Chapter 26
“What’s wrong, Ms. Lang?” Lucy’s worried voice pulls me from my daze. “Are you not feeling well?”
I blink at her little face, framed by unruly pigtails that have come partially undone during art period. My red marking pen hovers motionless over her spelling test from last period, the same test I’ve been staring at for twenty minutes without marking a single word.
Sunshine spills across colorful artwork pinned to bulletin boards, but the brightness can’t touch the hollow space behind my ribs.
It’s been nearly a week since Logan left for L.A.
, and though the reporters packed up their circus and followed him there—allowing me to return to school without dodging cameras—I’ve been such a vacant-eyed zombie that even my first graders have noticed.
“Your eyes look all puffy,” Lucy adds. “Like when my mommy watches those commercials with sad puppies.”
My stomach knots. Could I be any more pathetic? Making a seven-year-old worry while I’m supposed to be teaching addition.
With a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me, I set down my pen and rise from my swivel chair. Smoothing my floral skirt, I round my desk and crouch beside Lucy’s table, where her math worksheet sports more doodles than actual numbers.
“I’m fine, just a little . . .” My voice cracks like thin ice on a puddle. What word could possibly describe the sensation of having lost your shot at true love?
Lucy tilts her head, those big brown eyes sizing me up with the unflinching assessment only children can deliver. “You miss Logan, don’t you?”
God bless the magnificent, unfiltered honesty of children. Everyone else—Mom, Chrissy, even Claire—has been telling me how better off I am without him and the chaos he brought to my life. Nobody gets it. Nobody except little Lucy with the rainbow barrettes and chocolate milk stain on her sleeve.
“Just a tiny bit,” I admit, pinching my thumb and index finger together with barely a millimeter between them. A complete and utter lie. I miss him like a garden misses rain.
Lucy giggles, the sound like tiny bells, and for just a heartbeat, the gripping sensation around my chest loosens.
“I think you looked great together in the photos,” she declares with all the confidence of someone whose biggest dilemma is which pudding cup to choose at lunch. “And you both sing well. You should just go see him if you miss him.”
If only it were that simple and life were a playground game of tag instead of this battlefield of impossible choices.
“He’s got a lot on his plate right now,” I tell her gently, guiding her stubby pencil back to problem number six. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”
Deep down I’m convinced he’ll never step foot in this town again.
My life as a teacher feels like it’s returning to normal, at least on the surface.
The rows of little desks with their fidgeting occupants, the steady rhythm of spelling tests and science projects, the predictable bells that divide our days into neat segments—they’ve all reclaimed their rightful place after the tabloid tornado ripped through.
I cling to these routines like a woman who’s found herself suddenly standing on a tightrope, arms outstretched for any semblance of balance.
Principal Hargrove has resumed his usual patrols of the halls without the grimace he wore when reporters camped outside like a flock of scavenger birds.
I even caught a rare smile twitching on his face yesterday—until he spotted me and quickly wiped it off.
The whispers still follow me—parents at pickup, colleagues who suddenly find fascinating things to discuss when I enter the teacher’s lounge, certain board members with their thin-lipped “concerns.” They’ve all seen the photos, read the stories, and formed their opinions about the teacher who briefly ran wild with Logan Humphries before he returned to his natural habitat.
They look at me and see a cautionary tale, a small-town girl who reached beyond her station and got predictably knocked down.
None of them know about the contract, Victoria’s threats, or how I’ve taken to sleeping with my phone turned off so I won’t be tempted to check for messages that never come. And who could blame Logan? I sent him away with nothing but silence.
Each day after school, I do what any rational adult with lovesickness would do—become a permanent fixture on the living room couch, a pint of rocky road ice cream balanced on my stomach, flipping through TV channels like I’m searching for a portal to another life.
The floorboards announce Mom’s approach as she paces by for the third time in ten minutes. Her shadow falls across my blanket before she plants herself directly in my line of sight to the television.
“We should do something,” she says, her voice optimistic. “Get you out of this funk. How about a trip to the hot springs? The weather’s perfect for it.”
Hot springs. I remember it so clearly—how embarrassed I was when he saw my underwear, the sunset gilding his skin, the shape of his abs as my toes grazed his torso.
I pull the blanket higher until it tickles my chin. “Not really in the mood for hot tubs and relaxation.”
“This can’t continue, Maisie.” Mom plants her hands on her hips, channeling the same look she gives Noah when he refuses to eat anything green. “You can’t just eat ice cream and wallow all day. It’s not healthy.”
I excavate another heaping chunk of ice cream. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel a little better.”
Such a lie. Nothing makes me feel better. The ice cream just numbs my taste buds long enough to distract from the hollow ache spreading beneath my breastbone.
With a sigh that speaks volumes about her disappointment in my coping mechanisms, mom retreats to the kitchen.
Back to my mindless TV safari. An infomercial promising abs of steel in just ten minutes a day. Mom’s favorite cooking competition. A sitcom where all problems resolve in twenty-two minutes flat.
Then—because the universe clearly enjoys kicking me when I’m down—I land on a channel with Logan’s name flashing urgently across the screen.
The camera pans in on his face, and I sit up instantly. His dark hair is as disorderly as ever. He’s wearing a fitted black leather jacket over a simple white tee—he looks good.
As the shot widens, Victoria materializes beside him like a conjured demon. Her hand curls possessively around his arm, so proud of herself for having accomplished what she set out to do.
The words “Big Announcement” scroll across the bottom of the screen in block letters, and my heart lurches. I don’t want to know what it is.
My thumb stabs the power button, and I bolt for my bedroom, collapsing onto my mattress. I squeeze my pillow so tightly the seams threaten to come undone.
I should’ve trusted him. Should’ve never let Victoria’s threats wedge between us. I practically gift-wrapped him for her with my fear and retreat.
If this wasn’t real love, it wouldn’t hurt so much. After Andy, I didn’t know I could hurt this much again, but here I am, barely holding on.
I close my eyes, thinking about his laugh, his touch, the way he always looked at me with that smirk.
I’m in love with him. So completely, ridiculously in love that even thinking his name fills me with intense longing, so much so that I curl into a fetal position from the pain of it. I want to see him with every fiber of my being.
Could I fix this? Fly to Los Angeles, tell him everything . . .
No. Victoria would destroy his career out of spite.
But Lucy’s innocent wisdom keeps circling back: If you miss him, just go see him.
Maybe the truth needs to come from me, not Victoria.
Maybe it’s time to risk everything. I should never have lied to Lindsey about having a boyfriend.
I don’t even care what she thinks of me, or what anyone else thinks of me for that matter.
Only the truth can unravel the yarn of deceit I’ve spun since that fateful day at the diner.
A spark of determination lights in my chest, and I sit up, grabbing my laptop to search for the first flight out to Los Angeles.