Chapter 16
The next week leading up to the Spring Festival flies by in a flurry of overwhelm. Between grading student tests, helping Mom tie pastel streamers at the festival grounds, and nursing Logan back from his fevered zombie state, I barely remember what day it is.
Things remain awkward between Mom and me.
The glacier-sized chunk of ice that formed after I missed festival setup day hasn’t fully thawed.
It doesn’t help that townsfolk stare at me and whisper behind cupped hands every time I show my face at Founders’ Square Park.
They’re convinced I’m in a love triangle with Logan and Victoria Delacroix, and Mom believes I will get hurt again.
After three days of stilted conversations about the arrangement of stalls, I decide to make peace with her. I find my mother at the park tending to tulips near the bandstand.
“Need another set of hands?” I ask.
She glances up, sunshine highlighting the few silver strands in her hair. “Grab another planter.”
“Mom, I’m really sorry about bailing on you. I should have called or texted, at least.”
She continues pressing soil around a yellow tulip.
“I don’t like this wall between us.” I sink to my knees beside her, grabbing a trowel. “You know I’d never intentionally let you down.”
“I’m not angry, Maisie. I’m concerned. You’ve always been a small-town girl, just like me. All this business with Logan can’t end well. Your dad and I don’t even know what to say to our coworkers anymore.”
That’s the thing I hate most about this town. Everyone and their grandmothers seem to be invested in the goings on between Logan and myself beyond what normal social etiquette would dictate. They can all buzz off like the bees swarming the flowerpots for all I care.
“We’ll manage.” Understatement of the century.
“That’s what worries me.” She turns to face me with concerned eyes. “I’d prefer if you didn’t manage anything at all. People like him—they live in a different world. When this town gets too small and he decides to leave, what happens to you?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen between Logan and me, Mom.” The truth is I don’t know how this will end. But we’ve gotten this far, and the wedding is right around the corner. I have to see this through to the end.
“Just be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”
I reach over and squeeze her soil-dusted hand. “Promise.”
She tugs me into a hug that smells like potting earth and her favorite lavender soap. “Now help me finish these planters before the committee meeting.”
The next day, Logan finally gets back on his feet—hallelujah—and he’s back to full strength, at least physically.
I catch him humming whenever he thinks I’m not listening, working on his next hit song.
I could listen to his silky voice all day.
He even insists on helping the festival committee set for the festival at the park.
“Absolutely not,” I say, handing him a glass of water. “Everyone in this town thinks we’re in a forbidden love triangle. If they see you lurking around the cotton candy stand, I can guarantee it’ll be front-page news before the dunk tank fills up.”
“You don’t think I can be stealthy? I once escaped a stadium of fifteen thousand screaming fans disguised as a janitor.”
“And how many janitors do you see around Founders’ Square Park? Here’s a hint”—I make the big “O” sign with my fingers.
At least while Logan has been cooped up at home, the media frenzy has settled down.
No more reporters hiding in bushes on school grounds or questions shouted across the parking lot.
Not even a whiff of Victoria—who, according to Logan, likely received a stern lecture from their label’s publicist for turning a quiet elementary school into a TMZ hunting ground.
I should feel relieved, but honestly, I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing anymore.
The whole pretend-boyfriend scheme spiraled faster than I would have imagined.
I thought we’d last three months without raising alarms. I never meant to land in national gossip columns or duck behind mailboxes to avoid paparazzi with zoom lenses that could probably capture my pores in glorious high definition.
“Everyone will be too busy celebrating spring to notice me,” Logan says as we throw darts in his living room. He’s wearing a flannel shirt today—red checkered with black—his hair naturally tousled, fever days officially behind him. “I’ll blend in.”
“Blend in,” I repeat, watching as he nails another bullseye. “You? Blending in? Your face is on billboards and bedroom posters.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ll keep my head low.” With a salute like that, he might as well have his fingers crossed behind his back.
“It’s not you that I’m worried about.” I squint at the dartboard, holding my breath in an attempt to hit the bullseye at least once before admitting defeat.
My dart lands on the outer rim, and my shoulders deflate faster than a week-old birthday balloon.
“It’s the reporters who’ll turn this entire festival into a tabloid circus if they catch even a whisper of your presence there.
” I turn, pointing a stern finger at him.
“Do not, under any circumstances, make a scene.”
He grins like a boy who fully intends to do the exact opposite.
“I’m serious, Logan. Stay at home.” He doesn’t respond, and I fear my words keep falling on deaf ears.
I’m zipping up my bag, preparing to leave, when Logan says, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He disappears into his bedroom and returns with my leather-bound notebook.
My eyes widen. “I didn’t even realize I’d left it here.”
“There’s some good lyrics in here.” He flips to the middle. “Especially about the boy next door. Very compelling stuff.”
“That’s private!” I run up to him, my hand almost around my notebook when he raises it above his head. Even if I jump, I wouldn’t reach it. “Give it back.”
He then reads, “You changed the song inside my soul . . .”
“Logan!” I punch him in the stomach so hard he folds at the waist, and I easily regain possession of my notebook.
“You got some strength in that skinny arm of yours,” he says in a strained voice.
I clutch it tightly to my chest. “These are my private thoughts, not meant to be read without my permission.”
“I had to keep myself entertained being bedridden and all.” He rubs his stomach as he straightens. “It was a good read. You’ve got talent.”
Coming from him, the compliment soothes my irritation. “Fine, I forgive you. But I won’t do the same if you make a scene at the festival.”
His stance tells me he’s somewhat annoyed. But it’s for the best if he avoids public gatherings . . . at least till the wedding.
***
The day of the Spring Festival finally arrives, and it’s unconventionally hot.
Droplets of sweat gather at my temples before I’ve even finished my morning coffee.
Scowling at my weather app—seventy-six degrees in April?
—I toss on my breeziest rose-pink sundress, slip into well-worn sandals, and head to Mom’s room to help her with last-minute decorations neatly stacked inside labeled boxes.
Weighted down with three boxes of crepe paper and a suspicious number of glue guns, we arrive at Founders’ Square Park to find the place already humming like a beehive that’s been kicked.
Volunteers scramble between half-assembled booths, teenagers test the PA system with feedback that could crack glass, and at least six women from Mom’s book club clutch clipboards with color-coded schedules.
The heavens over the mountainside park are a cloudless blue.
Strings of triangle pennants—citrus orange, cherry red, lake blue—run tree to tree in bright diagonals, fluttering in the breeze.
Beyond them, the Ouachitas rise in layered blues and greens, a calm backdrop that makes every color in the foreground pop.
The air smells of kettle corn and wood smoke, with a sweet edge of spun sugar; a freckled boy shuffles past with cotton candy the size of his head, leaving a trail of glittering pink threads on the breeze.
“Go check on the face painting booth,” Mom says, already walking backward toward a huddle of silver-haired women armed with industrial-sized staplers.
I weave through the growing crowd, dodging children with balloon swords and couples with entwined fingers. Mr. Jenkins catches my eye from his caramel apple stand and waves me over, pressing a glistening treat into my hand before I can refuse.
“On the house,” he insists, his weathered face crinkling at the corners. “For Maplewood Springs’ favorite teacher.”
Three steps later, I’m ambushed by a horde of miniature humans with sticky fingers and wide smiles.
“Ms. Lang! Look at my unicorn face!”
“Ms. Lang! I won second place in the pie-eating contest!”
“Ms. Lang! My tooth fell out on a candy apple!”
I crouch down to admire Penny’s glitter-bombed cheeks, congratulate Mateo on his pie triumph, and suitably marvel at the tiny gap in Lucas’s smile. This feels so good. Nobody’s asking about Logan or whispering as I pass. At this moment, I’m just a first-grade teacher and official tooth-gap admirer.
Near the face painting booth, I spot Chrissy and Theo fluffing Noah’s bunny ears while he bounces in place, desperate to join the kids chasing giant bubbles across the lawn. The replacement artist—a college student with blue hair—applies whiskers to a line of impatient children.
Would Claire be here by now? I quickly scan the crowd, but no luck. The restaurant must be keeping her busy, especially with the festival crowd likely to descend for dinner later. She has been working overtime since her grandmother got sick, trying to keep the place afloat.
I turn toward the central lawn—and freeze. A tall figure cuts through the crowed in a plain hoodie pulled low, paired with—surprise, surprise—the world’s most inconspicuous disguise: baseball cap and sunglasses. Classic Logan.
My ribs seem to contract around my lungs as he approaches. What part of “stay home” did he not understand?