It’s Marty, standing in the shadow between the music hall and the diner, dish towel slung over one shoulder, his mouth pulled into a knowing half-smile, as if he’s been waiting for this exact scene to play out.
“Heard music drifting over from the diner,” he says, stepping onto the music hall porch with authority. “Figured I’d come check on the ghost serenading us after hours.”
I huff a laugh, barely.
He nods toward the spot where Maisie disappeared. “You’re not foolin’ anyone, son, you know. That was a love song.”
I want to joke. To say he’s hearing things. But the words won’t come.
He doesn’t push.
Just watches me with that same look I’ve seen behind the counter more times than I can count. He’s someone who’s spent a lifetime watching people try and fail to hidehow they feel. There’s nothing invasive about it. Just intentional understanding, the kind that sees more than it should. And maybe that’s why it gets under my skin—because being seen like that makes it harder to keep pretending I’m not already halfway gone on her.
“And if you hurt her,” he says, tone still casual, “Penelope will break your kneecaps.”
Then he grins, pats the railing, and walks off whistling the tune I just played.
I sit back down on the step. My fingers drift to the strings, brushing them without pressure, needing to feel something familiar. I don’t strum, just absentmindedly fiddle. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find the nerve to sing it again. But tonight, it’s still caught in my throat. Too close, too true—so much of Maisie in every note that it’s hard to breathe.
The guitar is motionless under my hand.
But the melody’s still in my head.
Still hers.
And no matter how much I try to brush it off, I know Marty’s right.
It was a love song.
And I think I finally know who it’s for.
Chapter 9
And the Winner Is
Maisie
Ihaven’t stopped thinking about that song. Not since he played it. Not since the way my name seemed to echo in the space between the notes, even if he never said it out loud.
And now it’s morning. The last day of the festival.
I told myself things wouldn’t feel different. That we’d laugh off last evening and pretend that it didn’t matter. But the truth is, itdid. It mattered to me. And now I’m hoping it mattered to him.
Will it be awkward when I see him again? Will he retreat into that carefully guarded cocoon of his, denying that everything on the porch even happened and tucking himself in like a turtle pulling its head back into its shell—a slow-motion, emotional disappearing act?
Or worse, will he act as though it did matter, and I won’t know what to do with that?
Across the square, Team Let’s Go Viral is offering autographs. Not on pie tins this year; the pie-throwingcontest was eliminated from the festival last year after a rogue blackberry incident and three stained bridesmaid dresses.
So Cassie is using the repurposed lid of a Tillamook marionberry pie ice cream container. While twirling audaciously, she’s miming autographs with an imaginary sharpie as if everyone asked for her signature. Nico bows repeatedly beside her; anyone not from here would believe he’d just won Sweetpines’ version of an Oscar.
“To our fans,” he says with mock solemnity. “Thank you for believing in true love…and lactose.”
I watch from a distance, arms crossed, one hip leaning against the old produce cart someone turned into a festival info stand.
“They’re already planning their acceptance speech,” I jeer.
“I heard they pre-wrote one,” Jenna adds, sidling up with two lemonades and a smirk. “Something about ‘manifesting the inevitable.’”
