When Melanie approaches, Maisie straightens a little too quickly, bracing for a pop quiz she didn’t study for. Her answering smile finally arrives, but something inside me knots. I can’t tell if she’s holding back or mentally editing her next remarks. Somehow, we manage to look like a sweet, newly in-love couple for her vlog. She mentioned it’s trending.
For a second, I forget my plan to hold back. I lean in close, my cheek brushing hers, meant to sell the performance, but also chasing that spark from the footbridge. Maisie inhales sharply.
She glances over, surprised by my instant transformation. I scratch my nose and settle back in my seat, focusing on a crumb on the table.
Any flashes of connection slip through my fingers like steam. I’m still trying to untangle it all: what this is, what I’ve let slip out, and what I probably should have kept to myself.
Across the square, Team Let’s Go Viral poses for selfies with their brunch plates, arranging their mimosa glasses and taking turns kissing each other’s cheeks exaggeratedly, snuggling close as though they’re starring in a tourism ad for romantic vacations in Sweetpines.
From nearby tables, I catch snippets of town chatter:
“They look even cuter in person.”
“Did you see the way he looked at her before they left?”
“If they don’t end up married, I’m blaming the tea leaves that Reenie floats in her sweet tea while the Stitch Sisters plot matches. The same ones she once claimed predicted her cousin’s second child’s gender and a three-legged cat adoption.”
Dr. Brooks chats with a group by the coffee machine, his mug in one hand lifted, his expression curved in a way that suggests amusement, concern, recognition or something more complicated. He’s hiding it well, whatever it is, but I know that look. It’s the same one he wore when I tried to downplay a sprained ankle in high school, and he saw right through it.
He won’t say anything right now. That’s how he works. He waits until what he perceives to be the right time. But he always diagnoses more than he lets on, and somehow, that’s worse. When he quietly sees through me, sees the truth of who I am, and says nothing, I have no defense. I can’t redirect or deny. He’s not confronting me. He’s perceiving me. And that kind of scrutiny cuts deeper.
Franny must’ve released the press hounds, because suddenly, we’re surrounded. That old buzz returns, a pressurized thrum rising beneath my skin, reflex tightening everything in me, the silent expectation to perform. It’s not the exact stage I walked away from, but it mirrors the life I could’ve lived. The one Sabrina chased instead ofme. The one she used my song to reach, then rewrote without me.
This isn’t simple attention. It’s exposure. Not the glare of cameras, but the unraveling kind, the kind that happens when someone sees too much, too soon. And I’m not ready. Not when I’ve barely let the bruises fade. Not when I don’t know what will come of what I’ve let show.
I smile, but it doesn’t quite land. I nod, but inside, I’m already backing away. Because it’s not fame that shakes me. It’s what it represents. Not just what I lost. But how it was taken.
Reporters swarm: several from the county paper, a freelancer from Eugene, even someone with a lanyard and badge from Portland Public Radio. Microphones poke toward us like weeds. Questions fly. Cameras click.
“Beau Callahan, Maisie Quinn, just a few quick questions…”
“Can I get a statement for my article about the matchmaking festival?”
“Mind telling our viewers what your secret is?”
“The vlog’s already pushing sixty thousand views!”
It’s a blur of questions, flashes, and wide-eyed enthusiasm. I catch Maisie’s intake of breath and feel the tension spike down my spine.
Maisie’s eyes dart to mine, and I latch on.
But I didn’t mean to look at her like that. Not here. Not now. It’s just that the chaos hit, and my instincts reached for her, and in that split second, I needed her. Clung to her.
I seize up, gut tight, pulse off rhythm. It’s not just the attention that pins me, it’s the risk of what she saw in my eyes. The way I was with her this weekend, how I wanted her on the bridge. The part I’ve been trying not to let her see again.
I feel as though I’ve been invaded without warning, stripped bare of any defenses.
As I shrink away from the attention, I know I’m also pulling away from Maisie.
She watches me. I can feel the questions in her eyes. How much of what we did for the cameras today was real. The smiles, the way I leaned in, the way we looked like something more. Well…maybe not more than we are. But more than we’re letting ourselves believe. And then, layered under that, whether the footbridge, meant what she thinks it did.
Whether I meant what I let us both feel.
And I’m wondering, too. Not about what I felt—that part I’m sure of. It was real. But maybe I let her see too much. Too soon.
She’s not pulling away, but she isn’t reaching for me, either.
What if it was different for her? What if she didn’t feel any of it at all? I know she’s not Sabrina. She’d never go behind my back, betray me or act so underhandedly. But the fear’s still there. Because if I don’t pull back now, and Maisie decides it wasn’t real for her, I don’t know if I’ll come back from it.
