Page 4 of Yes No Maybe

Thepleaseforces me to my wobbly feet.

Undeserved applause hides my awkward bumbling and whispered curses down the aisle. My game face comes out, locking eyes with Ashley and Eddie, waiting for me at the row’s end. I latch on to their extended arms, grateful for the support like I’m Dorothy, linking arms with Scarecrow and Tin Man and about to face the dreaded wizard.

“Don’t look so horrified,” Eddie whispers. “You can handle anything, Madam Zit Popper.”

Only I can’t.My heart pounds so violently it might rip itself from my chest. They escort me up stage right, exposing my scarred side to the audience. Dean’s gregarious smile falters when he notices his bad staging.

Even worse, this is my personal drama playing center stage with my students and hundreds of people watching! It’s against the unsaid rules of teaching to hijack the students’ limelight. I don’t like attention—Deanknowsthis. I get enough stares already. There is no mental space to be calm or in control—not with my chest tightening, my breath gasping, and my high heels dragging like concrete bricks against the wood floor.

As Ashley and Eddie guide me into place, my eyes meet Dean’s, blue and brilliant under the shimmering lights, and for a second, I think it’s okay. I imagine a hazy future of us in bed, faces against our pillows, talking before the kids wake up.That’sthe life I want, and I’ve never been closer to it thanrightnow.

The audience coos as Dean takes a knee. Baby Aster cries from the darkened rows behind me. Dean says lovely things, I’m sure, but anxiety pulls me in like a monster gripping my leg underwater, clogging my ears, and preventing my breathing. He asks me to marry him—he must have—because everything goes silent, and he holds a ring at my fingertip.

Iknowwhat I’m meant to say—what Iwantto say. Popping the question should make a girl squeal, hop up and down, and shout her clearYESfrom the hilltops, rooftops, or high school theater stages like it’s the only word she knows, especiallythisgirl.YES! A thousand times, yes!

“Yes. No. Maybe” comes out, like I’m being cattle-prodded to keep changing my answer.Zip. Zap. Zing.

Eddie drops the mic positioned at my mouth, causing it to screech. Then, all goes silent like the air’s been sucked from the room, and no one breathes.

My eyes fix on Dean’s—he looks crushed like a bug underfoot, all the moment’s joy squirted out and the ring hanging limply in his fingers.

Fix this!I grab his ring hand, pulling him up. “I mean, yes. Yes! I meant yes!” With a momentary fumble, I slide the ring onto my finger and hold it up to convince the gawking crowd.

“She, um, she said yes.” Dean puts on a happy tone like he would a mask, and the crowd plays along, cheering and clapping. But it’s clear in his obligatory kiss—I’ve hurt him.

Two

Rowan

Theskyopenslikea busted water balloon on the drive to my little house. Well, notmylittle house, but the one I thoughtcouldbe mine. It’s spring on the coast, which doubles storm chances and creates sudden explosions of rain and lightning, as if the sky has anger management issues and can’t control itself. But anyone living in Wilmington, North Carolina quickly grows used to weather-related outbursts.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens as a car passes—its headlights highlighting my bare ring finger.How can I miss something I wore for less than an hour?Dean’s words backstage recycle in my thoughts. “I’m so goddamned embarrassed. I’m heartbroken, Rowan. Seven months together, and… I think… I should go on that trip with my acting buddies. I need to get away, let the smoke clear. Three months of traveling for extra work will do that… I need space.”

Space.The word sounded menacing, like a hissing snake. And ridiculously vague like Ross and Rachel and their infamous “break.”

“You wantspaceover myonestupid mistake? I get nervous in crowds. My answer is yes—how many times can I say it? How can I fix this if you aren’t here?”

He had no answer. Only he marked us asto be continuedlike a TV show that may or may not get picked up for a new season. I didn’t bother telling him about the little house, knowing he’d see it as more evidence of my uncertainty.

The thing is—Iwantto marry Dean. But his proposal shocked me. We’d never discussed marriage, and I’ve learned not to expect it anyway. One abusive relationship and many horrid first dates have turned the hope of my twenties into jaded resignation in my thirties—some people are meant to be alone. I figured I was one of them.

But my mistake turned hisyesinto amaybe, and pulling into the driveway under a curtain of rain, I wonder if it’s still possible.

I race to the porch under an umbrella, heels clicking in puddles and hand fumbling for the beach bum keychain. A motion-censored light helps guide the key in the door.

It’s muggy inside, as an empty house with closed windows and no AC running should be. I leave my drenched raincoat and umbrella hanging on the door handle and move inside, switching on lights as I go.

Seeing it like this is good—when darkness hides its charm, the heat feels oppressive, and the storm gives it a creepy vibe. Tomorrow, I’ll return the key to Jane with a confident, “No, thanks. I’ve changed my mind.”

She’ll understand, though Mira won’t. I’ll stay where I am, extend my lease, and wait for Dean to return, hoping we can buy a house together.

But Idolove this little house. It reminds me of my favorite picture book,The Little Houseby Virginia Lee Burton. The house in the story looked like a cozy, quaint oasis—the perfect home to retreat to, away from the world. But the world built up around the quiet country house, sending it into disrepair and sadness until the family moved it back to the country where it could be a happy little house again. With Mom in the military, I always wanted a moveable house—something small and cozy that we could take anywhere. This place reminds me of that home, and I long to be the change that makes it happy again.

But Dean’s happiness overrules my nostalgia. He’d never want this—too small and too many projects. That’s why most people don’t want it, according to Jane.

Still, this place ticks all my boxes. We must’ve looked at a hundred houses before this came on the market. Everything else felt too new, too sterile, toonot me. The little house hasn’t seen new carpet or an appliance upgrade in at least thirty years, but I like that about it—it’s a testament to how good things last. It’s small with a manageable yard. Close to school. In a quiet, established neighborhood. And oozing with charm and possibilities. There’s even a porch swing!

Most importantly, it would bemine. Grandpa Ro used to call property ownership the American dream, and sharing it with others made it even better. For him and Betty, that meant foster kids and me when Mom was deployed.“Renting a tiny apartment is money down the drain,”he often told me.“You deserve a real home, Rowan.”

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