I laugh again, letting out a throaty chuckle this time. I know Reenie feeds on these types of situations during the festival.
I can see the Maybes in full swing again, slow dancing under the gazebo rediscovering each other, then storming off in opposite directions not thirty seconds later. I also heard that purple haired punk guy accidentally stepped on Lucy’s cowgirl hat when they attempted their challenge at the hardware store. Rumor has it they have dropped out completely because of that.
Peaches trots along the edge of the square, tail flicking as faithfully as a metronome, clearly torn about which drama to follow. Eventually, she gives up and heads toward the diner instead. Smart dog.
I lean back against the post for a second, soaking in the absurdity of it all. This town. This festival. It’s like living in a Hallmark card: overly cheerful, a little frayed at the edges, and somehow lovably sappier with each passing year. There’s something oddly comforting about the way it all spins together, though. The kind of over-the-top sweetness and hometown energy you only get when people care too much about things that don’t make sense on paper.
And here I am, the fake boyfriend to a woman who’s somehow taken up way more space in my thoughts than I planned. I catch myself wondering what it would be like if she were here: basket in hand or some wildflowers she just picked, cracking a joke, sitting nearby as though the two of us as a couple are part of this town’s long-running history.
It makes no sense, really, this wishful thinking of mine.This week is a temporary arrangement that may seem sweet and charming, but it’s dangerous, if I let myself get too close to the edge of believing it. I’m just about to pack up for the day when footsteps crunch the gravel behind me.
“Hey, fake-boyfriend-slash-handyman-carpenter,” comes a voice that makes something break loose and burrow down into my chest before I even turn around.
Maisie Quinn.
I spin to see her with a basket in hand.
My daydream come to life. Her curls have fallen loose from whatever held them up earlier, and she’s wearing a yellow wrap dress that makes her shine as bright as an afternoon sunbeam.
I sit back against the porch railing and arc a questioning look at her. “What’s this? Food for my heart before you bring up an after-the-fact fake dating prenup agreement?” My tone is light, but the words carry more weight than I intend.
Because this is what fake couples do, right? Bring each other food, make jokes about roles they never asked for, and pretend the whole town isn’t watching. But there’s something in the way she looks at me that makes it hard to remember it’s supposed to be pretend.
She holds up the basket. “Half dinner, half dare. Marty said to deliver it before it gets cold, or he’d ‘accidentally’ pair me with the Over-actors next year.”
“That’s cruel and unusual,” I say, setting my toolbox down so I can take the basket from her hands. Inside is an assortment of napkin-wrapped goodies: cornbread, some kind of roasted veggies, and something that smells unmistakably like his famous apple sage pork sausage.
Maisie perches on the top step with a familiarity that carries the ease of a hundred familiar visits, even though weboth know there hasn’t been. “Figured you might still be here, and I thought you could use a break. Or company. Or both.”
For a moment, I don’t say anything. I just watch the way she shifts until she’s settled, easy like she belongs here next to me. And maybe it’s the fake dating bleeding into something else, or maybe it’s just Maisie being Maisie, but it hits me how natural it feels. Too natural, maybe. Which is exactly why it rattles me.
The sun’s dipping low, shadows stretching across the square, the music hall shut down for the day behind us. I glance toward the bench to the left of where I’m working, where I’d set down my guitar earlier after a lesson with one of the kids.
I should just eat. Say thank you. Keep it simple.
Instead, I move the meal aside.
“You ever heard something before you even knew what it meant?” I ask. The words come out rougher than I expect.
Maisie blinks, then tips her head slightly, trying to figure out what I’m really asking. “You mean, for example, when something doesn’t feel like a big deal until later, when it starts to make more sense?”
I nod. Then I pick up the guitar.
I don’t say I wrote it.
Truth is, the last time I played this song for someone, she didn’t hear it the way I meant it. She heard potential. Fame. Leverage. A shortcut to center stage. She took the lyrics straight out of my heart and hands and made them hers. But this isn’t about the past. Not tonight.
So, I don’t say anything at all.
I simply play.
The chords are basic at first. I strum. Gentle. Slow. The kind of rhythm you only findwhen you’re not chasing it. Then the melody eases in, low and purposeful, soft but certain. The music knows exactly where it’s going. I let the words come.
You heard the truth I hid in chords, under melody and rhyme.
Each line carries more than I mean it to. Each note threads through the part of me that still aches when I think about what I lost: my faith in music, my trust in love, my hope of sharing something real.
Maisie doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
