His new app? Definitely.

Surviving this weekend? That remains to be seen.

Chapter Thirteen

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