Chapter 6
“You what?” Claire’s voice is loud enough for heads to snap our way from nearby tables.
I put my finger to my lips in panic. “Are you trying to alert the entire town about my quandary?” My eyes dart around Maple & Steam, where at least three elderly women are now eyeing us with undisguised interest.
Claire lowers her voice but raises her eyebrows so high they practically disappear into her hairline. “How could you lie like that?”
I give her a look that says you should know better, complete with my patented teacher-who-caught-you-passing-notes glare. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because facing Andy and Lindsey holding hands in public felt like someone was stomping on my heart? What was I supposed to do?
“Right. Nevermind that I even asked.” She leans in, chin propped by one hand, the other stirring her latte. “So what are you going to do? You can’t just manifest a boyfriend who’s wedding-ready in three months.”
I take a long, deliberate sip of my caramel coffee, the sugary warmth doing absolutely nothing to relieve my stress. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” I lower my voice to a murmur. “I need a fake boyfriend.”
Claire’s eyes widen. “A what now?”
“You heard me. A temporary, contractual, emotionally unavailable male who can wear a suit, make small talk, and pretend to find me irresistible for approximately six hours in June.” I spread my hands on the table. “Is that really so much to ask?”
“I don’t know, Maisie. I think you should just come clean and skip their wedding.”
“And suffer eternal shame in front of Lindsey? Claire, this is a crisis unlike anything I’ve ever faced before.” I grasp her hand in mine. “You must help.”
“Well, when you put it like that. . .” Claire snorts, then tilts her head thoughtfully. “So you want me to help you find someone who could fake a relationship?”
I nod so emphatically I nearly give myself a headache. “Exactly! Someone charming enough to convince everyone I’ve moved on spectacularly, but not so charming that I’ll actually fall for him and repeat the cycle of heartbreak and humiliation that’s become my romantic specialty.”
Claire purses her lips, clearly running through her mental Rolodex of eligible bachelors in Maplewood Springs. Her face scrunches with concentration, but after a moment, she sighs and shakes her head. “I’m drawing a blank. Most of the decent guys I know are either taken or gay—sometimes both.”
“What about that one guy you tried to set me up with a few months ago? What was his name?” I snap my fingers, trying to recall. “The one with the nice shoes and the thing about birds?”
“Brendon?” Claire’s face lights up, then immediately darkens. “Oh, honey, no. Brendon’s not in town anymore.”
“What? What happened to him?”
Claire leans in closer, her voice dropping an octave. “Well, remember how he was really into exotic birds? Like, uncomfortably into them?”
I nod. “He showed me forty-seven photos of his cockatiel on our coffee date.”
“Right. So, apparently, he decided to enter Pietro—that’s the bird—in the county fair’s pet talent show.” Claire pauses for dramatic effect. “He spent weeks training Pietro to ride a tiny bicycle across a tightrope while singing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. Opening night, everything was going great. Pietro hit all his marks, the crowd was going wild, and then—“ Claire makes an explosion gesture with her hands. “Pietro spotted Mayor Wilson’s toupee in the front row, mistook it for a rival cockatiel, and dive-bombed the mayor’s head.”
I gasp. “No!”
“Yes! The mayor screamed, Pietro screeched, the bicycle fell and knocked over a candle display, and suddenly the whole stage was on fire.” Claire shakes her head solemnly.
“Three fire trucks, two ambulances, and one very traumatized bird later, Brendon packed up everything and moved to Arizona to ‘start fresh where nobody knows his name.’”
Despite my predicament, I can’t help but laugh, the mental image too absurd to resist. Then reality crashes back down, and my forehead slams against the table with a thud that rattles our cups. “Basically, I’m screwed. I can’t pull a Brendon.”
“Sorry,” Claire says, reaching across to pat my back. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
I lift my head, rubbing the red spot that has surely formed there. “Don’t sweat it. I got myself into this pickle, I must get myself out of it. So what’s been new with you? Still battling the restaurant gremlins?”
Claire’s smile fades. “My grandma’s restaurant is on life support.
Bills keep piling up, and business is really slow.
Last Thursday, our only customers were Mrs. Peterson—who ordered hot water with lemon—and a family of tourists who thought we were the bathroom entrance for the antique shop next door.
And she hasn’t been feeling well as of late, so I’ve taken over kitchen duties. ”
“But you cook almost as well.” Claire’s grandmother’s recipes are legendary in three counties, and Claire knows their secrets. “You just have to work on advertising.”
“I’m still a novice,” Claire says, spinning her mug in small circles. “I have a long way to go before I’m as good as my grandma or your mom.”
Her dejected expression tugs at my heart. I wish I could do something to support her, but running a restaurant is not one of my fortes. My culinary specialty is creatively carving out shapes out of fruits and arranging takeout containers to fit all that I want to eat.
“Speaking of advertising,” Claire says, perking up slightly, “Did you hear Sarah might be moving back to town?”
“You’re kidding.” We’ve known Sarah Lake since first grade.
Lindsey used to be part of our clique, but then she decided to stab me in the back, and we haven’t spoken to her since .
. . well, at least Claire and Sarah haven’t.
My blood pressure rises just thinking about it.
“I thought she’d stay in New York. Wasn’t it her dream to be a star marketer? ”
“She was offered a position at a marketing firm here after she graduated.” Claire takes another sip of her latte. “She called me yesterday to catch up.”
“This town has a way of drawing people back to their roots,” I say, feeling philosophical in the way that only coffee and existential dating crises can inspire. “Like a black hole of nostalgia and family obligations that none of us can escape.”
Claire laughs. “That’s dark. But accurate.”
We finish our coffees, chatting about less catastrophic topics before the barista starts giving us the side-eye for camping at our table too long. Outside the café, we hug goodbye.
“Sorry I couldn’t be more help,” Claire says.
“No worries, I’ll figure something out.” I give her a final squeeze. “We’ll find a solution to both our predicaments.”
The drive home is quiet, just me and my thoughts and the occasional judgment from my GPS when I take the long way to avoid passing by my old apartment. All that worry throughout the day has left me exhausted.
The drive home takes twenty-five minutes. I drop my bag by the door and toe off my shoes. Chrissy isn’t home, probably off with Theo somewhere with hearts in her eyes. Mom is still at work, and Dad plays with Noah in the living room.
I go upstairs and plop onto my bed with a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos I scooped up in the pantry and the pile of math quizzes, hoping to distract myself with lopsided number sentences and backward fives.
Nothing soothes an existential crisis like correcting six-year-olds’ arithmetic while staining your fingers neon red.
And it works—for about five minutes before a low, gentle guitar melody floats through the open window facing the neighbor’s house distracts me. I’ve never heard it before. It’s nice, pleasant, just what I needed to put me at ease after a day like today.
The new resident must be into folk music. Good taste, at least. I nod along absently, marking another quiz with a “Great Job” sticker.
But then the guitar grows louder, and faster, ramping up from soothing acoustic strumming to something with more urgency. The pleasant rhythm accelerates into a chaotic solo, fingers clearly flying across the fretboard with increasing aggression.
Then it stops for a moment and resumes with an electric guitar, the melody transforming into full-on sonic warfare, complete with screechy riffs that sound like someone trying to tune a banshee, which makes me wince and cover one ear.
And then the drums start out of nowhere—bam, bam, CLASH—and I jump out of my seat so hard I drop my red pen, which rolls across the papers and falls to the floor. Cheeto dust goes flying across my quizzes.
I wait there, thinking maybe it’ll stop before a thunderous bass line kicks in, rattling my window in its frame.
It doesn’t stop. In fact, it gets louder, as if someone’s cranking the volume with each passing measure.
Who plays drums at 5 p.m. on a weekday?!
Who has a full drum kit in a residential neighborhood anyway?
This isn’t Woodstock. It’s a quiet, peaceful cul-de-sac full of elderly dog-walkers and retired dentists.
Mrs. Abernathy across the street still complains when kids ride skateboards past her house, for heaven’s sake.
As I pick up my pen, another cymbal clash comes through the window, followed by a thud, like someone drop-kicking an amplifier.
That’s it, enough is enough.
I grab my sweater from the hanger and stomp out the door, brushing Cheeto dust from my fingers as I march down the stairs. I’m a reasonable person—I appreciate music more than most—but there’s a line, and Axl Rose Junior next door just power-slid right over it.
Dad looks up from building blocks with Noah. “Where are you—“
“Neighborly diplomacy,” I say over my shoulder, opening up the front door.
It’s time to give my new neighbor a piece of my very annoyed mind. Outside, I march with purpose toward the house that was peacefully empty this morning and is now apparently hosting Maplewood Springs’ least welcome garage band.