Chapter 29
It’s the end of May, and as I stare out my bedroom window at the shadows of clouds sailing across rooftops, all I can think is that I’ll never see him again. Not after what I did.
Two weeks since Los Angeles. Two weeks since I grabbed that microphone on stage and exposed the lie we were living.
My family thought I had turned to the dark side after they saw my little stunt on the news, so I had to come clean.
No more lies or half-truths. I told them about our silly contract, Victoria’s blackmail, and my desperate attempt to protect Logan’s career.
Dad just muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . .” while Chrissy squeezed my hand so tightly, I nearly lost feeling in three fingers.
But it was Mom’s reaction that moved me to tears.
She just looked at me with pride and hugged me dearly, and I told her how sorry I was.
Since then, they’ve collectively decided to treat my notorious public debut with the delicacy of handling a room-temperature soufflé.
Chrissy confiscated my phone after catching me doom-scrolling through #MaisieMistake tweets past midnight.
Mom brings home my favorite pastries and pretends like nothing has happened.
Dad awkwardly pats my shoulder whenever we pass each other in the house.
The last days of school drag like a snail towing a cinder block.
In my classroom—now emptied of crayon masterpieces and alphabet charts—I put away supplies while my students dash about, summer-vacation energy rendering them practically radioactive.
Lucy, my blunt truth-teller, hugs me and says, “Don’t be sad, Ms. Lang, it will all be okay,” before skipping away to play with the others.
Inside my purse sits an ivory envelope with the invitation to the wedding I need to face in exactly one week.
Andy and Lindsey’s names swirl across gold-embossed cardstock like a taunt.
I trace the wedding date with my fingertip, wondering how I’ll manage congratulating them when the entire town has watched me spectacularly crash and burn on national television.
At night, I wonder if the whole country has already moved on to fresher scandals. Perhaps I’m yesterday’s old news, replaced by some politician’s indiscretion or celebrity baby name. Hope springs eternal in the heart of a woman desperate to become forgotten.
Logan’s silence is what haunts me most. No calls. No texts. Nothing since I told him not to follow me. His voice echoes in my memories, the laugh that would bubble up unexpectedly, the way he’d hum in the kitchen, the little dimple in his cheeks when he smiled.
I have no one to blame but myself, though.
I should have never agreed to fake anything with Logan.
None of this started with Andy or Lindsey; it started with me, with the lie I blurted out in Granny Jo’s diner out of nothing but bruised pride.
Who would have thought one reckless lie would snowball into the biggest heartbreak of my life?
Chrissy keeps telling me I should write a song about this. “Turn heartbreak into art,” she suggests, quoting something she read in a magazine. I considered it until I realized every lyric would just be his name repeated with different punctuation: Logan? Logan! Logan . . .
Every day leading up to the wedding is the same.
In the mornings, I put on a brave face, tossing my hair into a messy bun, slapping on some mascara, pretending the swelling under my eyes is just allergies.
In the afternoons, after Mom leaves for work or errands, I curl up in bed with a pint of rocky road, the TV droning in the background.
I cycle through the same few shows, none of which I actually watch, and let my mind wander to memories of him.
At night, I press my face into my pillow and let the loneliness settle over me, heavy and familiar, until it feels like a second skin.
The calendar above my desk seems to mark the days of its own accord until Saturday, June tenth. Wedding day.
I slide open my closet door and run my fingers along the dress Logan bought for me—a soft shimmering navy blue that glows from all angles in the presence of light.
It catches the afternoon sun now, scattering glints of silver across my room like tiny stars fallen from some celestial ball.
The memory of the boutique store seems so distant now but pleasant, like I’m in my golden years looking back at my life’s greatest hits.
By late afternoon, I’m fully dressed—makeup hiding the remnants of a long week of insomnia, hair tucked neatly into an elegant updo Mom helped me style. She worked her fingers through my stubborn waves, humming softly the way she used to when I was little.
Once everyone is dressed, we drive downtown to the Lakeside Garden Banquet Hall, one of the prettiest buildings in Maplewood Springs with sprawling white columns resembling ancient Greek architecture and vintage lanterns adorning the entrance.
The building stands aglow in purple and pink as we pull up.
One by one, guests are filing in—ladies in colorful dresses teetering on high heels, men tugging at ties that seem too tight in the Arkansas humidity. My grip on the small clutch tightens, fluttering in my stomach intensifying as we approach the entrance.
“You ready?” Chrissy asks, walking by my side.
I take a deep breath and nod. Not because I feel ready, but because there’s no other choice. I need to own up to my recent life choices.
Inside, we join the line to greet the newlyweds and drop an envelope into the ornate gold chest resting on the side table next to them. My heart tap-dances against my ribs with each step forward.
Mom hugs Lindsey and Andy first, her smile warm and genuine. She’s always been better at these social niceties than I have, knowing exactly what to say and how to say it.
Then it’s my turn.
I force a bright smile as Lindsey reluctantly pulls me into a hug.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her, and I mean it. Her ivory gown fits like a dream, the lace sleeves delicate against her skin, and happiness in her eyes gives her a glow no cosmetics could ever duplicate.
“Thanks,” Lindsey says, smoothing her hand over the beaded bodice. “It was custom made.”
A moment of silence passes, and I know it’s now or never. My rehearsed congratulations evaporate like morning dew.
“Lindsey,” I say, both of us stepping to the side. “I owe you—”
She cuts me off, grasping my arm. “Are you okay? I saw what happened in L.A.”
For the first time in a long while, I find the courage to be honest. “I never had a boyfriend. The whole thing was a lie because I panicked seeing you at Granny Jo’s. I was still hurt and definitely not ready to face you.”
Lindsey takes my hands in hers, her wedding ring catching the light. “I don’t know if we can ever go back to the way we used to be,” she says, her voice breaking a little, “but I’m sorry, too. We liked each other and we were afraid to tell you.”
We hug, and it feels like stitching up an old wound that never quite healed right. When we pull back, we’re both laughing through tears like we should’ve done this long ago.
“No more crying,” Lindsey says, wiping under her eyes. “It’ll ruin our makeup.”
Laughing with her feels like breathing clean air after being underwater too long.
After the greetings, we settle into our seats.
The hall is breathtaking: chandeliers dripping with crystal beads, tables adorned with ivory linens and towering arrangements of blush roses and hydrangeas, chairs wrapped in satin bows.
The guests take their assigned seats, and it seems like everyone, and their grandmother was invited—probably because everyone’s grandmother actually was invited. Small towns operate like that.
The appetizer table stretches from wall to wall, Ashford Natural Foods’ signature three-tiered displays create edible art.
Tiny cream puffs nestle beside prosciutto-wrapped melon, and chocolate-dipped strawberries form a perfect circle around a flowing chocolate fountain.
Only the sponsors of Blitz Kitchen would manage to turn finger food into something made for cameras.
The newlyweds spared no expense, but why should they? It’s their once-in-a-lifetime day. The thought tugs at my heartstrings, but less than I expected.
When the guests settle in, and after I’ve sampled at least six tiny pastries in the name of emotional recovery, the DJ’s voice booms through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Andy Whitmore!”
We all rise, clapping and cheering as Andy and Lindsey make their entrance, smiling wide, hands clasped tightly together.
Andy’s eyes never leave her face, and something inside me releases its grip.
Maybe this is how it was always supposed to be.
They look great together. I’m genuinely happy for them.
Dinner is a slow parade of deliciousness, with tiny cups of rich mushroom soup, fresh garden salads, and a main course that looks like a Southern feast of epic proportions—buttery mashed potatoes, crispy fried chicken, steaming dumplings, collard greens, and corn on the cob so sweet it could have been dessert.
Reconciling with Lindsey brought back my appetite, and I eat more than I have in weeks.
The best man and maid of honor give their speeches, funny and heartfelt in turns, and then the dance floor is cleared for the newlyweds’ first dance. Chairs scrape back as everyone crowds around to watch.
The opening chords of “Amazed” by Lonestar float through the speakers, a perfect choice that makes all the aunties clutch their chests.
Andy and Lindsey sway together under the chandeliers, lost in each other. The way he looks at her, the way she smiles back—it’s everything I ever wanted.
And it’s everything I lost.
Like a dam bursting open, memories of Logan pour into my mind, and I look away from the dance floor as my eyes well with tears, wishing with all my heart that he was here with me. I don’t think I can stay here much longer, pretending I’m okay.
When the song ends and Andy and Lindsey take their seats at the main table, I rise from my chair, ready to slip away before the heartache becomes unbearable. One quick goodbye should do it, then I can cry in peace at home with a pint of ice cream and reality TV.
The DJ’s voice crackles to life once more. “Ladies and gentlemen, and now, we have a special surprise for the newlyweds.”
Mom tugs insistently on my dress to sit down. I guess I can wait a little while longer.
“I’ve been asked to keep this a secret,” the DJ continues, his voice slipping into that radio-announcer excitement that promises something big.
I glance at Andy and Lindsey, their eyebrows raised in twin expressions of delighted confusion.
“Our next performer needs no introduction,” the DJ says.
The lights dim. Chatter quiets. The house lights shift to an inky blue and the crowd tilts forward, their heads craning in unison to peek at the side entrance of the stage like a field of flowers swaying in the wind.
Logan steps onto the stage in a navy tuxedo, guitar slung over his shoulder, his hair artfully disheveled.
The breath-seizing astonishment from seeing him grace the stage doesn’t wear off until Mom cradles my hand in hers, and then I hear it: the screeching squeals of the enraptured teenage girls lining the stage that restart my lungs, the rising cheers as every phone in the room points at Logan.
If happiness was a sticker chart, I’d give this moment all the gold stars. His smile stretches wide and genuine, dimpling the cheeks I’ve missed like crazy.
The room explodes into an ever higher-pitched wave of shrieks and howls, whistles and woos that feels more like the start of a concert than a wedding reception.
The teenage girls in the crowd are practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on their toes, clutching their phones to their chests as they scream Logan’s name.
Through the blur of movement and sound, I catch Lindsey’s gaze across the dance floor. Her hand is pressed over her heart, her face radiant, her eyes shining as she mouths a silent thank you to me.
I can hardly comprehend it. Sure, she’d asked me weeks ago if Logan could sing at her wedding, but after everything that’s happened between us, I never thought for a second he would actually come, let alone perform.
And yet—there he is, standing under the soft glow of the chandeliers, looking devastatingly handsome, like he’s walked straight out of my dreams.
I follow Mom and Chrissy to the back of the densely packed dance floor; it’s the only spot left with a little bit of room.
Logan adjusts the microphone stand and leans in, flashing that boyish smile I love so much.