Chapter 8
Porchlight Confessions
Beau
After the scavenger hunt ends and most teams have scattered, I’m still hanging around the music hall, finding handyman tasks to pass the time and trying not to admit I’m hoping Maisie will show up.
Amanda and Luis are at it again. Their voices carry easily across the square, loud enough that even from the music hall porch, I can hear the familiar volley of their latest argument. It’s full of the kind of playful bite only they seem to understand.
“It was a fluke!” Amanda insists.
“Flirty miracle,” Luis counters, arms crossed but smiling slyly as if he knows exactly how to win this round.
Reenie passes by the music hall porch on her way to the Stitch Sisters’ tent headquarters, highlighter in one hand and a plastic cup of lemonade in the other. She doesn’t even break stride as she calls over, “Those two’ll either kill each other or renew their vows. Mark my words.”
I glance up from the music hall porch where I’m hammering in a replacement board, the nails resisting more than usual today. Reenie’s comment pulls a quiet huff of laughter from me—the kind that slips out before you realize you’re even smiling. She’s not wrong.
I laugh again, letting out a throaty chuckle this time. I know Reenie feeds on these types of situations during the festival.
I can see the Maybes in full swing again, slow dancing under the gazebo rediscovering each other, then storming off in opposite directions not thirty seconds later.
I also heard that purple haired punk guy accidentally stepped on Lucy’s cowgirl hat when they attempted their challenge at the hardware store.
Rumor has it they have dropped out completely because of that.
Peaches trots along the edge of the square, tail flicking as faithfully as a metronome, clearly torn about which drama to follow. Eventually, she gives up and heads toward the diner instead. Smart dog.
I lean back against the post for a second, soaking in the absurdity of it all.
This town. This festival. It’s like living in a Hallmark card: overly cheerful, a little frayed at the edges, and somehow lovably sappier with each passing year.
There’s something oddly comforting about the way it all spins together, though.
The kind of over-the-top sweetness and hometown energy you only get when people care too much about things that don’t make sense on paper.
And here I am, the fake boyfriend to a woman who’s somehow taken up way more space in my thoughts than I planned.
I catch myself wondering what it would be like if she were here: basket in hand or some wildflowers she just picked, cracking a joke, sitting nearby as though the two of us as a couple are part of this town’s long-running history.
It makes no sense, really, this wishful thinking of mine. This week is a temporary arrangement that may seem sweet and charming, but it’s dangerous, if I let myself get too close to the edge of believing it. I’m just about to pack up for the day when footsteps crunch the gravel behind me.
“Hey, fake-boyfriend-slash-handyman-carpenter,” comes a voice that makes something break loose and burrow down into my chest before I even turn around.
Maisie Quinn.
I spin to see her with a basket in hand.
My daydream come to life. Her curls have fallen loose from whatever held them up earlier, and she’s wearing a yellow wrap dress that makes her shine as bright as an afternoon sunbeam.
I sit back against the porch railing and arc a questioning look at her. “What’s this? Food for my heart before you bring up an after-the-fact fake dating prenup agreement?” My tone is light, but the words carry more weight than I intend.
Because this is what fake couples do, right? Bring each other food, make jokes about roles they never asked for, and pretend the whole town isn’t watching. But there’s something in the way she looks at me that makes it hard to remember it’s supposed to be pretend.
She holds up the basket. “Half dinner, half dare. Marty said to deliver it before it gets cold, or he’d ‘accidentally’ pair me with the Over-actors next year.”
“That’s cruel and unusual,” I say, setting my toolbox down so I can take the basket from her hands. Inside is an assortment of napkin-wrapped goodies: cornbread, some kind of roasted veggies, and something that smells unmistakably like his famous apple sage pork sausage.
Maisie perches on the top step with a familiarity that carries the ease of a hundred familiar visits, even though we both know there hasn’t been. “Figured you might still be here, and I thought you could use a break. Or company. Or both.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just watch the way she shifts until she’s settled, easy like she belongs here next to me.
And maybe it’s the fake dating bleeding into something else, or maybe it’s just Maisie being Maisie, but it hits me how natural it feels.
Too natural, maybe. Which is exactly why it rattles me.
The sun’s dipping low, shadows stretching across the square, the music hall shut down for the day behind us. I glance toward the bench to the left of where I’m working, where I’d set down my guitar earlier after a lesson with one of the kids.
I should just eat. Say thank you. Keep it simple.
Instead, I move the meal aside.
“You ever heard something before you even knew what it meant?” I ask. The words come out rougher than I expect.
Maisie blinks, then tips her head slightly, trying to figure out what I’m really asking. “You mean, for example, when something doesn’t feel like a big deal until later, when it starts to make more sense?”
I nod. Then I pick up the guitar.
I don’t say I wrote it.
Truth is, the last time I played this song for someone, she didn’t hear it the way I meant it. She heard potential. Fame. Leverage. A shortcut to center stage. She took the lyrics straight out of my heart and hands and made them hers. But this isn’t about the past. Not tonight.
So, I don’t say anything at all.
I simply play.
The chords are basic at first. I strum. Gentle. Slow. The kind of rhythm you only find when you’re not chasing it. Then the melody eases in, low and purposeful, soft but certain. The music knows exactly where it’s going. I let the words come.
You heard the truth I hid in chords, under melody and rhyme.
Each line carries more than I mean it to. Each note threads through the part of me that still aches when I think about what I lost: my faith in music, my trust in love, my hope of sharing something real.
Maisie doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
I keep singing.
You caught the weight behind the words, strummed with all this crafted time.
By the time I hit the chorus, my voice drops even lower. Not just because of the hour or the way her eyes are fixed on me, listening as though I’m giving away a secret.
But that’s exactly what I’m doing.
You heard the truth beyond the chords, the part that wasn’t meant for show.
When the last note fades, I let the silence curl around and between us. It’s not awkward. It’s reverential.
She exhales slowly, her shoulders lifting then falling as if she’s forgotten how to breathe for the last three minutes. Her eyes don’t leave mine, but something softens around the edges; the music must’ve reached her soul and stayed. There’s a glimmer there, awe or recognition.
The night holds the quiet between us, delicate as vintage fabric, ready to tear if either of us moves wrong.
“That was…” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
I glance down, fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar.
Part of me wishes she’d say something—anything—that would make it easier to admit the truth I just sang. Say she hears what I’m trying to tell her, even if I can’t say it out loud.
“It’s nothing,” I say too fast.
“It’s not nothing,” she says steadily.
The words hang like a suspended chord, fragile and unresolved, but neither of us moves to fill the silence. Not yet.
She doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask questions.
But I see it in her face. She wants to. Not just about the song.
There’s something else behind her eyes, something that might be bewilderment.
As if she’s wondering what someone like me is doing hiding songs like that on a back porch instead of playing them for audiences.
Her lips part as if she might speak again, but instead she just nods once, stands, and brushes nonexistent crumbs from her skirt.
“I should go. But…” She pauses, then hesitates. Her eyes glance briefly toward the guitar. “Have I…I wonder if I’ve heard that before?”
My breath catches, just for a second.
I keep my voice light. “Could be. You might’ve heard it on the radio. Or somewhere. I don’t know. I just like to play it.”
She nods quickly, and I sense that my explanation satisfies her for now. “Right. Well…thanks for the serenade, fake boyfriend.”
I watch her go.
Her walk isn’t hurried, but it’s measured, purposeful in a way that suggests she’s putting space between herself and something she hasn’t quite figured out how to hold.
Part of me wants to call her back. Just call her name and see if she stops. Turns around. Walks back.
But I don’t. I sit with the ache instead, the echo of the song still stretched between us. She didn’t say much. Didn’t have to, and I didn’t expect her to. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more.
Not applause. Not praise. Just…something honest. Something that proves this wasn’t just music to her. That it mattered.
And maybe it did. Maybe that’s why she walked away before the moment asked for anything more.
I swallow hard as emotion tugs at my chest. Not the jagged-edged kind of hurt—just a tightening, enough to make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to play that song again without seeing her face. I realize I’m trembling.
Trying to shake it off, I start packing up.
That’s when I hear one crisp clap. Then another and one more, falling like punctuation marks.
I glance up.
It’s Marty, standing in the shadow between the music hall and the diner, dish towel slung over one shoulder, his mouth pulled into a knowing half-smile, as if he’s been waiting for this exact scene to play out.
“Heard music drifting over from the diner,” he says, stepping onto the music hall porch with authority. “Figured I’d come check on the ghost serenading us after hours.”
I huff a laugh, barely.
He nods toward the spot where Maisie disappeared. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, son, you know. That was a love song.”
I want to joke. To say he’s hearing things. But the words won’t come.
He doesn’t push.
Just watches me with that same look I’ve seen behind the counter more times than I can count.
He’s someone who’s spent a lifetime watching people try and fail to hide how they feel.
There’s nothing invasive about it. Just intentional understanding, the kind that sees more than it should.
And maybe that’s why it gets under my skin—because being seen like that makes it harder to keep pretending I’m not already halfway gone on her.
“And if you hurt her,” he says, tone still casual, “Penelope will break your kneecaps.”
Then he grins, pats the railing, and walks off whistling the tune I just played.
I sit back down on the step. My fingers drift to the strings, brushing them without pressure, needing to feel something familiar.
I don’t strum, just absentmindedly fiddle.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the nerve to sing it again.
But tonight, it’s still caught in my throat.
Too close, too true—so much of Maisie in every note that it’s hard to breathe.
The guitar is motionless under my hand.
But the melody’s still in my head.
Still hers.
And no matter how much I try to brush it off, I know Marty’s right.
It was a love song.
And I think I finally know who it’s for.