Chapter 21
For the next few days, I voluntarily miss school, which feels like a small rebellion against my normally responsible self.
My phone buzzes every few hours with Logan’s texts—apologies and jokes and little observations about squirrels on his porch that would normally make me smile, but I’m in no mood for his deflecting shenanigans.
Social media has become my personal horror movie. One glance at Twitter—huge mistake—shows #LoganLovesTeacher still trending, with strangers debating whether I’m a clout-chaser or Logan’s secret muse. Both theories make my stomach churn like I’ve swallowed a blender.
At night, my Kindle becomes my escape. I dive headfirst into romance novels where fictional relationships keep me distracted from the messy situation I’ve created.
My latest obsession, Fake Skating by Lynn Painter, follows me everywhere—to breakfast, to the bathroom, even to the dinner table until Mom confiscates it with a pointed look.
“This isn’t blowing over, sweetie,” Mom says every morning, the newspaper spread open to yet another gossip column mentioning my name.
Dad keeps clearing his throat and asking if I need to talk to someone professional, as if I’m in need of a shrink.
Even Chrissy, who should be my ally, corners me in the hallway with screenshots of Logan’s ex-girlfriends. “Just saying, all these women have something in common, and it’s not their natural hair color.”
Would it be wrong to fake my own death? Could I start over in Wyoming with a new identity and a small alpaca farm?
The worst part isn’t the prying or the gossip or even Principal Hargrove’s daily voicemails asking when I’ll return.
It’s the inconvenient, persistent heart-flutter whenever Logan’s name lights up my screen.
My traitorous pulse quickens reading his “good morning” texts at 8 a.m. Despite my best efforts to smother these feelings with logic and ice cream, they refuse to fade.
This can’t be real. Shouldn’t be real. After Andy’s wedding, Logan will go back to world tours and supermodels, while I’ll return to alphabet songs and glitter glue. It feels like our realities exist in separate universes.
So I read. And read some more. Stories where the fake relationship magic works, where pretending leads to forever. My Kindle battery goes out at least once a day from overuse.
By Friday night, while buried under blankets hiding from yet another family meeting about my “celebrity status,” the truth hits me harder than the softball in fifth grade that knocked out my baby tooth: I’m not avoiding the world because I’m embarrassed or overwhelmed—though holy macaroni, am I ever both.
I’m hiding because facing Logan means facing feelings that terrify me more than all the paparazzi lenses combined.
When Saturday arrives, I realize I can’t hide in romance-novel worlds forever, no matter how much safer they feel than my own unwritten ending. Still, it’s not until afternoon that I come out of my room, knowing that Chrissy is at Theo’s and Dad took Noah to swimming practice.
“I don’t like this,” Mom says, towel-drying a coffee mug aggressively.
I shuffle into the kitchen, sleep still clinging to my eyelids, and head straight for the fridge. My bare feet stick slightly to the hardwood floor with each step. “Good morning to you too, Mom. What exactly don’t you like? My pajamas? The weather? The state of democracy?”
“Don’t be smart.” She sets the mug down with a decisive clink. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Ah, yes. Why not ruin my breakfast with commentary on my love life. Your new morning routine.” I reach for the jar of peanut butter and twist the lid off, scooping a tablespoonful and savoring the nutty delight.
The air feels thinner, like Mom’s disapproval is taking up all the available oxygen. Through the window, our backyard looks deceptively peaceful—birds chirping, dandelions dancing in the breeze, the world carrying on like mine isn’t imploding in spectacular fashion.
“Maisie, I’m dead serious. It’s not just your life anymore. You’ve dragged your job, this town, and, frankly, me into it.”
I spread grape jelly over my toast in broad, furious strokes. Logan’s dismissive words echo in my head: It’ll blow over.
Yeah, right. Just like that blizzard blew over last year and took half the town’s power lines with it.
“Mom, all I want is some peace and quiet so I can think straight.” My knife clatters against the plate. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Not the reporters, nor the social media stuff—none of it.”
“Then why did you kiss him at the festival?” Her eyebrows arch high.
“If I remember correctly,” I say cheekily, “you were the one who made me go up on that stage.”
“Well, it was supposed to be a kiss on the cheeks. You could have pushed him away.” Mom reaches for her phone and scrolls, her lips pursed in the universal expression of mothers who’ve just found evidence to support their argument. “Have you seen what they’re saying about you?”
“Don’t want to hear it, Mom.” I shake my head so hard my brain rattles.
Too late. She reads anyway, inflecting each quote with increasingly dramatic emphasis. “‘She’s just using Logan for clout.’ ‘Maplewood’s own Yoko Ono.’ ‘Pretty sure she’s just another rebound.’” She pauses, squinting at the screen. “Oh. This one has memes.”
Wonderful. I’ve evolved from a first-grade teacher to an internet meme. My college degree is really paying off.
The peanut butter grape jelly toast sits forgotten in my hand as I walk—no, flee—from the kitchen and up the stairs. My appetite has been replaced by a ball of anxiety large enough to choke a horse.
“Maisie!” Mom follows, her slippers flapping. “They know where your apartment is—they even named your school.”
I stop in my doorway and turn to face her. My pulse ticks in my ears, a tiny time bomb of frustration counting down. “That’s why I’m taking a few days off, so I don’t make things worse for the kids.”
She crosses her arms, maternal concern cloaked in judgment. “It’s not going to end well. And I’ll be the one picking up the pieces while you mope around the house like you did after Andy.”
The mention of his name sends fire racing through my veins. If my blood ran hot seconds ago, it’s nuclear now. “You wanna know why I didn’t leave my room for days? You wanna know why I could only fall asleep after exhaustion set in from crying all day? He cheated on me, Mom. With Lindsey!”
I slam the door shut with such force the family photos on the wall rattle. With a trembling hand pressed to my chest, I try to slow my shaky breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
I need to get out of here. Figure out what to do. Preferably somewhere without an audience.
Yanking open my closet door, I pull out a duffle bag and start tossing clothes into it—jeans, tops, my favorite green sweater with the loose sleeves I like to disappear into when the world gets too loud.
As I struggle into a pair of jeans, a soft knock rattles the door. “I’m sorry, honey.” Mom’s voice has lost its judgmental edge. “Why didn’t you tell me about Andy?”
Guilt nibbles at my resolve. Because I was ashamed? Because admitting it made it real? Because I didn’t want anyone looking at me with those sad, pitying eyes.
With the duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I open the door and say. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know. And I didn’t want you to worry.”
She throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon rolls. “I’m always worried about you. You’ll understand when you have your own children one day.”
Chances of that are dwindling with each passing day. If recent social media hostility is any indication, it’s just a matter of time before no eligible man in this town will want to associate with a gold digger.
Mom pulls away and her eyes fall on my bag. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my place.”
Her brows pinch together like worried parentheses. “Maisie, the reporters—“
“They’ll be gone. It’s been days.” I hoist the bag higher.
“You don’t know that.”
I can’t tell her that I’m in love with Logan. She’d flip. “I can’t think here, Mom, and I need to figure out what to do about all this.”
Her face softens for a heartbeat. “How long?”
I push past her, avoiding eye contact. “A couple days. Maybe more.”
She doesn’t follow me out this time.
On the drive to my apartment, I ruminate on the argument with Mom. Her concern. Her fear. Her biting words. I hate fighting with her. I hate feeling like I’ve disappointed her.
But I can’t live my life based on her fear of the worst-case scenario. It’s my life. If it crashes and burns, it should be because of my decisions—not because I let everyone else make them for me.
I turn into the narrow lot in Unity Grove, a red-brick, two-story apartment complex that’s walking distance to school. The familiar sight of my second-floor unit with its drooping spider plant in the window should feel comforting. Instead, the hair on my arms stands at attention.
Glancing around cautiously, I step out of my car and sprint down the sidewalk when something rustles in the bushes nearby, making me stop in my tracks.
Three reporters leap out from behind the hedges. Two more emerge from nearby parked cars. Before I can even move a muscle, there’s a flash of lights, a sea of microphones, and a wall of voices all around me.
“Maisie! Over here!” one reporter shouts, thrusting a recording device at my face.
“Did Logan propose?” asks another, his camera clicking rapidly.
“Are you in a love triangle?”
“Are you pregnant?”
I clutch the strap of my duffel bag with both hands like I’m holding on for dear life. Then my vision narrows as bodies and cameras close in. I can’t breathe. The air feels thin, like I’m gulping through a straw.
The questions keep flying, fast and loud.
I try to defend myself by saying something—anything—but my voice fails me.