And maybe that’s the truth I’ve been circling that’s throwing me off course. I’m falling for him. I don’t just want him in secret anymore—I want him in front of the world, too.
I shake my head and look back down at the chat, where Zoe is now spamming disco ball emojis.
Me:Prepare to be DAZZLED!
I hit send, snap my laptop shut, and shove the stack of rehearsal notes into my bag. Sequins can wait. The PTA cannot.
By four o’clock, my lunch is still untouched, and I’m standing in the middle of the school auditorium, corralling twenty-seven sugar-fueled eleven-year-olds through their first real run-through. The PTA board has stationed themselves like vultures in the back row, clipboards out, eyes sharp, waiting for me to trip.
Dusty is my one ally. He’s sprawled in the aisle, tail thumping every time one of the kids sneaks down to give him a pat. I called him my “assistant director” just to watch the PTA moms clutch their pearls. They’re horrified, but the kids are ecstatic. So I’m calling that a win.
Still, the sniping eventually comes in loud whispers.
“Are those really the final costumes? They don’t exactlyelevatethe stage, do they?”
“The backdrop looks… fine, I suppose. But it’s a little plain. Have you considered a full set build?”
“I could hardly hear the second row. If they can’t project properly, what’s the point?”
Pamela doesn’t bother with subtlety. She crosses her legs, pen poised over her clipboard, and fires the kill shot.
“Strange that Dylan isn’t in a lead role. With his talent, he could carry this whole production. Instead, she’s got him standing in the back row. Such a waste.”
A couple of kids glance toward the aisle at her words, uncertainty flickering in their faces. My stomach twists, but I keep smiling, clapping as two others remember their cue and shuffle into place.
Because it’s not just about costumes or sets or projection. It’s everything. These women are holding me to Broadway standards with an middle school budget and a ragtag cast of kids who’d rather be at recess.
They want me to fail. They want me to crack so they can swoop in, take over, and polish their own crowns.
I want to snap back. God, I want to. But this show isn’t for them, it’s for the kids. For the little girl who finally gets to sing in front of an audience. For the boy who learned to build confidence just by shouting his one line loud enough to be heard. For the way their faces light up when the stage curtain parts and they see their special people in the audience.
So let them sneer, let them circle. I’ll take every one of their barbed comments on the chin. But I’ll be damned if I let even a whisper of their poison touch my kids.
***
Hours later, Dusty’s curled up on a rug at my feet, his snoring filling the quiet of my living room. I’m curled up too, but on the couch, laptop balanced on my knees, production notes spread in a mess that matches the rest of me.
My phone screen pings, and Logan’s name flashes with an incoming video call. His face fills the screen, grainy hotel lighting behind him. My chest squeezes stupidly at the sight.
“Hey, Lu.” His voice is warm, and that sound alone makes the knot between my shoulders loosen.
“Hey.” I smile, but it feels thin. “How’s the road?”
He shrugs. “Hotel coffee’s shit. Boys won at poker tonight. Hutchy’s bitching about the curtains. Standard.” His eyes narrow. “You okay?”
I hesitate, fingers plucking at the corner of a sticky note. “Yeah. Just… a long day. Lots happening with the end-of-year showcase, and I’m a little…” I wave a hand. “Fried.”
“Fried, I can handle.” His tone is soothing, eyes trailing over my face. “Not okay, I don’t like.
Something wobbles in my chest, and before I can stop myself, the words slip out. “Sometimes I don’t know what to… call this. What we are.”
Logan goes still. His jaw works, eyes sharp on mine through the grainy screen.
“I mean, Iknowwhat it is,” I rush on, cheeks heating. “It just sometimes feels like I’m making it up, because we’re still keeping it quiet.”
I swallow hard, words tumbling before I can stop them. “And what if it blows up tomorrow? What if we… break? We wouldn’t even be able to talk about it with anyone. It’d just be like it never existed, likewenever existed. And that thought just—”
“Tallulah.” His voice cuts through my rambling, alarm flaring in his eyes. “Baby, stop. What the fuck are you even saying?” Heshifts closer to the screen. “You’re not making this up; you’re not imagining it. You’re mine, and that’s not up for debate.”
