Page 22 of The Pumpkin Pact
Vernon rises with the glow of a man about to use the word synergy. He clicks a remote; the screen behind the council flickers to life with renderings—glass, chrome, careful trees that will die in their planters after the first salt truck goes by. He talks in polished paragraphs about revenue and modernity and foot traffic that looks startlingly like the foot traffic we already have.
“Vibrant mixed-use,” he says. “Activated retail. Parking strategies.” Somewhere behind us, Mrs. Henderson whispers, “Activated my foot,” and Dolly snorts audibly.
He finishes with a rhetorical bow. The room hums. Council members exchange looks. Mayor Pickering thanks him and opens the floor for public comment.
I stand before I can think myself out of it.
My knees do a theater wobble as I walk to the podium, but my voice finds a register I didn’t know I owned. “Good evening,” I say. “Harper Venn, owner of The Wandering Page.” A shuffle and a few murmured We love you, Harpers from the back row. My cheeks flame; Dex’s steady gaze is a hand at my spine.
“I could talk about numbers,” I begin. “And I will briefly: last quarter we grew six percent. The florist grew eight. Mel’s Diner can tell you how many tourists ask for cinnamon sugar shakers and leave with a recommendation list. The library’s programming already overflows.” I glance at the book club row—four heads nod like bobbleheads on a bumpy road.
“But what I really want to talk about is why those numbers exist. We are not blight; we’re beloved. We are a street where a teenager wrote his first horror story and brought it to me, handsshaking, and I put it on our community board. Where Dolly’s caramel fountain will be supervised by three fire extinguishers and half the PTA. Where Gary from the co-op lends spider boxes because Eleanor bakes apple crisp. Where a tuxedo cat with a mustache terrorizes grown men into buying poetry.” Laughter bubbles and releases the room's tension; I ride it.
“We’re not against progress,” I say. “We’re for keeping what is worth keeping and making it stronger. The Halloween Festival this week will bring visitors, donations, music, and—if I have anything to say about it—so much positive press your inbox will groan. Give us a chance to prove it. Don’t trade something living for something glossy.”
I don’t plan to look at Dex, but I do. He’s not smiling. He’s proud. The expression sits on him like purpose. My sternum does a small, treacherous ache, and a ridiculous part of me wants to bottle that look and keep it forever.
“Please,” I say out loud, making it clear I’m not just talking about myself but about the street that is my home and the people who fill it. “Don’t let glossy renderings erase something that’s still alive and beating.”
I finish, and the silence is a held breath. Then the room exhales all at once—applause, a few whoops, someone’s chair squealing like a violin. The mayor bangs for order, but he’s smiling into his papers like a man trying not to.
We sit. Dex leans in, shoulder warm against mine, and lets his temple rest against my hair for half a breath—steadying, private. “You were—” he begins, but the mayor calls for council discussion, and we both snap our attention forward, feigning an intense interest in parliamentary procedure.
Councilman Riggs—the same one Vernon was cozying up to earlier—clears his throat. “It seems prudent,” he says carefully, like he’s trying on a new tie, “to see what this festival does—traffic, donations—before we act.”
Councilwoman Trammel, immaculate and mildly bored, steeples her fingers. “Delaying a vote is not a denial.” She glances at me, then at the book club row, where four sets of knitting needles have materialized like swords. Her tone sharpens, a cool edge under the polish. “But it is data we shouldn’t ignore, either. We owe it to the town to see what this festival delivers before any bulldozers touch Main Street.”
A murmur of assent. The mayor straightens. “Motion to postpone the redevelopment decision until after the Halloween Festival, pending a review of event outcomes and additional community input.”
“Second,” says Councilman Wu.
All in favor? Hands rise like a tide. Not unanimous, but enough that I can finally let out the breath I was holding.
The gavel falls. “Motion carries.”
Vernon’s smile freezes at the edges, like a pond pretending not to crack. He recovers fast, nods as if this was also part of his plan, and begins shaking hands again as if the motion were merely a delightful appetizer before the main course of him winning, eventually.
The room breaks into little clusters of celebration. Mrs. Henderson hugs a bewildered teenager. Dolly dabs at her eyes and insists it’s just the fluorescent lights making them water. Beatrice, ever the dramatist, produces four zip ties from her pocket and waves them overhead like she’s leading a parade. “Victory accessories,” she declares, grinning like she just won a pageant.
I turn to Dex—to thank him, I think, to say something clever—but he is already looking at me like I did something wild and beautiful and completely expected. It knocks the wind out of me.
“Good job, partner,” he says, low. His shoulder brushes mine. “One more thing.”
I turn. “Pact check?” His eyes don’t waver. “We do this together. Eyes open.”
My pulse kicks. “Eyes open,” I echo—and mean it.
He leans in and kisses me. It’s brief and public and absolutely deliberate; the room tilts, and my heart chooses the same moment I do. Heat floods my cheeks, my pulse leaps into my ears, and for a dizzying second I forget how to breathe. It’s reckless and steady all at once, and my body is absolutely betraying me by wanting more. When Dex eases back, there’s a flicker in his eyes—like he almost regrets crossing that line, but he isn’t sorry either—and the look nearly undoes me.
A camera shutter pops from the aisle—The Hollow Creek Gazette’s freelancer already aiming for Page One—and across the room Councilwoman Trammel’s gaze turns cool and calculating. Near the door, Vernon lifts his phone and starts filming, smile thin as a paper cut.
Eleanor sweeps up, plants a kiss on Dex’s cheek, then squeezes my arm like I passed a test. “See?” she says. “Everyone loves a love story.”
Dex squeezes my hand, which I only then realize I never let go of. His voice is calm enough to make me believe I’m not about to become a puddle in a public building. “You ready?” he murmurs, and his eyes are so close to mine the rest of the room drops away like scenery.
I nod, assuming he means it’s time to leave, but instead he surprises me by leaning in and kissing me again.
It’s another quick kiss—appropriate for a council chamber—but the world still tilts on its axis. Warmth, cedar, and the soft graze of his beard sweep over me, grounding and undoing all at once. The contact flickers through my bloodstream and sets every exit sign in my body glowing. When he pulls back, my hands are fisted in his shirt like I forgot what mine were for.
