Chapter 9
The rest of the week unfolds like a peaceful intermission after Logan’s dramatic window exit.
Each morning, my phone lights up with texts detailing his bruised hip, sore back, and damaged ego.
The man’s capacity for theatrical suffering knows no bounds—you’d think he’d plummeted from a skyscraper rather than a seen-foot trellis.
One message reads: Starting to think rose thorns are venomous. Left hip turning interesting colors. Please send sympathy and cookies.
I’ve been enjoying the break, if I’m honest. The breathing room gives me time to focus on what actually pays my bills—first-graders with spring fever and a stack of spelling tests that won’t grade themselves.
When I think about Lindsey’s wedding now, a strange lightness replaces the dread that’s been my constant companion since the diner fiasco.
Having Logan play the part of my boyfriend feels like finding an unexpected ring in choppy waters.
No more panicked Bumble swiping. No more imagining what would happen if I couldn’t find a date.
But another kind of anxiety creeps in during quiet moments. What if someone finds out? What if our stories don’t align? What if Mom figures out I’m bringing a fraudulent plus-one to a wedding where she knows everyone and their grandma?
I get the distinct feeling that the complicated web of lies we’re weaving has too many loose threads.
One wrong tug and the whole fabrication could unravel around us, leaving me more exposed than before.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited about spending time with Logan.
Whatever else might happen between us, this chapter of my life will definitely be something to brag about to my kids one day.
The days click by without incident. Thursday. Friday. And then Saturday arrives.
It’s lunchtime, and I stir tomato sauce for the spaghetti I’m making, watching the rich red liquid bubble and swirl.
Mom’s working on the noodles at the stove beside me, her practiced hands dropping pasta into boiling water with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times.
She’s a great cook, and everything I know, I’ve learned from her.
“This needs more basil,” I say, reaching for the spice rack above the stove.
“You always say that.” Mom nudges me playfully. “You don’t need to drown everything in herbs.”
The kitchen hums with activity. Chrissy and her best friend, Stephanie, have taken over the dining table with textbooks and laptops for some group project.
Theo hovers nearby, supposedly helping but mostly stealing glances at my sister when he thinks no one’s looking.
The boy practically lives here nowadays.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Bored out of my skull. Want to do something fun?
I snort and text back. Making spaghetti for everyone. Chrissy and her friends are working on a school project so today might be a bust. Stay away . . . unless you want to fall from the window again.
After stirring the sauce one last time, I grab a stack of plates from the cabinet and begin setting the table, carefully working around mountains of textbooks.
“Can you move your stuff?” I ask, holding a plate over Stephanie’s sprawling notes.
“Just a sec.” Stephanie gathers papers without looking up, her focus entirely on whatever diagram she’s drawing.
A knock sounds at the front door, startling me enough that I almost fumble a glass.
“Chrissy, can you see who it is?” Mom calls from the kitchen sink as she rinses dishes, her hands deep in sudsy water.
“Okay,” my sister replies on autopilot, her eyes glued to the textbook in front of her.
I shake my head. “I’ll get it.”
The knocking comes again, more insistent this time. I make my way to the front door, swinging it open halfway.
My jaw unhinges.
Logan stands on the porch with a smirk and a raised hand like he’s greeting a long-time neighbor. “Morning.”
Panic splashes over me like a bucket of ice water.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, ducking my head outside and scanning the street—no dog walkers, no porch sitters, no Mrs. Henley with her binoculars across the street.
I step outside and close the door but not all the way. “What if someone recognizes you?”
“The coast was clear. I checked.” He says it with the kind of breezy carelessness that makes me want to scream at him for being so reckless.
The muscles in my jaw tighten until I can feel a headache forming. “So, what part of ‘stay away’ don’t you understand?”
I knew it was just a matter of time before he did something stupid like this. He’s a professional boundary-crosser, apparently.
“I wanna try some of your spaghetti.” The dimples on his cheeks make an appearance, as if his charm will somehow mitigate this catastrophic breach of our agreement.
“What happened to rule number two? You can’t just rewrite it without consulting me first.”
“I’m consulting you now.”
I throw my head back with a sigh, ready to strangle him. “That’s not the point. Everybody’s home.”
“Yeah, I thought about it some more,” Logan says, hands in pockets, rocking back on his heels. “I think at least your family should know that I’m here.”
“And how did you arrive at that brilliant conclusion?” I cross my arms over my chest and fix him with my best teacher glare—the one that makes six-year-olds instantly confess any wrongdoings.
“Well, the past few days I’ve heard sounds coming from your house. It’s boring there,” he says, pointing to his house. “It’s much livelier here.” He eyes the door like he’s about to go through it.
I shift to block his path. The last thing I need is for him to saunter into our house like he’s just a regular Joe. “Have you lost your mind? My mom is a gossip queen. If she knows you’re here, the entire town will know by day’s end.”
“If memory serves me right, your mom was always nice. I can just ask her to keep it secret.”
Feeling my headache expand, I put a hand to my forehead. “This is not a good idea at all.”
The door behind me swings open. “The library should have a copy of—“ I hear Chrissy say before she gasps.
Oh no.
I turn to see my sister standing frozen in the doorway, mesmerized. Behind her, Stephanie screams so loud I’m afraid she could alert the entire block.
It takes two seconds for me to lunge inside and clamp my hand over her mouth, giving her a stern look to keep it down. Then I grab Logan, who’s smiling like he’s enjoying himself way too much, and yank him inside before any of our neighbors spot us.
Forget panic. I’m in a full fight or flight mode as I close the front door.
“Umm . . .” Chrissy backs away from us, open-mouthed, her eyes the size of golf balls. “Maisie, care to explain why Logan Humphries is standing in our foyer?”
Stephanie looks like she’s struggling to contain an explosion of colorful fireworks that went off in her body. She tries to form words, with no success.
“What’s going on?” Mom steps into view from the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. “Who’s at the d—“
She doesn’t finish the sentence because her hand flies to her mouth at the speed of someone who has touched a hot stove.
I turn to Logan, furious. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. The jittery anxiety that’s been brewing all week crystallizes into pure, molten rage.
“Oops” is all he manages to say.
This whole situation is a nightmare. Chrissy demands answers with wide, frantic eyes, while Stephanie vibrates with such unconstrained excitement she might actually achieve liftoff from our dining room floor.
Mom, meanwhile, gazes at Logan like he’s a long-lost Hemsworth brother who’s wandered into her kitchen by divine intervention.
The only one maintaining any semblance of composure is Theo, who stands against the wall with arms crossed tightly over his chest, examining Logan with the narrowed eyes of someone who clearly finds him unwelcome.
I shoot Logan my best death glare—but he just smiles that boyish, lopsided grin, his eyebrows twitching once in amusement.
“Can I take a selfie with you?” Stephanie blurts, practically jumping in one spot, her phone already materialized in her hand.
Chrissy’s fingers wrap around my wrist with surprising strength. “Maisie, what is going on?” The confusion in her voice mixes with a dash of accusation, as if I’ve been keeping a great secret from her. Which I have and which makes this commotion all the worse.
A sigh escapes my parted lips. Might as well tell them the truth. At least part of it, anyway.
“Logan here, childhood menace turned pop star sensation”—I emphasize the last word in a tone of displeasure as I continually glare at him—“moved into the Parker house.”
Stephanie instantly latches onto Chrissy’s arm. “You’re neighbors! I’m sleeping over.”
“No one is sleeping over,” I say firmly, “and Logan is leaving.” My pointed look should send him scurrying back to his lair, but he seems immune to social cues.
Mom blinks once, then smooths the front of her apron with both palms, composing herself with the practiced grace of someone who’s just discovered royalty has dropped by for tea.
“Well, it would be rude not to welcome our new neighbor,” she says, her hostess instincts kicking into overdrive. “Would you like some lunch?”
“He just ate,” I lie, attempting to remove him from the premises before this situation spirals further into absurdity.
“I’d like that,” Logan replies, flashing her a grin and—did he just wink at me?!
I spin toward him, whispering through clenched teeth, “This is not a good idea.”
“Relax,” he says. “It’s just lunch.”
The next thing I know, we’re sitting at the table, all of us arranged like we’re filming the season finale of Modern Family, with Logan as the surprise guest star who’s about to upend everyone’s lives.
Stephanie hasn’t stopped fidgeting since we sat down. “So can I please take a selfie with you?” She holds her phone at the ready, screen already switched to camera mode.