Chapter 12
Tangled and Terrified
Beau
The next morning, the quiet is laced with something heavier than when we went to bed. Maisie senses it before I say a word. She paces once, then steps toward me, as if she’s going to say something, but backs off just as quickly. Her hand twitches at her side. A half-formed wave? I can’t tell.
When our eyes finally meet, she opens her mouth to say good morning, I imagine, but falters, lips parting and closing as though the words catch on something fragile inside her. I’m kind, polite. But there’s a distance now.
I’ve gone somewhere in my head, somewhere she can’t follow. She doesn’t ask. But I can feel the questions sitting on her tongue.
The kiss stayed with me all night, keeping me up with worry. Did I let it mean more to me than it did to her? Or am I just terrified her responsiveness meant she has feelings for me, and I might not know what to do with that?
I didn’t only dwell on what-ifs. I also replayed the velvety softness of her lips and her lean into me when I brought her closer. I thought about what the kiss woke in me. What it shook loose.
And with that came the memory, the one that is still scrolling through my mind now that daylight has arrived. One I’ve resisted revisiting for years.
It had been raining the night my ex told me. Not a storm, but the relentless drizzle that works its way into your bones. She sat across from me in a diner’s corner booth, eyes lit by ambition but shadowed with pity.
“It’s a good song, Beau,” she said. “It deserves a real audience. And I’m the one who can get it there.”
She didn’t ask. She just used it. And me.
I’d written the lyrics and the chords on a napkin, scrawled in a haze of instinct and honesty after a late rehearsal.
But I kept coming back to it. Layering it.
Honing every word and chord over months, doing carpentry with sound.
By the time I showed her, it was the most complete thing I’d ever made.
I asked her opinion, but never got the chance to invite her to shape it with me.
Before I even played it for her, she ran. Not intentionally away from me, but one hundred percent toward what she craved—fame. She ripped the song out of my hands, and she put her own spin on it.
Turned it into something polished. Packaged.
There was no mention of me in the credits when it went live. No hint of where it began. And that was the painful part. It wasn’t only the song she took. It was the truth behind it.
I never recorded it. Never even played it for anyone else. But I felt every word.
I don’t say her name. Not even in my head. And I haven’t in a long time. Let the world remember who they think she is.
I just wish I could forget.
A loud knock rattles the cabin door.
I blink, disoriented, as the memory evaporates. Footsteps creak across the porch boards, and a male voice calls out, cheerful but businesslike, “Ranger service. Confirming everyone’s prepping for departure.”
I clear my throat and answer with a nod as I open the door, the fog in my head not quite lifting. I’m moving, but barely aware of it, just drifting through the motions. I do remember, at the last second, to tell him about the power lines.
Suddenly, I’m startled by movement in the woods.
Unbelievable. It’s the Maybes, from the festival, emerging from a hidden camping spot nearby. I ask the ranger about it, and he replies, “Yeah, they set up camp late last night.”
Their bags are slung over opposite shoulders and they’re in an obvious down-turn in their relationship.
“Next time, maybe don’t smile at every guy in the competition,” Gregory mutters loudly as Gretchen walks stiffly ahead of him.
“I was trying to be nice!” Gretchen snaps. “The same way you were to your ex on Facebook.”
I don’t have the bandwidth to process their strange presence or their couple status.
Before we leave, Maisie changes out of her cabin attire and into one of her colorful, lively dresses.
Today, her hair is parted down the middle, curls gathered into two loose ponytails at the nape of her neck.
Each one is tied with a bright blue ribbon that matches her dress.
The ends trail down her back, swinging slightly with any movement.
It’s not really styled, more like pulled back enough to keep the curls off her face.
But it stops me cold. It’s exactly her. Beautiful without even trying and unique in all the right ways.
Shyly she asks, nearly too soft for me to hear, “Is this too much? For the return to town brunch?”
I try not to stare—and fail miserably—before adjusting my face to what I hope is a neutral studious expression.
“You look like yourself. It suits you.” I manage.
“Thanks,” she responds but turns away quickly and fiddles with the ends of the ribbons, leaving me to wonder if I said something wrong.
We return to town, conversation minimal and stiff during the drive. I don’t know what she’s thinking, and I don’t ask. My hands stay on the wheel. Hers in her lap.
Then “All of Me” by John Legend comes on the radio. I’m halfway through the first verse before I realize I’m singing, and it’s too late to stop now. I can’t help myself. John Legend is off-the-charts talented.
At the second chorus, she starts singing, too. No hesitation. No glance my way. A soprano. Bright. Pure. A little breathy, just enough to sound unintentionally intimate.
Of course, her voice would sound like that?
Why wouldn’t it undo me?
I don’t mean to harmonize. It just happens. Like muscle memory. As if we’ve done this before.
We sing the rest of the song like that—me on the low parts, her floating above me—never once looking at each other.
And when the final piano notes fade out, the silence hits hard.
I don’t know who starts the quiet laughter. Probably her.
“I mean,” she says, looking out the passenger window, “we could just pretend that didn’t happen.”
I shake my head, a smile tugging despite myself. “Too late. That was full-blown duet territory.”
And that’s all we say to each other because we’re pulling back into Sweetpines.
The welcome-back brunch is already in full swing in the square when we arrive. It’s one of Sweetpines’ favorite traditions: a combination of reunion with the winning couple, their storytelling session, and small-town excitement all around.
“The winning couple always has to dish out the scoop,” Marty had cautioned me earlier. “Last year’s pair revealed a secret elopement right after admitting they set the church kitchen on fire trying to make heart-shaped pancakes during one of the scavenger hunt stations.”
Pen had chimed in, shaking her head, “The year before that? Mid-meal proposal. He dropped the ring in the gravy. Took ‘til Tuesday to fish it out of the mashed potatoes, and by then she’d changed her mind.”
“And don’t forget the hash brown war,” Reenie added.
“They argued about who fried ‘em better then didn’t speak for the rest of brunch. Someone’s uncle had to play mediator while the town ate fruit salad.
It was ten solid minutes of communal chewing so loud you could hear the awkward across county lines. ”
Apparently, everyone has been waiting on Maisie and me to return so they can fish for details on our weekend away.
Maisie gives me a sideways glance and clears her throat as if she might launch into something rehearsed. “We had a wonderful time,” she begins, voice bright but a little too bouncy. She’s overcompensating and leaning too hard into charm.
I nod, then add, “No major injuries. Just some bruising from bumping into each other in the unexpectedly tight quarters.” Then I mutter, “No way to plan for that, since we weren’t warned.”
There’s a small chuckle from the crowd. Surprised, Maisie shoots me a look. She tries again. “We really learned a lot about being together, communication, and compromise…”
“Maisie thrived. I mostly learned how many corners a person can walk into when trying to be coordinated in a kitchen built for chipmunks,” I grumble.
“Pretty sure I still have a dent in my shoulder from a rogue cabinet door. No one alerted us to the architectural hazards of matchmaking,” I say, which gets a bigger laugh, but derails Maisie’s moment.
Maisie presses her lips together, and her foot taps under the table. She plasters on a smile and says, “Beau was a great partner.”
I blink. “Maisie handled everything with the professionalism of running a botanical boot camp. I only followed orders and tried not to break anything.”
Someone near the front lets out a choked laugh that sounds like a hiccup trying to escape through newly rubber-banded braces. Marty gives us a thumbs-up from the mic.
Maisie exhales and leans toward me. “Are you trying to tank our brunch debut?” she whispers.
“I’m trying to stay on script without tripping over your moment,” I murmur back, keeping my eyes on the tablecloth “although I’m pretty sure I already flubbed that up.” Let everyone think I’m just being evasive. It’s safer than slipping and saying anything too close to the truth.
The laughter has mostly died down now, and our report pauses just long enough for everyone to wonder what we’re not saying.
I sense Maisie composing herself for yet another attempt to give Sweetpines what they’re waiting for: hope that their votes for us to win had an impact. I imagine that adrenaline still pumps through her body from pretending not to be pretending, or something like that.
“The getaway retreat was ten out of ten.” She gestures broadly, her eyes radiating wonder, as she stands and announces, “Beau and I have a newfound understanding of what it means for us, specifically, as a couple to… ahem.” She clears her throat before practically singing the rest. “Connect and recalibrate.” Her tone lilts upward as she finishes, as if she’s asking a question rather than providing information.
Then she throws back her head and laughs boisterously.