Chapter 10

TEN

" W elcome, everybody, to the New England Bed and Breakfast Association's Best of the East Awards!"

Cricket claps politely. Her sweater— well, Moriah's sweater, as she didn't pack enough clothes to make it through the whole weekend, and sue her if she liked the idea of smelling like her girlfriend as she accepted her award— comes uncuffed at one of the wrists, and she rerolls it as the man continues to talk.

"The art of the bed and breakfast has almost been lost, with the commodification of short term rentals," the host continues in his flat voice, and Cricket admittedly zones out a bit. Mister Drones is the president of the association, she knows from his short introduction, and he's sweating under the lights of the stage he's standing on. Cricket was seated at a table near the middle, alongside a few of the other younger, millennial-ish bed and breakfast owners, including two men that have been holding hands throughout the whole dinner, and a woman in her thirties wearing a full suit. Cricket briefly felt underdressed in her slacks, boots, and sweater when she sat down, but the suited woman is an outlier, it seems.

Almost everyone in attendance is dressed relatively casually, except for the president himself. He's wearing a suit, and Cricket watches as he tugs his pocket square out of his breast pocket and dabs his sweaty forehead.

"First of all, we have our presenter for the award for Best Food, cooking vlogger Ali Patrushka." The sweaty man steps off the stage and hands the microphone to a woman wearing a knee-length dress and a crocheted cardigan that reminds Cricket of Moriah's unfinished project, the one with all of the squares.

The gay men seated at Cricket's table sit up a little straighter, and Cricket glances at the program she was handed when she walked in. Listed under the nominees for Best Food are a few B&Bs, but only one run by two men: Zach and Ethan Greene of the Evergreene Bed and Breakfast.

"I would like, first of all, to thank the Association for having me on as a host," the woman says. Cricket focuses on her tablemates, watching their hands. The taller one drags his thumb over his partner's knuckle, and Cricket wishes Moriah was here.

She never would've asked her to come, though. From what Simon and Mo have told her, she understands that Moriah has barely left the house in years. The picnic offer was very much an offer— she never would've minded if they ate on Moriah's floor, she was just happy that the stunningly beautiful, mysterious woman that had lingered in her mind since they'd met was returning even a fraction of her affection.

Cricket understands having to do things slowly. She still chooses not to drive as much as she can since her parents' deaths, and she doesn't even have the kind of baked in anxiety that Mo does.

Still, watching Zach and Ethan stand as the presenter calls their names and offers them a plaque, her hand feels empty.

She reaches up and adjusts the edge of her mask as she watches them embrace and then accept their award. Zach— the taller one, she learns as he begins to speak— won't let go of Ethan's hand, and she smiles. A win for gay people everywhere, she thinks.

She doesn't pay much attention to the rest of the awards, not until the president, still mopping an upsetting amount of sweat from his forehead, introduces another influencer, a ginger woman with a small pride flag pin on her lapel. She catches some of the introduction— olympic athlete, lives in Boston, sells pottery— but her ears are filled with a nervous roar. This is her category.

Best in the Business. The overall greatest bed and breakfasts, voted by the people of New England. It was a dream come true when Cricket was announced as a finalist— it boosted her bookings by easily double, and made the dream of opening a second bed and breakfast look more attainable than ever before. Now, sitting here with four other people on the edges of their seats, Cricket's gut feels almost as rebellious as it did when she first set foot in Moriah's apartment on Thursday.

The woman slides a piece of paper out of the envelope. Cricket's eyes trace the ink through the back of the paper.

The letters feel impossible, and the words aloud even more so.

"Cricket Sterling, and the Caerlloyd Inn."

She doesn't remember standing, but the gay guys at her table are clapping and cheering as they shuffle her toward the stage. She climbs the short stairs, accepts the plaque, and turns to face the audience. She's sure her cheeks are as red as her hair, as they always are when she gets flustered, but she just swallows to wet her lips and smiles.

"This is such an honor," she begins, but then there's a sound from the back of the room. It's not loud, not disruptive, but just enough to draw her eye. The door swings open, and a figure slides inside.

Moriah Becker, with a bouquet of sunflowers.

Cricket isn't sure what her face does as she watches Moriah lean against the wall in the back of the auditorium. She's wearing a long maroon skirt and a cream sweater, as well as a respirator, with her arms wrapped around a frankly enormous bushel of golden sunflowers interspersed with baby's breath.

Even from here, she can tell that Moriah is smiling from the creases at the corners of her eyes.

Cricket starts to talk.

"A decade ago, my parents passed away. It was unexpected, and I was young, and I ended up lost, not sure what to do with myself, or how to exist in the world. They left behind a failing business in a town nobody had ever heard of," Cricket says, never moving her eyes from Moriah in the back. "I put every part of me into that bed and breakfast. Every breath, every heartbeat, every minute of time I had went to fixing it up in honor of them. I'm so glad I get to make them proud, now, with this." She squeezes the plaque. Moriah's eyes scrunch up as she grins beneath the mask. "I'm glad I'm not alone anymore."

The moment Cricket steps off stage, she speed-walks to the back of the auditorium and wraps Moriah up in a hug. She almost forgets about the sunflowers, but Moriah is holding them off to the side so they don't get crushed.

"You won," she murmurs and hands Cricket the bouquet. "Congratulations."

"Did you know I was going to win?" Cricket grins and hugs the flowers to her chest alongside the plaque.

"I figured if you won, flowers would be fitting, and if you lost, it could be a bit of a consolation prize," Moriah replies as people begin to stand, the awards ceremony having ended with Cricket's award, the biggest of the night. "Do you have your stuff? I want to show you something."

"I left my duffel at yours," Cricket replies. Her train isn't until the morning, and Moriah had all but begged her to sleep over one more night before returning to Caerlloyd. She has to be back by Monday evening to meet with a vendor, but she hadn't actually rebooked her train back to Maine after canceling it for credit on Thursday night, so it worked out.

"Come on, then," Moriah says, and tugs Cricket out of the auditorium before they can be overrun with people. Their hands twine together, fingers linked like puzzle pieces, and Cricket just holds on as Moriah gently pulls her out through the doors of the building and around a corner, where she stops in a small flower garden. There's a bench, and Moriah sinks down onto it and tugs her respirator off.

Surrounding them on all sides are shrubs, hedges, and beautifully groomed bushes boasting early-autumn flowers in shades of white, purple, and pink. Stepping stones mark a path through mulch and grasses. The air is crisp as the post-rain evening begins to fade away into night, and Moriah squeezes Cricket's hand.

"I'm so proud of you," Moriah says softly. Cricket turns to her and tugs her own mask off.

"I can't believe you're here," Cricket replies, and Moriah's lips quirk up. There's still anxiety in her expression, something pinched around the edges, but there's also yearning.

"I can't either," she admits. "But I couldn't let you do this alone. I know it isn't your parents, but—"

Cricket grabs Moriah's sweater and pulls her in for a firm kiss.

"It's you," she whispers against Moriah's lips. "That's all I need."