Chapter 20
Idon’t have the courage to voice my apprehension about what we’re doing after escaping with Logan to his home. My stomach twists with unease. If this is what he meant by making his stay here fun—using me to create public spectacles and feeding the rumor mill—I want no part in it.
“I should probably go help my mom wrap up at the festival.” I’ve told more lies in the past few weeks than in my entire twenty-four years of life. The ease with which they tumble off my lips is worrisome. It feels like I’m losing a part of myself each time I tell one.
His smile dims. “You sure? We could order takeout and celebrate our grand escape.”
“Rain check?” I’m in no mood to celebrate. My fingers fidget with my car keys, desperate for a quick exit as anxiety crawls up my spine.
“Sure.” He studies my face a moment too long, like he’s trying to read my exact thoughts. I turn on my heel and don’t give him the chance.
But I don’t go back to the festival. Instead, I go straight home and collapse on my bed.
Exhaustion from running into not one but two people I never wanted to see again has drained me completely.
I bury my face in my pillow and try not to think about the mess waiting for me tomorrow, my mind spinning with worst-case scenarios.
My eyes feel heavy, and I drift into uneasy sleep . . .
The next morning, after tugging on my favorite navy dress—the one with tiny songbirds that always makes difficult days more bearable—I trudge downstairs only to stop dead in the kitchen doorway.
Three solemn faces stare back at me from the dining table.
Mom, Dad, and Chrissy sit arranged like a tribunal, complete with coffee mugs and concerned expressions.
A box of donuts sits strategically placed in the center—the universal Lang family bribe.
I know exactly the meaning of this: an intervention.
I laugh awkwardly, moving toward the coffee pot. Maybe if I act normal, they’ll forget whatever family meeting they’ve planned.
“Honey, we’re concerned.” Mom’s forehead creases with worry lines. “These rumors about you and Logan and Victoria—they’re everywhere.”
Dad raises his coffee mug in a half-salute. “Personally, I think dating a celebrity sounds like a great midlife crisis alternative. Much cheaper than the convertible I’ve been eyeing.”
Mom shoots him a not-the-time-for-jokes look and Dad’s smile fades in a heartbeat.
“I’m fine,” I insist, pouring coffee with slightly shaky hands. “Everything’s under control.”
Chrissy raises her hand, flinging her phone in the air. “You closed all your social media accounts!”
“Temporarily.” I shrug, reaching for a chocolate-glazed donut. Stress eating before 7 AM seems entirely reasonable when your life is spiraling into chaos.
“You’re trending, Maisie.” Chrissy thrusts her phone at me. “#LoganLovesTeacher is literally everywhere.”
My chewing speed increases with each hashtag my sister names. “It’ll blow over. Everything does.”
“Are you sure about that?” Mom pushes her tablet toward me, displaying a gossip site headline: “LOGAN HUMPHRIES’ SMALL-TOWN FLING: WHO IS SHE?”
I stuff the rest of the donut in my mouth like a chipmunk. This is worse than I thought.
“Well,” I begin with a mouth full of sugary dough, “as much as I’d like to stay and chat with my lovely family, I have lessons to teach. Those first graders won’t educate themselves on the magic of subtraction.”
Mom catches my hand on my way out, her touch gentle but firm. “What are you going to do about Logan?”
I take a deep breath and force a smile. “I’m working on it.”
Then I escape to my car before they can ask what that actually means, because the truth is, I have absolutely no idea. Not a single, solitary clue.
I creep past Colton Hayes Elementary in my car like I’m on a covert mission.
Hoodie up. Sunglasses on. Windows rolled halfway down for a peek.
Great, I’ve turned into Logan—hiding from the world behind discount disguises and paranoia.
My first-grade teacher would never recognize this sneaky creature I’ve become.
Sure enough, the media circus remains camped out at the gates, a hungry cluster of cameras and microphones.
Victoria’s dramatic appearance at the Spring Festival really stirred them into a feeding frenzy.
And I didn’t even get a chance to tell Logan how I felt about it all—how the public spectacle is becoming too much for me, how the unwanted attention uprooted my life.
It’s bad enough that I fell for him against every rational thought my neurons produced—the heart really does what it wants—but now I have to muster the courage to break it off before I become another forgotten name on his list of flings.
Principal Hargrove, in all his rigid glory, stands at the front entrance like a lone sentry guarding sacred ground, keeping the thick huddle of reporters at bay, his face pinched into that expression that makes even the bravest of us—teachers and students alike—quake in our pants.
I sink lower in my seat until only my eyeballs are level with the dashboard. My stomach lurches with that same sensation I get when a parent asks why their perfect angel got a B+ instead of an A.
Nope. There’s no way I’m getting out of this car. Not today. I make a slow U-turn at the next stop sign and head back toward the edge of town, fingers drumming the steering wheel to match my heart’s rhythm.
Pulling into a spot near the old hardware store, I grab my phone and call the school.
“Principal Hargrove’s office,” comes the voice of his no-nonsense secretary, Darlene, who I’m convinced moonlights as a drill sergeant somewhere.
“Hi Darlene, it’s Maisie Lang. I’m not feeling well today.” Not technically a lie—I am a little nauseous.
There is a rustling sound, then Hargrove’s gravelly voice takes over the line. “That’s probably for the best.”
I blink twice, my brain needing a moment to process his words. “I’m sorry?”
“The press won’t linger if you’re not around.” The words fall like little pebbles of judgment. “Seems you’re quite the celebrity around here, Miss Lang.”
I never imagined him capable of sarcasm, but it doesn’t lessen the flaming embarrassment I feel. “Thank you for understanding,” I say before hanging up, then heave a sigh so long it could win awards for dramatic exhaling.
How did I get here? My life has turned into some bizarre rom-com I never auditioned for.
One second, I’m grading math quizzes and writing silly songs about friendly frogs for my adorable first graders.
The next, I’m dodging paparazzi and kissing a pop star on a festival stage while the entire town watches.
I’m not built for this kind of drama. My idea of excitement is finding a new flavor of La Croix at Kroger.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I have to tell Logan how I feel. I dial his number.
“Morning, sunshine.” He sounds entirely too cheerful for someone who caused a public disaster yesterday.
“They’re still outside my school.” I make sure the urgency in my voice comes across loud and clear. “It’s a mess. I had to call off work.”
“Come over,” he says, no hesitation. “We’ll talk.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pulling into my driveway, then making the short walk next door, second-guessing myself with each step. Logan’s door stands unlocked. I let myself in.
The smell hits me first—warm maple syrup dancing with vanilla and something citrusy. My steps falter as I enter the kitchen and see what awaits.
Logan’s set the table like some Pinterest-worthy breakfast date.
Pancakes stacked in a golden tower. Freshly squeezed orange juice glowing in crystal glasses I didn’t even know he owned.
Two candles flicker in the center. No one has ever surprised me with a romantic breakfast before, which makes what I plan to say to him that much harder.
He pulls out a chair, looking like he belongs on a breakfast cereal commercial with his messy hair and sincere smile. “We should’ve done this sooner.”
I sit but can’t relax, my shoulders locked like a statue. “Are we doing the right thing?” No point in avoiding this conversation.
As he takes a seat across from me, Logan’s confidence goes out like someone blew out one of the candles. “You’re still thinking about yesterday?”
“How can I not be? This whole love-triangle media frenzy . . . even my job’s on the line now.” My fingers twist the napkin in my lap into a tortured fabric pretzel.
“Don’t worry about it. It’ll blow over.” He says it like it’s supposed to make me feel better.
Would it be inappropriate to throw a pancake at his gorgeous face? “You should be more concerned,” I say. “This is my life we’re talking about.”
He leans forward with a half-smile. “You mean our life?”
I can never tell if he’s serious or not. “Is that what this is?”
“It could be.” He glances at me momentarily before his eyes fall to the pancake he’s cutting into tiny pieces.
“We barely know each other,” I tell him.
“That’s not true,” he says, leaning back against his chair. “We grew up together.”
“I knew you then,” I say, crossing my arms. “But you’re not that kid anymore. You told me so yourself.”
“Then ask me. Whatever you want to know.” His gaze now holds mine, not even a blink.
“Tell me about Victoria.” I force the words out before courage deserts me. “She keeps popping up at the worst times.”
He stiffens, taking a moment before replying. “Ask me anything except that.”
“You always do this.” I push my plate away, appetite vanishing. “You joke your way out of everything. I need to understand what I’m getting into, but you keep dodging.”
His jaw flexes, muscles ticking beneath his stubble. I cross my arms tighter, letting him know he better choose his next words wisely.
“She’s my ex. Is that what you wanted to hear?” His words come clipped and sharp.
Something tells me there’s more to it than he lets on. “Exes don’t just show up at small town festivals. And now there’s talk of a tour?”
“I’m not going on any tour.” I must’ve hit a sensitive spot with all the anger in his tone. “And this has nothing to do with us.”
“You think that makes me feel better?”
He scrapes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Maisie, I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, because I don’t know what the truth is anymore with you.”
He flinches like I’ve struck a deeper emotional chord than I intended. I can tell he has no desire to tell me what’s really between them.
My chair grinds the floor as I stand. “I can’t do this right now.”
Logan rises too. “Maisie—”
But I’m already at the door, hand on the knob. “Just give me space, okay?”
I walk home in a daze, head straight for my room, and slump onto my bed where I stare up at the ceiling.
I wanted this to be simple. Temporary. A harmless game of pretending to get back at my ex. But it’s never just a game when your heart gets involved.
And the worst part? I don’t even know if Logan ever stopped playing. And that terrifies me, because I already know I have.