The park was a chaotic sprawl of green, dotted with picnic tables, barbecue grills belching out smoky promises of overcooked hot dogs, and a sea of faces Sheena didn’t recognize. The annual family reunion was in full swing, a cacophony of forced laughter, children shrieking as they chased each other with sticky fingers, and the occasional clink of beer bottles from the cooler-laden uncles. Sheena, perched at the edge of a weathered picnic table, her journal splayed open in front of her, scribbled furiously. Her pen danced across the page, capturing the absurdity of it all. *A family I barely know, united by bad potato salad and worse small talk. Aunt Whoever just asked if I’m married yet. I’m 28, not 48. Kill me now.*
She was mid-sentence, her dark hair falling over one shoulder as she smirked at her own sarcasm, when a shadow loomed over her. She didn’t look up right away, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and buzz off. No such luck.
“Uh, hey, mind if I sit here?” a male voice asked, tentative but warm, like he was half-expecting to be shooed away.
Sheena’s hazel eyes flicked up, sharp and appraising, taking in the guy standing there. He was around her age, maybe a year or two older, with a lopsided grin that screamed ‘I’m trying too hard but I’m kinda cute.’ His hair was a messy mop of brown curls, and he wore a tacky neon-green reunion T-shirt with the family name—*Harrington*—plastered across the chest in Comic Sans. She couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips as she leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Only if you explain why you’re wearing the ugliest shirt I’ve seen since the 90s called and asked for their fashion back,” she quipped, her voice dripping with playful disdain. “Seriously, did you lose a bet, or is this just your cry for help?”
The guy blinked, then laughed—a genuine, surprised bark of a laugh that made his grin widen. “Ouch. Straight for the jugular, huh? I’ll have you know this shirt is a family heirloom. Or, well, it was free, and my mom guilted me into wearing it. I’m Roland, by the way.”
“Sheena,” she replied, gesturing to the empty spot across from her with a mock-regal wave. “Sit, Roland. But don’t expect me to save you if Aunt Potato Salad over there comes sniffing for gossip. I’m not in the mood for third-degree interrogations about my love life.”
Roland slid onto the bench, his knee brushing the table as he settled in, still chuckling. “Fair enough. I’ve already dodged three cousins asking if I’ve ‘settled down’ yet. I’m starting to think this reunion is just a front for a matchmaking scheme.”
“Oh, it absolutely is,” Sheena said, her tone dry as she tapped her pen against her journal. “They’re probably placing bets on who hooks up with who by the end of the day. So, Roland, how do we even know each other in this mess of a family tree? I’m drawing a blank on any Rolands.”
He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I’m terrible with names and connections. I just show up, eat the questionable food, and hope no one quizzes me. You’re... uh, related to my mom’s side, maybe? Or my dad’s? Hell, I don’t know. I’m just here for the free beer.”
Sheena raised an eyebrow, her smirk sharpening. “Wow, a real family historian, aren’t you? Let’s play a game, then. Guess the connection. I’ll start. I’m betting you’re the son of that weird uncle who keeps talking about his conspiracy theories at every holiday. You’ve got that ‘I’m sorry for my dad’ vibe.”
Roland snorted, shaking his head. “Wrong. My dad’s the quiet one who hides behind the grill all day. My turn. You’re... the rebellious granddaughter of Grandma Evelyn, the one who ran off to live in the city and never comes to these things. Am I close?”
“Warmer,” she teased, leaning forward, her eyes glinting with mischief. “But I’m not quite the black sheep. Yet. I’m actually the great-niece of Evelyn, through my mom’s side. So, what, does that make us... second cousins? Third? Or are we just two strangers pretending to care about bloodlines?”
He grinned, leaning in too, mirroring her posture. “Let’s hope it’s third. Second feels a little too close for comfort, especially since I’m already wondering if I can steal you away from this circus for something more fun. Like, say, actual conversation that doesn’t involve someone’s gallbladder surgery.”
Sheena laughed, a low, throaty sound that made a few heads turn nearby. She didn’t care. “Oh, Roland, you’re bold for a guy in a Comic Sans disaster. But I’ll bite. Keep talking. How do we figure out this family nonsense?”
They spent the next ten minutes tossing out names of relatives, piecing together vague memories and half-heard stories. “Wait, wait,” Roland said at one point, holding up a hand. “If your mom is Linda’s daughter, and Linda is my great-aunt’s sister, then... holy crap, I think we’re third cousins. Distant enough to not be weird, right?”
Sheena tilted her head, her gaze locking onto his with an intensity that made his grin falter for a second. “Distant enough to be... interesting,” she purred, her voice laced with suggestion. “Close enough to feel a little naughty. I like that combo. Don’t you?”
Roland’s ears turned pink, but he recovered quickly, clearing his throat. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’d say that’s a combo worth exploring. You’re not like anyone else here, Sheena. Most of these folks are content to talk about casserole recipes. You’re... sharp. I’m barely keeping up.”
“Good,” she said, her smile wicked. “I like a man who knows he’s out of his depth but keeps swimming anyway. So, tell me, Roland, what’s your escape plan from this hellscape? Because I’m about two bad hugs away from faking a stomachache and bolting.”
He laughed again, running a hand through his curls. “Honestly? I was gonna hide out by the lake over there with a stolen beer until the chaos died down. But now I’m thinking... how about we ditch this whole thing later? Grab some drinks somewhere that doesn’t smell like burnt burgers? Maybe hit up a bowling alley for kicks? I’m terrible at it, but I’m guessing you’d enjoy watching me make a fool of myself.”
Sheena’s eyes narrowed, but her smirk didn’t waver. “Oh, I would. And I’ll have you know I’m a shark at bowling. I’ll wipe the floor with you, then make you buy me a victory martini. Deal?”
“Deal,” Roland said, extending a hand across the table. “But only if you promise not to mock my shirt again. I’m sensitive.”
She shook his hand, her grip firm, her gaze never breaking from his. “No promises, cousin. I call it like I see it. And right now, I see a guy who’s in way over his head... but I’m intrigued enough to let you try and keep up. Meet me at the park entrance at seven. Don’t be late, or I’ll find someone else to humiliate at the lanes.”
As she stood, tucking her journal under her arm, Roland watched her walk away, her confidence radiating with every step. He muttered to himself, “Third cousins. Distant enough. Right?” But the way his pulse quickened told him he was already hooked on whatever game Sheena was playing. And damn, if he wasn’t eager to lose.
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