Chapter 15
Maya
I'm sitting on Harper's back porch with my laptop.
I'm supposed to be working on the festival website, but I'm staring at an email from a tech recruiter in Portland.
The subject line reads "Senior Developer Position - Remote Friendly" and it's been sitting in my inbox for three days, unopened but haunting me like a guilty conscience.
Remote friendly means I could work from anywhere. Including here. Including Willowbridge, if I wanted to make that kind of commitment.
The cursor hovers over the email while my brain runs through all the logical reasons why keeping my options open is smart.
I've been burned by men before. I've been burned by small towns before.
Derek always said I was terrible at knowing what I actually wanted versus what seemed appealing in the moment.
But Lucas asked me to be his girlfriend yesterday, in front of Harper and June, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like we'd already settled the question of what we are to each other.
"You're overthinking again." Harper appears beside me with two cups of coffee, settling into the other porch chair. "I can practically hear the gears grinding from inside the house."
"I'm not overthinking. I'm being practical." I close the laptop without opening the email. "Considering my options."
"What options?"
I gesture vaguely at the computer. "Job opportunities. Career moves. You know, the things adults consider when making life decisions."
Harper raises an eyebrow. "Adults who are trying to talk themselves out of something good, you mean."
"Adults who've learned not to put all their eggs in one basket." I take a sip of coffee, grateful for the caffeine and the excuse to avoid Harper's knowing look. "I'm just keeping doors open."
"Maya." Harper's voice is gentle but firm. "What are you really afraid of?"
The truth is, I'm terrified that this feeling—this sense of belonging, of being cherished, of finally finding my place—is too good to last. That I'll do something to screw it up, or Lucas will realize I'm not worth the trouble, or the whole thing will implode spectacularly in front of the entire town.
"I'm afraid of becoming one of those women who gives up everything for a man and then has nothing left when it doesn't work out," I say finally.
"Is that what you think you're doing?"
"Isn't it?" I set down my coffee cup harder than necessary. "Three weeks ago, I had a plan. Rebuild my career, find remote work, stay mobile and independent. Now I'm designing websites for fall festivals and letting a hot bar owner call me his girlfriend."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's not bad. It's just... permanent. Public. The kind of thing that's hard to walk away from if it goes wrong."
Harper is quiet for a moment, watching a cardinal flit between the trees in her backyard. "You know, when I decided to take the job at the paper, my journalism professors said I was wasting my degree. That small-town newspapers were where careers went to die."
"This isn't about careers."
"Isn't it?" Harper looks at me directly.
"You spent ten years building a life that looked impressive from the outside but made you miserable on the inside.
Now you've found something that actually makes you happy, and you're looking for reasons to run because it doesn't fit the plan you made when you were miserable. "
The observation stings because it's accurate. "What if he changes his mind? What if this is just the novelty of his childhood crush coming home?"
"What if it's not?" Harper counters. "What if this is exactly what it looks like—two people who've loved each other for years finally figuring out how to be together?"
I don't have an answer for that. Or rather, I do, but it's terrifying in its simplicity. What if Harper's right? What if this is just love, uncomplicated and real, and I'm the one making it complex because I'm too scared to believe good things can happen to me?
"The festival's in three weeks," I say instead of answering.
"Yes, it is. And you're going with Lucas. As his girlfriend."
"As his very public girlfriend. In front of the entire town. Including my parents."
"Who are thrilled, by the way. Your mother called me yesterday to ask if Lucas has any food allergies she should know about."
I groan and bury my face in my hands. "She's already mapping out our whole future, isn't she?"
"Probably. But that doesn't mean you have to follow her timeline. You can figure this out at your own pace."
My own pace. The concept feels foreign after weeks of being swept along by circumstances, community expectations, and feelings I'm still learning to trust. It means actually choosing this life instead of just falling into it.
***
The festival planning meeting that afternoon feels like a carefully orchestrated intervention. Mrs. Patterson greets us at the community center with the kind of knowing smile usually reserved for grandparents watching their favorite grandchildren get engaged.
"Maya! Lucas! Perfect timing." She gestures toward the conference table where the usual suspects are gathered. Mr. Peterson with his clipboard, Mrs. Wilson with her decoration samples, and what appears to be half the town council. "We were just discussing the opening dance."
Lucas and I exchange glances. Opening dance exposing. Exactly the kind of thing that makes my palms sweat.
"What about it?" Lucas asks, settling into the chair beside me.
"Well, traditionally, the festival queen and her consort lead the first dance," Mrs. Patterson explains, shuffling through her papers. "But this year, we thought it might be nice to have a more... contemporary approach."
"Contemporary how?" I'm already dreading the answer.
Mrs. Wilson leans forward with barely contained excitement. "We'd like you two to open the dance! As Willowbridge's sweetest love story, you'd be perfect to set the romantic tone for the evening."
The room goes quiet, everyone watching our reaction with the intensity of people watching a tennis match. I can feel heat creeping up my neck.
"That's very flattering," I start carefully, "but—"
"Oh, it would be perfect!" Mrs. Peterson interrupts. "You're both so lovely together, and everyone's been talking about how wonderful it is to see Maya back home where she belongs."
Where she belongs. The phrase should feel warm and welcoming. Instead, it feels like gentle but insistent pressure, like the entire town has decided my life story for me.
"Plus," Mr. Peterson adds with a grin, "it would be great publicity for the bar. Nothing like a good romance to draw crowds."
Lucas's hand finds mine under the table, a steady anchor in the rising tide of community expectations.
"That's incredibly flattering," he says diplomatically, "but we just figured out the boyfriend-girlfriend thing yesterday.
Maybe let us get through our first official date before we become the town's poster couple? "
"Oh, but it's just a dance!" Mrs. Patterson waves her hand dismissively. "Not a marriage proposal. Though," she adds with a wink, "we wouldn't be opposed to one of those either."
The laughter that ripples around the table feels warm but suffocating. These people mean well, I know they do. They're excited to have me back, thrilled to see Lucas happy, invested in our success as a couple. But their enthusiasm feels like a weight I'm not sure I'm ready to carry.
"The thing is," I say, trying to keep my voice light, "Lucas and I just became official yesterday. We're still in that new relationship phase where everything feels fragile."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Wilson declares. "You two have been dancing around each other for weeks. Everyone can see you're meant to be together."
Everyone can see. The phrase sends a little thrill of panic through me, because it means our private moments haven't been private at all.
Every conversation, every touch, every shared glance has been witnessed, catalogued, and discussed by people who care about us but don't necessarily understand the complexity of what we're navigating.
"We'll think about it," Lucas says finally, his thumb tracing reassuring circles on my hand. "The festival's still three weeks away. We have time to decide."
"Of course!" Mrs. Patterson beams. "But don't wait too long. We'll need to coordinate with the band, plan the lighting, maybe get some photos for the newsletter..."
As the conversation moves on to decorations and vendor logistics, I find myself studying the faces around the table. These people aren't just planning a festival—they're investing in our love story like it's a community project. Their expectations feel both wonderful and overwhelming.
Because what happens if we let them down?
The meeting wraps up. Lucas and I walk out into the crisp October air, the sun setting earlier now, casting long shadows across Main Street as we head toward his truck.
"That was..." I start, then trail off, not sure how to finish.
"Intense," Lucas supplies, his hand finding the small of my back as we walk. "They mean well."
"I know they do. That's what makes it so..." I struggle for the right word. "Overwhelming. It's like the entire town has decided we're their personal rom-com and they're all rooting for the happy ending."
"Would that be so bad?" His voice is careful, neutral, but I catch the underlying question.
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes in my purse. Probably Harper checking on how the meeting went, or June wanting to know if we agreed to the opening dance. I almost ignore it, but something makes me glance at the screen.
Unknown number.
My blood turns cold. I haven't gotten a call from an unknown number since Evan's arrest, and seeing those words makes my hands start shaking.
Lucas notices my sudden tension. "What is it?"
I show him the screen, and his expression immediately hardens. "Don't answer it."
But even as he says it, the phone stops ringing and immediately chimes with a text message. From the same unknown number:
Saw the festival planning meeting coverage in the local paper's online preview. How quaint. Save me a dance, Maya. I'll be there to collect what you owe me.
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering onto the sidewalk. Lucas picks it up before I can, his face going deadly pale as he reads the message.
"Bastard." His voice is barely controlled fury. "I thought they were handling this?"
"They filed charges, but he's obviously still out there"
Lucas is already pulling out his own phone, probably to call Sheriff Morrison, but I grab his arm.
"Lucas, the festival." The words come out as a whisper. "If he shows up there, with all those people..."
"He won't." Lucas's voice is granite. "I won't let him anywhere near you."
But I can see the fear in his eyes, the same fear that's currently eating me alive. Because Evan isn't just threatening me anymore. He's threatening our entire community, our festival, our chance at a normal life together.
"What if this is exactly what he wants?" I ask, my voice breaking.
Lucas cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Then we don't let him win. We don't let him steal this from us."
"But if he hurts someone else because of me—"
"Look at me." His voice is fierce, protective. "We're going to handle this. Together. You're not running, and I'm not letting you face this alone."
A car drives past, headlights sweeping over us, and I realize we're standing in the middle of Main Street having this conversation. Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be him.
"I want to go home," I whisper.
"Come on." Lucas wraps his arm around me, shielding me from the street as we walk quickly toward his truck. "We're going to call Morrison, file a report, and then we're going to make sure you're safe."
But as we drive away, I can't shake the feeling that Evan Pierce just turned our love story into something dangerous.