Page 63 of Matchmaking On The Menu

I’m halfway home when my phone rings through the car speakers. It’s Dad.

I smile and hit answer. “Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, sweetheart. Happy birthday. Sorry I’m late, I had to take Mom to buy more yarn for her Save the Rhino project.”

My stomach sinks. The last time Mom crocheted a blanket for the baby rhinos in Africa was three years ago. And it’s not my birthday. My birthday was in January. I’m stumped, but then I remember the neurologist said to just go along with it so as not to upset him. “Thanks, Dad.”

For a few seconds all I hear is the sound of his indicator clicking in the background.

“You still coming for dinner tonight?” he asks.

I frown. “Tomorrow night, Dad.”

There’s a pause.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Another pause but longer this time.

“Right. Tomorrow.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, an uncomfortable sensation settling in my chest.

“You okay?” I know he’s not okay, but I torture myself anyway.

“Of course,” he says. “I’m retired. Being okay is basically my full-time job.”

I laugh despite myself.

We chat for a few more minutes about nothing important. The weather. The neighbor’s dog. Whether Aunt Susan is still trying to convince everyone that air fryers can replace ovens. It’s all the mundane things he remembers. It makes it that much harder when he doesn’t remember the important stuff, but I know it isn’t his fault.

Dad has always been forgetful. Mom used to say he would lose his own head if it wasn’t attached. But it’s different when it comes with a diagnosis. It’s different when I know I’m going to lose my hero piece by piece until he’s gone.

I pull into my driveway and sit for a moment, staring through the windscreen. Nope. I’m not going down that road today.

Today I have two bicycles, an unsuspecting photographer, and a matchmaking plan that is either brilliant or evidence that I’ve finally lost my mind.

Honestly, both options seem equally likely.

Have I just destroyed two perfectly good bikes without a solid plan?

Yes. Yes, I have.

I pace my living room, arms folding, unfolding, then folding again like that’s going to magically improve my decision-making skills. Outside, the wind rattles the windows, and I consider the possibility that I’ve finally lost my mind.

How exactly am I supposed to get Dannica and Mystery Man onto a tandem bike?

It’s not like you can just walk up to a stranger and say, Hey, want to ride a bike with my best friend and fall in love?

I pace some more. Think some more. Pace again.

What if he can’t even ride a bike?

God. I didn’t even consider that.

My gaze catches on a photo sitting on the shelf—me, Dannica, Mary, and Quadri. We’re all squished together, laughing, slightly sunburnt, probably mid-argument about something completely ridiculous.