Chapter 38
Chapter thirty-eight
The only thing I’ve ever wished on
Lulu
Backstage is chaos.
Glitter snow coats the floor, half the kids have lost their shoes, and someone’s crying because their wings are “itchy in the soul.”
I’m darting between costume racks with a safety pin in my teeth, hair plastered to my forehead with sweat, pretending I’m not one bad comment away from snapping in front of an audience made up of mostly parents.
And of course, the PTA are circling.
Two of them hover by the curtain, arms folded, voices pitched just loud enough for me to hear. “Looks a little… slapped together, doesn’t it?” one drawls. “Last year’s backdrops were professionally printed. Parents notice these things.”
My throat tightens. The backdrops were fine an hour ago—painted, hung, secure. Until suddenly, they weren’t. One sagged half off its rigging, and the glitter stars that took my kids three weeks to make had peeled away like the glue was never even there.
It feels deliberate. Like someone’s been waiting for the perfect moment to yank the rug out from under me.
And God, maybe that’s just paranoia talking, but tonight isn’t just any night. Tonight, Reid’s in surgery. Tonight, Eli's still furious. Tonight, Logan’s voice is echoing in my head, raw and broken and not what I want to hear.
I can’t afford to crumble. Not when my kids are buzzing like live wires, eyes darting to me every time something goes wrong. They don’t care about PTA sabotage. They care about whether the snow machine works, whether their line will land, whether their teacher looks like she believes in them.
So I force my shoulders back, shove the pin into the hem of a costume, and bark out orders like a general. “Shoes on, halos forward, if anyone eats the fake snow again, I’m canceling Christmas!”
“Miss Parnell,” a voice says behind me, cool and composed, cutting cleanly through the panic.
I jerk around, heart in my throat. Principal Delacourt stands just offstage, heels sharp against the floor and her arms folded—not in judgment, as I’ve now learned, but in calculated control.
Her heels click as she steps closer. “Breathe,” she says, reaching past me to catch a slipping snowflake from the backdrop and hold it steady. “You’ve done something remarkable here, don’t let them rattle you.”
I blink. “The PTA—”
“Are terrified of losing control.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but the edge in it is unmistakable. “And you’ve proven they never had it to begin with.”
I blink at her, stunned.
“You think glitter makes a show?” she adds, one brow lifting. “You’ve got an auditorium full of parents here because your students believe in this. In you. Well done.”
I stare at her, stunned. Then nod, just once.
She presses the last pin back into place, smooths the snowflake onto the backdrop, and gives me a look that says you’ve got this far louder than words ever could.
Then, she turns on her heel and disappears back out to the wings and into the audience. The curtain ripples as I duck my head through, peering out into the auditorium after her.
It’s a full house. Parents packed shoulder to shoulder, murmuring and flipping through programs. In the front row, the crew is mostly here, bright-eyed and steady, like they’re here to anchor me. And with them is Eli.
Our gazes collide, and for a heartbeat, the noise fades. His jaw is set, but then his expression shifts into something softer. His hand lifts and he taps his chest twice, the same little gesture he used to throw me across the rink boards when I was a kid. Our shorthand for I love you.
Tears sting, hot and sudden, as I return it. I swallow them down because the kids are tugging at me again. One wants to change their line, another’s crown has snapped clean in half, and then a shriek erupts as a star backdrop tilts dangerously sideways.
I bolt back behind the curtain, catching the edge of the set before it topples. My pulse hammers as I try to pin it back up with shaking hands.
“Oh, fu—fudge! No, no, no!” I scramble onto a chair, stretching on my toes to reach the top edge, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the pin that’s supposed to hold it in place.
My hair falls in my face, my dress catches on the chair leg, and I can hear the PTA already whispering, waiting for the collapse.
“Hold, dammit!” I mutter, tugging and fighting against time. The curtain’s going up in less than five minutes, the kids are squealing, and my heart’s punching through my ribs. My fingers slip, the screw refuses to catch, and panic rises sharp in my throat as the backdrop creaks.
A hand slides up past mine, solid and sure. Bigger than mine, bracing the backdrop like it weighs nothing.
“I got you, Lu.”
I freeze as the familiar voice rasps low behind me, gravely from injury and distance, but I’d know it anywhere.
My breath stumbles as I twist, and there he is—Logan. Standing half in the shadows, bruised temple still faintly swollen, Storm hoodie on his tall frame. His eyes aren’t glassy anymore. They’re locked on me, clear and fierce.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whisper, even as every part of me aches at the sight of him.
“Yeah, well. I wasn’t supposed to fall for you either.” His mouth crooks, then steadies. “Didn’t stop me.”
The backdrop holds, but he gives it one more nudge with his hand, his other curling gently around my wrist, grounding me as I step down off the chair. “I need to say this before that curtain goes up and before you walk out there thinking I regret a single second of you.”
My throat closes. “Logan—”
“It wasn’t you.” His words come out in a rush, clawing their way out of him. “Last night, I was out of it. The mistake I mentioned was not telling Eli sooner, not telling him we were together. But you?”
He breaks off, eyes fierce as they pin me in place.
“Tallulah, you changed everything I thought I wanted. It was all black and white before you.”
My lips part, breath snagging, but no sound comes.
“I love you,” he cuts in, before I can speak.
His hand tightens around my wrist, gaze burning into me.
“I’m so in love with you, it terrifies me.
Almost as much as your brother does.” His mouth tips in a fleeting grin, then steadies.
“But I’ll never be sorry for it. Not when I made a wish for you on a dandelion. ”
The words slam into me and heat bursts behind my eyes as I recall that morning at my lookout spot months ago.
I’d dragged him up before dawn, made him hold that wildflower, and told him he had to make a wish.
He’d muttered under his breath like it was ridiculous, and I thought he’d never actually do it. But he did.
He’d made a wish.
On me.
“You…” My throat closes around it, shaky with disbelief. “You actually—”
His thumb brushes my knuckles. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever made a wish on, baby. The only thing I’ve wanted to be true.”
The world slows, and chaos around us—the kids, the whispers, the countdown to curtain—blurs into nothing. There’s just him, standing strong where everything else feels like it’s falling.
“Logan—”
“I’d face Eli. Hell, I’d face anyone if it meant you’d never doubt what you are to me,” he says hoarsely, bringing my hand to his lips. “Not a mistake. Never a mistake.”
My lip trembles and I tip forward helplessly, so gone for this man. His mouth catches mine, hands framing my face. I lean into it, my arms coming up to wrap around his neck, my toes tipping up to him.
His hands travel down my body, pulling me in closer, kissing me harder as I smile against his lips.
And then, with perfect, catastrophic timing—
The curtain jerks up.
Gasps ripple through the audience, then a stunned hush. For one beat, it’s just me and Logan, frozen in the spotlight, lips still pressed together. The PTA moms snicker in the wings, no doubt the curtain opening earlier than planned is their handiwork.
I turn back to the crowd to find every set of eyes on us. Every single teacher. Every single parent. Every single student.
Then the murmurs start. Parents whispering, kids giggling, a teacher audibly choking on her water.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL F—”
Tamara lunges across her seat and slaps a hand over Eli’s mouth before he can traumatize every child in the room. “Nope! Family-friendly event, babe!”
Zoe is doubled over in the front row, pulling out her phone for photos and wheezing so hard, she’s holding Charlie’s arm just to stay upright. Chase climbs halfway onto his chair, and hollers with glee. “TEN OUTTA TEN PERFORMANCE, WOULD WATCH AGAIN!”
Jake’s shaking his head, murmuring something to Charlie that makes her bite her lip to keep from laughing.
“Oh my god,” someone hisses from the back rows.
And then the recognition sparks.
“Wait—that’s Logan Miller!” A dad in a Storm jersey half-stands, pointing like he’s just spotted Elvis.
The name catches like fire. Logan Miller. It rolls across the rows in rising voices until the whole room is buzzing, kids squealing, phones flashing up in shaky hands.
I catch a blur of movement in the front row—Mr. Dawson, a prominent member of the school board. For a moment, his face is stuck in some sort of horrified gape, but as he registers who’s on stage, it splits into a grin as wide as the rink itself.
“Go Storm!” he bellows, launching up from his seat.
His clapping sets off a chain reaction, and suddenly parents are on their feet too, cheering, hollering, stomping like they’re in the arena instead of a middle school auditorium.
Beside me, Logan flushes scarlet. His hand tightens around mine, grounding us both. The applause grows louder, kids chanting, parents hooting like this was always meant to be part of the program.
My pulse hammers against my throat as I flick my panicked gaze up at Logan, who stares back at me with wide eyes.
“Lu… what do we do?!”
My mouth quirks, half-sheepish, half-wild. “We bow.”
“What?!”
“Bow, Pookie.” I squeeze his hand, eyes dancing even through the flush burning my cheeks.