Chapter 14 The Performance
The Performance
SYDNEY
Igrip the cake box like it contains nuclear launch codes instead of three tiers of vanilla buttercream as Brooks navigates the SUV up my parents’ driveway.
Balloons dance against the twilight sky, tethered to the porch railings.
Mom’s transformed the place into what looks like a party supply store explosion.
Cars are already lining the street, which means we’re walking into this lion’s den of nosy neighbors, my pissed off brother, and friends from all over town who think we’re madly in love.
After we park behind Jonah’s rental car, the front door flies open, flooding the yard with light and noise.
“They’re here!” Mom calls over her shoulder before bustling down the porch steps. “Maisie! Come in, come in! Everyone’s waiting!”
My father is right there to usher Maisie inside, and off the three of them go while Brooks and I collect ourselves.
“Ready for this?” I steal a glance at him in the rearview mirror to see his jaw muscle twitching.
He grunts—so different from the articulate sports commentator who shocked me on air this morning. The pills for his shoulder, I realize. His eyes have that slightly unfocused quality, the pain lines around his mouth softened but not erased.
“Use your words, Brooksie.” I aim for teasing but land on nervous. “Remember our cover story. Happy couple. Madly in love. Try not to look like you’re being marched to your execution.”
“I know the drill. Just... processing.”
Great. Processing. Just what every woman wants to hear before entering a party with her fake boyfriend. I adjust my dress—blue to match Brooks’ shirt, because Maisie insisted we coordinate.
“The cake looks amazing,” Brooks says, clearly trying. “Did you make it? Just kidding. I remember how you set your microwave on fire trying to heat soup.”
“That was one time!” I say, although warmth spreads through my chest. “And it was your fault for distracting me with that hockey play-by-play.”
His almost-smile grows into something genuine, and for a moment, I forget we’re about to perform for an audience. It’s just us—Sydney and Brooks, sharing a moment that feels unexpectedly real.
I hold up the cake. “It’s from The Baking Beavers.”
“Perfect.” Brooks is out of the SUV before I can blink, opening my door with an enthusiasm that would be impressive if I didn’t know it was part of our act.
His hand finds the small of my back as I carefully maneuver the cake box out of the door, the warmth of his palm bleeding through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Nice touch.” I bite my lip.
“Gotta sell it.” His breath is warm against my ear.
Once we’re on the porch, Mom engulfs us both in a hug somehow, despite the cake box between us. “You two look absolutely gorgeous together!”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say. “Where should I put the cake?”
“Kitchen table for now.” She points inside. “We’ll bring it out after dinner. Oh, Brooks, warning: Tom is on one. He’s already told the story about your college hockey championship game three times.”
“Nice.” Brooks has a genuine smile, and I’m struck again by how easy he is with my parents. Always has been, even when we were at each other’s throats. It’s like he reserved all his brooding just for me.
“You scored in triple overtime.” Mom leads us inside. “You had a hand injury, too.”
The house is transformed. Fairy lights twinkle along the staircase, flowers burst from every available surface, and happy birthday banners festoon the walls.
But it’s the people that make my breath catch—so many familiar faces, all here to celebrate Maisie.
Mrs. Johnson, my high school math teacher, arranges photos on a display board.
Kermit, waving his hands as he tells what appears to be a poker story.
All the Beaver Bookies, their arms laden with gift-wrapped books.
And in the center of it all, like the queen she is, sits Maisie Kingston in a purple dress that matches her shawl, cheeks flushed with excitement rather than fever for once.
“There they are!” she says when she spots us, her voice carrying over the crowd. “My grandson and his beautiful girlfriend! Come here, you two.”
Brooks’ hand tightens on my back before he guides me forward, navigating through well-wishers with precision. His public smile is firmly in place now—the charming, media-trained expression that won over viewers last night.
“Happy birthday, Meema.” He bends to kiss her cheek, his voice soft.
“Seventy years young.” I lean down for my own kiss.
“Charmers, both of you,” she says, but her eyes sparkle. “Now. I forgot to ask earlier—did you remember the extra frosting?”
“Triple vanilla with raspberry filling and extra frosting on the side,” I say. “Just like you wanted.”
“That’s why I love her, Meema.” Brooks slides his arm around my waist. “She remembers the important stuff.”
The words send a thrill through me, even though I know they’re just for show. I lean into him, playing my part, and try to ignore how right it feels.
“Kitchen, Sydney!” Mom calls from across the room. “Cake needs refrigeration!”
“Duty calls,” I tell Maisie with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Brooks settles into the chair beside her, and I notice Jonah brooding on the couch while I make my escape to the kitchen, grateful for a moment to breathe. The aroma of Mom’s famous lasagna envelops me as I place the cake in the refrigerator, rearranging the food storage containers to make space.
“Girl.”
I nearly smack my head on the fridge shelf when Zoe’s voice cuts through the kitchen buzz. She’s leaning in the doorway, cocktail glass in hand and that signature raised eyebrow.
“Zoe, thank god you’re here.” I shut the refrigerator door, approach her, and pull her into a hug.
She squeezes me tight before stepping away. “How are things going, hon?”
“Good?” I say as more of a question. “The town seems to be buying our relationship.”
Zoe laughs, shaking her head. “They are because it seems very real. A little too real.” She studies me, that eyebrow softening. “You know I saw you on air this afternoon. And while everyone else was swooning over your ‘chemistry,’ I saw something else.”
I grab an open bottle on the counter and pour myself a glass of wine. “What?”
“Fear. In your eyes, every time he touched you. Not dislike or discomfort—but like you’re afraid of what you’re feeling.”
I take a sip, and the wine tastes sour on my tongue. Is that true? Am I afraid? Not of Brooks, certainly—the man who helps his grandmother up stairs, who has been nothing but respectful to me, in every awkward situation we’ve had since this started, which is adding up to be a lot.
But what about how I feel when he’s near? The way my heart races when he touches me, even for show? The way I found myself lost in that kiss yesterday?
Yes. That terrifies me.
“You’re falling for him.” Zoe sighs.
“No,” I say automatically. I go for another sip but stop, meeting her eyes. “But I am scared, a little. I just need to course-correct and make sure this stays a professional arrangement.”
“Oh, honey.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m telling you this because I love you: I know I put this teaming-up-with-Brooks idea in your head, but it’s getting a little messy. Remember, he’s a man-whore. Be careful with your heart, Syd.”
I swallow, nodding. He is a man-whore, but my heart is fine. Right?
Zoe places a hand on my arm. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
“Thank you. You’re the best.”
“I know.” She winks, taking a sip of her cocktail.
Mom bustles into the kitchen, arms full of empty serving platters. “There you are! Sydney, bring the garlic bread out, would you? We’re ready to eat!”
Dinner is a lively affair, with three tables pushed together in the dining room to accommodate everyone. I find myself seated between Brooks and Zoe, with Jonah directly across from us, his eyes narrowed every time Brooks so much as breathes in my direction.
Kermit dominates the conversation with stories of Maisie’s legendary poker skills. “Cleaned me out three weeks in a row! And always with that same innocent smile, like she’s not holding a full house.”
Brooks winks at his grandmother. “Taught me everything I know about bluffing.”
“A skill that’s served you well, I imagine.” Jonah’s tone edges into barbed territory. “On and off the ice.”
Brooks’ smile doesn’t falter, but I feel him tense beside me. I place my hand over his on the table, and his fingers curl around mine.
“Some of us have natural talent,” Maisie says. “Brooks was always a quick study. Sydney too—that’s why they make such a wonderful pair.”
The heat creeping up my neck, I force a smile. “I don’t know about that, Maisie. More like opposites attract. Right, babe?”
The endearment feels less awkward on my tongue, but Brooks plays along, giving me that lazy half-smile that does ridiculous things to my insides. “Yup. Beauty and The Beast.”
The table erupts in laughter, and I give his hand a squeeze.
“Remember Sydney’s ex?” Dad’s voice suddenly cuts through my thoughts, and I freeze. “That forward for the Blizzards?”
Oh no. Please, no.
“Handsome fella.” Dad’s oblivious to my mental screaming. “What was his name? Jeremy? Jobe?”
“Jake,” Mom supplies, and I contemplate diving under the table.
“Jake!” Dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. Nice enough guy, but nothing like Brooks here.” He clasps Brooks on his good shoulder. “This one’s a keeper, Syd. Knows what he wants and goes after it.”
“Boy, does he ever,” Jonah barbs, then he smiles innocently. “That’s why he’s The King.”
Cheers echo through the room, but I feel Brooks go rigid beside me. My heart hammers so loudly I’m sure everyone can hear it.
“Careful, Jonah,” Mom scolds in a whisper.
Jonah plasters on a smile. “Yeah, Jake definitely didn’t deserve Syd.”
I’m exhaling, glad Jonah backed off his thinly veiled insults when Brooks says, “You’re right, Holt.
Jake didn’t appreciate what he had.” His eyes find mine.
“He didn’t understand that Sydney isn’t just a beautiful face on the weather report.
She’s the hardest working journalist at that station.
She knows more about sports strategy than half the coaches in the county.
She drove my grandmother to chemo when I couldn’t.
She...” he pauses, swallowing hard. “She deserves someone who sees all of that. Someone who’s trying to be worthy of her, even if he’s not there yet. ”
The silence that follows is deafening. I stare at Brooks, unable to process what just happened.
That wasn’t our script. Those weren’t rehearsed lines. That felt... real.
“Well said.” Dad raises his glass. “To Sydney. And to second chances.”
The toast saves us. But Jonah’s eyes remain fixed on Brooks, a silent communication passing between them.
Back off.
After dinner, it’s time for the cake. Brooks and I wheel it out together on a cart Mom reserves for special occasions, the seventy candles blazing so brightly it could guide ships to shore.
The crowd breaks into an enthusiastic and off-key rendition of “Happy Birthday,” and I watch Maisie’s face, illuminated by candlelight, as she takes it all in.
For a moment, the cancer disappears. The chemo. The grim prognosis. She’s just Maisie Kingston, beloved grandmother, poker shark, and heart of the community, surrounded by people who adore her.
Brooks watches her too, his eyes bright. Without thinking, I slide my arm around his waist, comfortable. He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to the top of my head that feels too natural, too real for this charade we’re playing.
“Make a wish, Meema,” he calls over the applause as the song ends.
Maisie closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and blows. She doesn’t get all seventy candles—no one could—but the effort is valiant, and the remaining few are blown out with help from the crowd.
“What did you wish for?” someone calls out.
Maisie’s eyes twinkle. “If I tell you, it won’t come true. But I will say it involves these two—” she points at Brooks and me “—and perhaps some great-grandchildren that I get to cuddle.”
I choke on air, my face flaming as Brooks actually laughs beside me. “No pressure, Meema,” he says, pulling me closer, his hand warm on my hip.
“Just something to consider.” Her innocent smile fools exactly no one. “Now, who wants cake?”
The moment passes in a flurry of cake-cutting and serving, but Maisie’s words linger.
Great-grandchildren. A future. Something permanent between Brooks and me. The thought should terrify me more than it does.
As the evening winds down, Mayor Martinez raises his glass for a toast. “To Maisie Kingston,” he says, his voice carrying across the room.
“Seventy years young, and still the heart and soul of Dickens. Your wisdom, your kindness, and your legendary poker skills have touched all of us. That last one bankrupted many of us.” Laughter ripples through the crowd.
“To many more years of your vibrant presence in our lives.”
“To Maisie,” everyone echoes, glasses raised.
The sentiment is beautiful, but I feel a pang of sadness. That this celebration feels more precious because of what could be lurking on the horizon.
Brooks’ arm tightens around me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing.
As guests begin to leave, Brooks and I move into our well-practiced routine of the happy couple saying our goodbyes. His hand remains at the small of my back as we thank people for coming, accept good wishes, and promise to visit soon.
“You two take care of each other,” Mrs. Johnson tells us, patting my cheek. “It’s so wonderful to see you happy, Sydney. After everything—your ex, you deserve this.”
Guilt twists in my stomach. These people—my people—are thrilled for us. So invested in our fictional happiness. Each sincere wish adds to the weight I’m carrying.
By the time Brooks and I make it to the SUV, I’m exhausted from the constant awareness of Brooks beside me, from navigating the minefield of my brother to the town’s expectations.
Brooks slides into the driver’s seat, but doesn’t start the SUV immediately as we wait for Maisie to take her time with goodbyes.
“That went well.” His voice is quiet in the darkness.
I laugh, the sound brittle. “Did it? Jonah basically called you a slut.”
“But no one else caught on. And Meema was happy. That’s what matters, right?”
“Right. That’s what matters.”
My dad escorts Maisie, wearing her crown, to the SUV, then gets her belted in.
Brooks pulls away, my childhood home receding in the rearview mirror. I can’t help but wonder how long we can keep this up. How long before the lines between real and fake blur beyond recognition.
How long before one of us slips and reveals a truth we can’t face.