Chapter 27 It’d just be like we never existed
Chapter twenty-seven
It’d just be like we never existed
Lulu
By the time I hit the top of the hill, my lungs are burning, and my thighs hate me. Dusty doesn’t notice, of course. He bolts ahead, then circles back just to remind me he’s lapped me twice.
“Show off,” I mutter, dropping into the grass. He flops beside me with a satisfied groan, rolling onto his back and kicking his paws skyward.
The clearing stretches wide and quiet, Sloan’s Lake glinting in the distance, the faint lights of the city blinking as Denver starts to wake for the day.
Halloween was barely a week ago. The fog machine smoke has finally cleared off Birch, but not Betty’s memory of “Daddy Rat,” whom she keeps asking me to invite over for a round of Betty Boopers.
I’ve explained they’re on the road again.
Not that Hutch would attend a Betty Porch Party even if they weren’t, but she appears to have selective hearing.
Which means Logan’s been gone for three games straight, and I’ve got his dog and his empty house staring at me every night.
A dandelion sways gently next to my sneaker, pushing stubbornly through the frost-hardened earth, and I pick it out, twirling it between my fingers, then blow. Seeds scatter into the cold air, spinning away.
I watch them drift until they disappear, that familiar ache tightening in my chest. Dandelions. Wishes. What I once thought was impossible is suddenly slipping closer, almost as though I’ve already got it in my hands.
I close my eyes and it’s there again—the heat of Logan’s jersey clutched in his fists, his mouth on mine, the sound of his voice rasping against my ear. The way he looked at me like wearing his name was the most dangerous, reckless, beautiful thing I’d ever done.
I want to do it again.
And again.
Dusty rolls over, yawning loudly, and nudges my knee with his nose. I scratch his ears absently, but the ache doesn’t fade. He’s been gone a week, and I’m stuck in the waiting. Counting hours until the next FaceTime. Until I can hear that gravelly voice call me “Lu” like it’s just for him.
My phone buzzes in the grass beside me, and his name lights the screen.
Logan: Dusty behaving?
Me: If you count stealing half my toast this morning as “behaving,” sure.
Logan: Efficient.
Me: Efficient is not what you call a dog thief.
Logan: As long as he doesn’t end up in county, I’ll post bail. Feed him a treat, tell him I’ll be back in 3 more sleeps.
Me: You’re such a dog dad it hurts.
Logan: Better than being a PTA mom.
I laugh out loud at the screen, heart thudding stupidly hard.
Me: Hypothetically, if someone were to have a birthday in the next week, would they want cake?
There’s a long pause before his reply.
Logan: Hypothetically, no.
Me: Hypothetically, too bad.
Logan: I don’t do birthdays, Lu.
Me: Everyone does birthdays.
My phone buzzes, and his name flashes across the screen. I answer, still grinning. “Chicken out on texting?”
His voice rumbles down the line. “I’m serious, Lu. Birthdays weren’t a big thing for me. No big parties or cakes, so I got used to it. Don’t need it now.”
I roll onto my back, staring at the sky. “So you want nothing?”
There’s a beat where I can almost feel his thoughts rolling over themselves. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Say happy birthday, gimme a kiss. Maybe a blow job if you’re feeling generous.” I hear the smile in his voice. “That’s more than enough.”
Heat curls in my stomach, but my chest squeezes too. “That’s a low bar, Miller.”
“Not for me. And I don’t wanna add more to your plate—you’ve already got too much going on. I don’t need cake. I just need…” He exhales, quiet but certain. “You.”
My smile wobbles, stupid and soft. “Fine. But I’m still getting you cake.”
He chuckles low. “Of course you are.”
“Consider it non-negotiable.”
There’s another beat of silence that feels warm and charged, then his voice dips, teasing. “Just don’t get those giant number candles. That’s where I draw the line. Fire hazard.”
I grin. “Relax, Grandpa. I’ll only get the ones that sparkle.”
His groan rumbles through the line, and I bite my lip to hide my laugh.
“Alright, I’ve gotta get back and shower before work.”
“Don’t let me keep you, Ms. Parnell.” His voice drops just enough to send heat rushing through me. “But maybe think of me while you do.”
“Logan.”
He chuckles low. “What? Just saying good morning.”
“Your version of good morning needs an HR department.”
He chuckles low, the sound curling warm in my ear. “Bye, baby.”
The line clicks dead, and I lie there in the grass with the phone pressed to my chest, wondering how one stupid word manages to rearrange every bone in my body whenever he says it.
After a moment, I tuck the phone in my pocket and stretch back onto my feet. Dusty trots up to me from where he’s been sniffing a tree trunk, and I clip his leash back on for the jog back down the hill.
“Don’t worry, bud,” I whisper. “We’ll make him love his birthday, even if I have to shove cake in his mouth myself.”
***
By lunchtime, the only thing on my desk that isn’t covered in rehearsal notes is a crushed protein bar wrapper.
My kids are playing, the production countdown is ticking, and the PTA email chain still hasn’t stopped.
I’m meant to be eating, but instead, I’m sketching out another rehearsal plan before the PTA can accuse me of being unprepared.
My phone buzzes against the pile of papers, and when I look down, I see the girl’s chat lighting up the screen.
That’s Between Us and God
Zoe: Bachelorette night agenda: 1) champagne tower, 2) sequins, 3) Charlie loses her voice screaming ABBA by 11 p.m.
Charlie: Correction: Charlie leads the ABBA choir until 2 a.m.
Tamara: Step 4: Zoe gets cut off at the bar.
Claire: And step 5: I film all of it for blackmail.
I grin, thumbs flying.
Me: Don’t worry. I’ll bring sequins big enough to double as disco balls.
Zoe: Lulu is the disco ball.
Tamara: With Lulu, the sparkle quota is already met.
Charlie: 100%. Remember her Harry Styles outfit? Head. To. Toe.
Claire: I wanna be blinded the second you walk in.
God, I love them. But when I close the chat, the tabs of dresses on my laptop stare back at me. Sequins, metallics, satin—all things I’d normally jump at. Things that usually feel like me. Today, they just feel like choices I can’t make, one more thing piled on top of the other.
The idea of organizing an “iconic” outfit feels overwhelming. They’re all too much, or not enough. My head’s jammed full of scripts, PTA sabotage, the bachelorette, Logan’s birthday… and the way he makes me want to stop hiding.
The enthusiasm’s still there, it’s just buried under the noise. Buried under the ache of keeping something this big tucked away where no one can see it.
I want to shine. I want to sparkle for them, for me. But right now, I’m just tired.
I hadn’t realized how heavy it would feel, carrying love as a secret. How it presses down until you start craving the air of being seen. Wanting him in secret is one thing—it’s fun, sexy, intimate. But wanting him out loud feels lighter. Truer. More permanent.
And maybe that’s the truth I’ve been circling that’s throwing me off course. I’m falling for him. I don’t just want him in secret anymore—I want him in front of the world, too.
I shake my head and look back down at the chat, where Zoe is now spamming disco ball emojis.
Me: Prepare to be DAZZLED!
I hit send, snap my laptop shut, and shove the stack of rehearsal notes into my bag. Sequins can wait. The PTA cannot.
By four o’clock, my lunch is still untouched, and I’m standing in the middle of the school auditorium, corralling twenty-seven sugar-fueled eleven-year-olds through their first real run-through.
The PTA board has stationed themselves like vultures in the back row, clipboards out, eyes sharp, waiting for me to trip.
Dusty is my one ally. He’s sprawled in the aisle, tail thumping every time one of the kids sneaks down to give him a pat. I called him my “assistant director” just to watch the PTA moms clutch their pearls. They’re horrified, but the kids are ecstatic. So I’m calling that a win.
Still, the sniping eventually comes in loud whispers.
“Are those really the final costumes? They don’t exactly elevate the stage, do they?”
“The backdrop looks… fine, I suppose. But it’s a little plain. Have you considered a full set build?”
“I could hardly hear the second row. If they can’t project properly, what’s the point?”
Pamela doesn’t bother with subtlety. She crosses her legs, pen poised over her clipboard, and fires the kill shot.
“Strange that Dylan isn’t in a lead role. With his talent, he could carry this whole production. Instead, she’s got him standing in the back row. Such a waste.”
A couple of kids glance toward the aisle at her words, uncertainty flickering in their faces. My stomach twists, but I keep smiling, clapping as two others remember their cue and shuffle into place.
Because it’s not just about costumes or sets or projection. It’s everything. These women are holding me to Broadway standards with an middle school budget and a ragtag cast of kids who’d rather be at recess.
They want me to fail. They want me to crack so they can swoop in, take over, and polish their own crowns.
I want to snap back. God, I want to. But this show isn’t for them, it’s for the kids.
For the little girl who finally gets to sing in front of an audience.
For the boy who learned to build confidence just by shouting his one line loud enough to be heard.
For the way their faces light up when the stage curtain parts and they see their special people in the audience.
So let them sneer, let them circle. I’ll take every one of their barbed comments on the chin. But I’ll be damned if I let even a whisper of their poison touch my kids.
***
Hours later, Dusty’s curled up on a rug at my feet, his snoring filling the quiet of my living room. I’m curled up too, but on the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, production notes spread in a mess that matches the rest of me.
My phone screen pings, and Logan’s name flashes with an incoming video call. His face fills the screen, grainy hotel lighting behind him. My chest squeezes stupidly at the sight.
“Hey, Lu.” His voice is warm, and that sound alone makes the knot between my shoulders loosen.
“Hey.” I smile, but it feels thin. “How’s the road?”
He shrugs. “Hotel coffee’s shit. Boys won at poker tonight. Hutchy’s bitching about the curtains. Standard.” His eyes narrow. “You okay?”
I hesitate, fingers plucking at the corner of a sticky note. “Yeah. Just… a long day. Lots happening with the end-of-year showcase, and I’m a little…” I wave a hand. “Fried.”
“Fried, I can handle.” His tone is soothing, eyes trailing over my face. “Not okay, I don’t like.
Something wobbles in my chest, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “Sometimes I don’t know what to… call this. What we are.”
Logan goes still. His jaw works, eyes sharp on mine through the grainy screen.
“I mean, I know what it is,” I rush on, cheeks heating. “It just sometimes feels like I’m making it up, because we’re still keeping it quiet.”
I swallow hard, words tumbling before I can stop them. “And what if it blows up tomorrow? What if we… break? We wouldn’t even be able to talk about it with anyone. It’d just be like it never existed, like we never existed. And that thought just—”
“Tallulah.” His voice cuts through my rambling, alarm flaring in his eyes. “Baby, stop. What the fuck are you even saying?” He shifts closer to the screen. “You’re not making this up; you’re not imagining it. You’re mine, and that’s not up for debate.”
My throat burns as I start to babble. “I just wasn’t sure, because we’ve never had this conversation, and I didn’t want to assume, and I didn’t want to pressure you…”
For a beat, he just stares at me, then he curses low, dragging a hand through his hair. His chest heaves like he’s holding back a thousand things at once, and then it breaks.
“Fuck, I hate doing this over a screen.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine. “Will you please be my girlfriend? Because you already fucking are. I’ll say it every damn day if you need me to. You’re my girl, Lulu.”
The breath leaves me in a shaky rush. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” His mouth curves slowly. “So… are you gonna say yes, Lu? Because I’m going crazy here thinking you thought this was temporary.”
I suck my bottom lip under my teeth, watching his stormy eyes wait.
“Well… I guess that would be the efficient thing to do…”
“I swear to God, Tallulah—”
“Fine, yes. Of course. I would love to be your girlfriend.”
His mouth softens, but his eyes stay fierce. “I’m so gone for you, Lu. The only thing I care about—the only thing—is figuring out how we tell Eli without blowing this all to hell. Because you’re stuck with me.”
Heat blooms through me, tangled up with nerves. A laugh slips out, quiet but real. “Guess I can live with that.”
“Good. Then that’s settled. You’re my girl, and I’ll say it a hundred times if you need me to.”
My eyes feel a bit watery as I nod. “Maybe once more.”
“Mine,” he says in a low, immediate growl.
It’s so stupid, but it feels like the most important word in the world right now. To know that he’s got me, that I’m his. And no matter what happens, we’re in this together.
My whole body shivers at the thought, and because I can’t help myself, I grin.
“Careful, Miller. If you growl at me like that in public, people are gonna think you’re into some weird shit.”
His warm and husky laugh cracks through the tension. “Baby, I am into some weird shit. And all of it’s you.”
Heat rushes up my neck, and I bury my smile in my hand. God help me, I’m so far gone for this idiot.
He adjusts the screen, eyes locking onto me. “You’re shattered, Lu. Hang up and have a bath, then go to bed and dream about me. Preferably naked.”
I roll my eyes, but my smile is wide. “You really ruin all your romantic moments, don’t you?”
“Count the sleeps, baby, because it’s not the only thing I’m gonna ruin.”
A laugh barks out of me. “Oh my god, my boyfriend is disgusting.”