Chapter 11
The following week with Logan passes in a flurry of excitement.
Each day after I get off work, he waits for me at my doorstep wearing some version of a poor man’s disguise and every time I see him, I’m less worried about people recognizing him and more concerned someone will call the cops on the suspicious man loitering in large sunglasses and a hoodie.
Monday brings a black baseball cap pulled low, mirrored aviators, and a scarf wrapped around his lower face despite the warm spring weather.
Tuesday features a fishing hat with a ridiculously wide brim that casts his entire face in shadow.
By Wednesday, he’s added another fake mustache that keeps slipping off one side when he talks on our way to golf.
Maplewood Mini Golf becomes a showcase of Logan’s competitive streak and creative excuses. By the ninth hole, I’ve crushed him by nine strokes, and his explanations grow increasingly desperate.
“It’s definitely the wind,” he insists, watching his neon orange ball roll pathetically short of the windmill. Not a single leaf stirs on the brush surrounding us.
I give my ball a slight tap, and it rolls smoothly through the windmill and into the hole. “What wind would that be, exactly?”
“The spiritual wind.” He waves his hands mystically. “You can’t see it, but it’s there, manipulating my ball.”
“Right.” I mark my scorecard. “Is that the same wind that’s helping me destroy you right now?”
Logan narrows his eyes, pointing his club at me. “You never mentioned you were a mini-golf shark.”
Thursday brings us to one of the shorter Ouachita trails, where halfway through the loop, Logan collapses onto a fallen log, chest heaving like he’s performed three consecutive concerts.
“This is it,” he gasps, flinging one arm over his eyes. “This is how Logan Humphries dies. Not in a blaze of glory or crowd-surfing at Madison Square Garden, but defeated by a moderate incline in Arkansas.”
“Should I call for help?” I peer down at him, hands on my hips. “Maybe a bald eagle could airlift you back to civilization?”
He peeks at me from under his arm. “I couldn’t leave you here all by yourself. You’d miss me too much.”
There goes another wink. Unbelievable.
Monday morning, as I walk out the door for work, I nearly trip over a brown package sitting on the welcome mat. It’s from Briar it’s as if the reporters aren’t even there. Her eyes, hidden behind oversized designer sunglasses, seem laser-focused on me.
Oh no. No, no, no. The hairs on my neck stand on end from a cold shiver running the length of my back.
My teacher instincts kick in, and I try to take advantage of the momentary distraction. I begin herding my wide-eyed students toward the school entrance, whispering, “Line up, sweethearts, just like we practiced. Quick as bunnies now.”
But then I hear it—the distinctive click of stiletto heels against concrete getting louder and louder, until she stands inches from my face.
Her perfume is sweet, straight blonde hair falling like a curtain of glass past her collarbones, framing her rosy cheekbones, her bright red lipstick a jarring contrast to her otherwise pale complexion.
She looks like a doll, and I suddenly feel inadequate in her presence.
Next to her, I’m the most forgettable thing on the school grounds, a beige wall next to a Renaissance painting.
“So you’re the one,” Victoria says, arms crossed over her pristine white blouse. I can’t see her eyes, but judging by her tone, she must be glaring at me.
My throat constricts. “Umm . . .”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” she snaps, removing her sunglasses to reveal gray eyes. I was right—there is poison in them.
Her voice drops to a near-whisper, but it’s still sharp enough to slice through my rapidly fraying nerves. “Are you dating Logan or not?”
The way she says his name drips with possessiveness. If words could mark territory, she’d have just planted a flag right in front of me.
I blink rapidly, struggling to keep my expression neutral while my mind races through possible responses.
I can’t exactly blurt out that it’s all fake, that there’s a ridiculous contract sitting in Logan’s drawer.
If she finds out, it’ll ruin everything—and probably trigger an actual publicist meltdown somewhere in L.A.
“Classes are about to start. Excuse me.” I turn toward the entrance. Did I just dismiss the biggest pop idol in the country? Why couldn’t I think of anything better to say? Where’s my snappy comeback when I need it?
She huffs, clearly offended by my lack of star-struck groveling, but before she can slice me to ribbons with a reply, a reporter comes to my rescue.
“What brings you to Maplewood Springs, Victoria?” he shouts.
“Are you and Logan still a thing?” another calls out, thrusting a microphone forward.
“Are you collaborating on a new album?” a woman in a blazer asks, pushing to the front.
I seize the opportunity and scurry away, funneling my students inside as quickly as possible.
“Let’s go, everyone, inside now,” I murmur, guiding small shoulders.
“No, Liam, we do not high-five the cameraman,” I intercept a tiny hand mid-air.
Once we’re safely in our classroom, I drop into my chair behind the desk, my legs shaking.
The kids are abuzz, of course, whispering excitedly and casting glances toward the window every three seconds.
Lucy, her dark pigtails bouncing with excitement, leans forward. “Was that Victoria Delacroix?” she says, her eyes huge. “I love her! My big sister has all her songs!”
“Are you friends with her?” Aiden asks, already halfway out of his seat, trying to peer through the window for another glimpse of a celebrity.
I smooth my trembling hands on my skirt, channeling every ounce of calm-adult-in-charge energy I can muster. “No, I’m not friends with her. She’s just . . . passing through town.” The half-truth tastes bitter on my tongue.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of Victoria strutting back toward her limousine. A moment later, the sleek car drives away, leaving nothing behind but tire tracks and scrambling reporters. Several of them jump into their vans, no doubt to chase after her.
“Show’s over, kiddos,” I say, clapping my hands once with forced cheerfulness. “Let’s focus. We’ve got a big day ahead, and addition isn’t going to solve itself.”
They groan collectively but settle into their seats. For a fleeting second, I almost believe things might return to normal. “Let’s start with some music to get our brains working.”
My mind refuses to quiet down. How did the reporters find out about Logan and me? Did someone recognize him despite those ridiculous disguises? Did a neighbor see something? Did my mom let something slip at her book club? No—she promised.
I try to shake off the worry, distributing rhythm sticks and prepping the kids to tap out the beat to our “Welcome Spring” song.
“Let’s keep a steady beat, just like this,” I say, tapping gently on the small cymbals, trying to ignore the tension headache blooming in my skull.
We’re barely two measures into our rhythm exercise when the classroom door swings open.
Principal Hargrove stands in the doorway, frown lines etched so deep into his forehead they could qualify as canyons.
He doesn’t even blink at the sight of nearly two dozen first-graders frozen mid-tap with rhythm sticks poised in the air like tiny conductors.
His eyes snap to mine, and I know I’m in trouble. “Miss Lang,” he says through his teeth, his voice laced with restrained fury, “a word, please.”