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Sara nods, flipping through a few pages of the event schedule. “We’re good to go on our end. We have enough volunteers for the kids, and we’ve arranged for some extra activities. We’ll also have a few nurses present to ensure the kids are comfortable.”

“That’s perfect,” I say, relieved.

“We want them to have fun without worrying about their health. The last thing we need is for them to feel like they’re in another hospital visit while they’re here.”

Jason speaks up, a smile tugging at his lips. “We’ve also arranged a small surprise for the kids—some local entertainers will perform and play interactive games. It’ll help keep them engaged.”

“Excellent,” I say, nodding. “What about the donations? Are we on track?”

Linda hands me a stack of paperwork. “Everything is looking great. We’ve got some good pledges from local businesses, and we’re expecting more as the date approaches. I’ve also been in contact with a few private donors.”

I’m pleased with how it’s coming together. By the time I get the payment from Nova, we will be well over the water.

“And what about the VIP section for the donors?” I ask. “Have we got enough space, food, and entertainment arranged?”

Linda reassures me that everything is set up for that as well. The venue is ready, the staff is trained, and they’ve coordinated with the catering service for the evening.

“Everything’s going according to plan,” Sara adds. “It’ll be a fantastic event, Mia.”

I know I worry too much. I just want to make sure everything is perfect, especially for the kids.

As I drive home, the weight of the day pressing down on me, my phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. I glance at the screen and see Denise’s name. I let out a sigh, unsure of what to expect after the awkwardness of the date.

“Hey, Denise,” I answer, trying to sound upbeat despite the tension I feel.

“Mia,” she starts, her voice tinged with frustration. “I just wanted to let you know, Jack came to the exhibition, but it was like he wasn’t even interested. He didn’t look at anything. We barely talked. I don’t know what you were expecting, but that definitely wasn’t it.”

I wince at her words, the disappointment in her voice hitting me harder than I expected. “I’m really sorry, Denise,” I say, feeling guilty. “I didn’t think it would go like that. He’s just… not in the right mindset, I guess.”

“Not in the right mindset? Mia, he was hardly present,” Denise replies, her voice flat. “I’m starting to think maybe you set me up with the wrong guy.”

Her words sting more than I thought they would. I feel the urge to apologize again, but I don’t know how to explain it. “I didn’t mean to set you up for disappointment,” I say quietly. “I thought maybe it’d work out.”

Denise sighs. “It’s okay, Mia. It’s not like it’s your fault.”

“Thank you for understanding,” I reply, my heart sinking. “And I’m really sorry.”

“I’ll see you around,” she says, her voice distant, before hanging up.

I sit there, gripping the steering wheel, and let the silence settle around me. I’m putting everything on the line for Jack. He better show more appreciation and make this work. I tighten my fingers around the wheel, ignoring the twist in my stomach at the thought of him sitting with his next date and then falling in love with her. I don’t care. That’s the essence of this entire farce, and I can’t wait for him to find someone soon.

JACK

Tomorrow is my date with Ashley, and to say I’m unprepared is an understatement. But to be fair, how does one prepare for that sort of thing?

I stare at the canvas in front of me, paintbrush in hand, but the strokes feel like they aren’t quite coming out right. I’ve been at this for hours, my focus flickering between the canvas and the thoughts that keep pushing their way into my mind. My usual flow of creativity feels off, but I can’t pinpoint why.

As my brush moves across the canvas, the image starts to take form, and I realize—somewhere between the strokes and the colors—what I’m painting. It’s her. Mia.

I stop mid-motion, staring at the image unfolding before me. It’s a simple image, but it’s her, standing out in the backyard, holding a flower. Her smile is soft in my mind, and I can’t shake how she looked in my yard that day. I can feel the tension in the pit of my stomach, and I know I should stop, but I can’t. The more I paint, the more the image feels right.

I hate it. I shouldn’t be painting her. I shouldn’t be thinking about her this much. This whole arrangement, including the date and the people involved, should all be a business transaction. Nothing personal. But all I can see now is her face—her soft, determined features, the way she looked at me when we spoke. The way she kissed me. I feel my frustration building, and I brush the canvas harder, trying to shift my focus elsewhere.

My phone vibrates on the counter, and I glance at it. It’s my dad. We talk every day via text, but it’s always good to hear his voice.

I set the brush aside, wiping my hands clean before picking it up. “Hey, Dad.”

“Jack,” he says, his voice light, familiar. “How’s the recent painting going?”