3. Gabe
Gabe
My heart sank.
Today would not be a good day.
Yesterday’s encounter was only the beginning. I couldn’t even face my mom. Undoubtedly, she’d seen the videos of my epic blind date gone bad.
I was both amused and horrified by the incident.
On the one hand, half the town had seen that shitshow in person, and the rest had probably seen it online. It was embarrassing, sure, but more than that, that moment had cracked my mayor facade a little. I was in hot water as it was. Adding judgment regarding my image would not help.
On the other, it had been fun to let go a bit. To say what I really thought without worrying about the reaction.
Sabrina did that to me. She made me forget myself. The good guy. The mayor.
She turned me into a petty, nasty jerk.
It was nothing to be proud of.
Yet it was freeing.
Day after day, I lived my life under a small-town microscope. I had to be good. Perfect, really. Never angry, never sad, and never, ever tired.
For a few short minutes last night, I’d forgotten all of that.
I’d done what I wanted.
Said what I wanted.
Consequences be damned.
And it had been fun.
I hadn’t guarded myself or obsessed over the right way to respond. The universe had given me a few honest moments.
Now I’d returned to reality.
I pushed a stack of papers off the counter. I’d clean eventually. But I was tired and my tiny house was mine.
No one crossed the threshold. No one invaded my sanctuary.
Out there, I had to be perfect.
In here. I could let my guard down. Which usually meant leaving things where they landed and getting so far behind on laundry that I ordered more socks and underwear online rather than throw a load into the washer.
Propping myself up against the counter, I sighed. What I wouldn’t give to run away. But I was the good boy. The valedictorian. Despite what Sabrina said, I’d earned that title.
And yes, I’d stayed in Vermont. I’d gone to college and law school at UVM so I could help on the farm on the weekends. And I’d spent my life being the good big brother and the son my parents could be proud of.
After school, I set up my law practice in town, kept my life small.
But I was tired. Burned out.
Was it normal to feel this way at only thirty-five?
Like my life was over? Like I was trapped by my decisions?
Probably not.
Josh would tell me to go to therapy. He’d left New York and his big finance career to return home and keep the farm going. To preserve our family’s land and the history for future generations.
He was a better person than me.
He’d gone out and lived, yet he’d still chosen his path.
Had I chosen mine?
I’d just kept walking in a straight line, blinders on, certain I was doing the right thing. Letting my conscience and my responsibilities lead me.
But had my obsession with being the good guy blinded me? Fenced me in? Kept me from discovering who I was and what I really wanted?
I couldn’t unpack all of that right now. Though I knew one thing for certain, I wanted to stay far, far away from Sabrina Monroe.
Given how shitty life around here had gotten since Will McManus’s death, since our town had earned a terrible reputation, being in her proximity would only make thing worse.
She and I did not get along. Never had. Never would.
I disliked her. It was an odd sensation for me, but it was true.
From the time I was a boy, my mom had taught me to see the good in everyone. To provide kindness and support and to be empathetic to those who may be struggling.
But Sabrina? I couldn’t do it.
She was rich and successful and did whatever she wanted whenever she wanted.
She didn’t deserve my compassion.
Was I a bit jealous? Sure.
I’d love a fresh start, complete with a prestigious job that came with all kinds of incentives, a fancy car, and the ability to move anonymously through a city.
Here in Maplewood, I couldn’t leave my house without plastering on a big smile. Couldn’t not pet a dog or help a citizen with their groceries.
I shook my head. What was happening to me? Where had all this negativity come from? I’d never experienced a sensation like this before.
My job and my position in this community were blessings. Wonderful opportunities I cherished.
It was the stress weighing on me since we’d been informed that we’d lost the Maple Festival. And knowing that I was facing the firing squad tonight.
It was only five thirty a.m., but I texted Logan anyway. He had animals to care for. He’d be up.
Gabe
Wanna train?
He responded within minutes.
Logan
Course. Bottle feeding a calf I delivered a couple of hours ago. Meet you in 30 min?
Though Logan Becker had been one of my closest friends since childhood, we were opposites in every way.
Where I wore pressed suits, he was usually dressed in work pants with some kind of bovine or ovine excrement on them.
The man loved animals. Always had. As a veterinarian, he managed a small clinic in town while also taking on most of the large animal work throughout the county.
He worked more hours than anyone I’d ever met, yet he was the epitome of laid-back.
Happy-go-lucky. His farm was small and he was renting from an older citizen of Maplewood, but it allowed him the space to keep the animals he’d rescued and a lot of his equipment.
Once I’d changed and brushed my teeth, I headed to the small gym I’d set up in my garage.
It was equipped with heavy bags, weights, mats, and several other essentials.
A trip to the gym in town was out of the question.
Shortly after I was elected, I’d tried, and I was stopped every few minutes by constituents who wanted to chat.
Who asked questions and needed things from me.
My house was the one place where I could function without being hounded constantly.
So Logan would jog over and we’d work out together, usually early in the morning.
I’d been an anxious mess since the call had come in late on Friday afternoon. Vermont was filled with Maple Syrup, but there was only one official State Maple Festival every year.
It had been held in Maplewood for thirty years. It was the event. Most folks here spent all year preparing for it. The inn booked up a year in advance, and in the past, dozens of magazine articles and a few film crews had celebrated the magic of it.
I’d attended the festivities every year for nearly my entire life. My parents and my grandparents before them had farmed maple trees. I’d grown up trudging through the March snow to collect sap and boiling it in the sugar shack to make syrup.
We’d lived on the land, and every aspect of our lives revolved around it and its trees.
When my parents had retired so they could spend a good portion of the year in Florida, they sold the land to Josh, my cousin and the owner of the neighboring farm. These days, our entire family worked to support the operation.
And I was mayor.
Making decisions. Influencing policy. Keeping my hometown safe and prosperous.
That had been my goal, at least.
But I’d failed.
And in a matter of hours, the whole population would know.
Citing “controversy,” the state had pulled our permit to host the festival and given it to Birch Hollow.
The devastation would be widespread. The last year had been hard for all of us. Several local businesses were struggling and home values had gone down for the first time since they started keeping these records in the 1950s.
And it had happened on my watch.
Logan opened the door, his long hair pulled into a bun on the top of his head, and said “you look like shit” in greeting.
“You smell like shit,” I replied, nodding at the mat he used for stretching.
While his observation was figurative, mine was literal.
“Hey. I brought a life into this world,” he argued. “And you…” His lips quirked. “If Facebook is to be believed, you got hit with a taco in front of half the town.”
A deep laugh rumbled out of me.
He joined in. “I’m sleep deprived,” he said, rolling onto his back, still giggling. “What’s your excuse?”
I rubbed my eyes. “Same. And stressed.”
“Saw the Jeep in the driveway. I take it the rumor that Betsy totaled it isn’t true?”
“No,” I said. “Just a blown tire. I changed it. But the rim is dented.”
“Shit.”
I shook my head. “It’s fine. Within an hour, Frankie texted to tell me that she’d ordered a new one.”
He scoffed. “Frankie hates you.”
“She hates everyone, but she doesn’t hate cars.”
We stacked plates and started our workout, and for a while we mostly communicated through nods and grunts.
But Logan, despite his many good qualities, was a talker.
“Did you talk to Nolan?”
I finished my set and sat up on the bench. “About what?”
“Pressing charges, of course. Assault with a deadly taco.” Grinning, he snagged another set of dumbbells. “Ooh, or attempted manslaughter.” His face lit up. “Get it? Man-slaw-ter?” He fell into another fit of laughter.
Groaning, I gave him the finger. Then I focused on my next set.
“You know how much I love a good pun.” He was especially giggly today.
“Have you slept?” I asked.
Logan had a tendency to work for more than twenty-four hours straight and forget about basic human needs like eating and sleeping.
“Not yet. When we’re done, I’ll go home and inhale a six-egg omelet, then crash for a while.”
“Town meeting tonight,” I reminded him.
“Oh, I know.” His dark brows rose practically to his hairline. “I’ve gotten almost as many texts about it as I have about your taco assault shame. Was it really Sabrina Monroe?”
The name lit a spark inside me. One of irritation. Mostly. But there was another strange sensation flickering along with it. “Yes.”
He shook his head. “Haven’t laid eyes on her in probably fifteen years. How random.”
I huffed out a breath. “She doesn’t come back much.”
“And when she does, it’s to go on a date with you, of all people?”
“Our moms did it,” I admitted. “Set us up, didn’t tell us.”
His responding laugh echoed off the walls. “That makes it even funnier. Mama Harding, I’m proud.”
He racked his weights, then picked up the TRX handles, shifting effortlessly into flies. For someone who barely remembered to sleep and eat, Logan was in annoyingly good shape.
“What did you do to piss her off this time?”
“Breathe,” I replied, racking my own weights.
“Besides that.”
Lips pressed together, I really considered it. Even with our history, and even though just being in her presence still made me angry, last night’s confrontation hadn’t been initiated by one specific catalyst.
“I didn’t recognize her at first.” I winced. “Think that offended her.”
She’d seemed familiar, but I was too taken aback by how gorgeous she was, with those curves and dark hair and a deep-red scowl. That black dress that covered her up but hid nothing.
“She looks different.”
A puff of air left him. “We all look different.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re right. Mostly because you still can’t grow facial hair.”
“Shut up.”
“Is that why you’re so shaken up and twitchy?” he asked. “Because she’s in town? You don’t have to pretend with me, man. You know that.”
I did. With Logan, I could be myself. Not Mayor Gabe or Ed and Suzie’s eldest son.
All my life, the world had expected so much from me. Teachers relied on me, adults trusted me, younger kids followed me.
Somewhere along the way, it had become my identity. I’d become the person who regulated everyone else’s emotions. Who could defuse tension before words were even spoken.
The peacemaker, the person the neighbors could call for help with any problem.
When I succeeded, I was praised.
So I’d gotten perfect grades. I’d volunteered. Always helped out.
My parents had set the example. They were good people. Loving and kind and proud of this town.
And it had come so naturally, I supposed. So easily that I hadn’t even thought to fight it.
I opened my mouth, collecting my thoughts so I could tell Logan about the festival. About how bad things were really looking. But I closed it again without a word.
If there was anyone on earth I could be honest with, it was my best friend. Yet I couldn’t admit my failings to him.
He’d find out tonight. The whole town would.
But it hurt too much to say it.
Because when it came down to it, this was all my fault.
Logically, so much of the situation was outside of my control.
A murder? It was unheard of in Maplewood. It was tragic. Heart-wrenching.
Then there was the aftermath.
The conspiracy theories.
The influencer.
The trending video.
The media attention.
And the loss of tourists.
The cancellations and the refunds. My people were hurting.
So while there was no way I could have foreseen the situation, I was still to blame. I was the captain of this ship. And I’d go down with it. Titanic style.