She glances up, sunshine highlighting the few silver strands in her hair. “Grab another planter.”
“Mom, I’m really sorry about bailing on you. I should have called or texted, at least.”
She continues pressing soil around a yellow tulip.
“I don’t like this wall between us.” I sink to my knees beside her, grabbing a trowel. “You know I’d never intentionally let you down.”
“I’m not angry, Maisie. I’m concerned. You’ve always been a small-town girl, just like me. All this business with Logan can’t end well. Your dad and I don’t even know what to say to our coworkers anymore.”
That’s the thing I hate most about this town. Everyone and their grandmothers seem to be invested in the goings on between Logan and myself beyond what normal social etiquette would dictate. They can all buzz off like the bees swarming the flowerpots for all I care.
“We’ll manage.” Understatement of the century.
“That’s what worries me.” She turns to face me with concerned eyes. “I’d prefer if you didn’t manage anything at all. People like him—they live in a different world. When this town gets too small and he decides to leave, what happens to you?”
“Nothing bad is going to happen between Logan and me, Mom.” The truth is I don’t know how this will end. But we’ve gotten this far, and the wedding is right around the corner. I have to see this through to the end.
“Just be careful. That’s all I’m asking.”
I reach over and squeeze her soil-dusted hand. “Promise.”
She tugs me into a hug that smells like potting earth and her favorite lavender soap. “Now help me finish these planters before the committee meeting.”
The next day, Logan finally gets back on his feet—hallelujah—and he’s back to full strength, at least physically. I catch himhumming whenever he thinks I’m not listening, working on his next hit song. I could listen to his silky voice all day. He even insists on helping the festival committee set for the festival at the park.
“Absolutely not,” I say, handing him a glass of water. “Everyone in this town thinks we’re in a forbidden love triangle. If they see you lurking around the cotton candy stand, I can guarantee it’ll be front-page news before the dunk tank fills up.”
“You don’t think I can be stealthy? I once escaped a stadium of fifteen thousand screaming fans disguised as a janitor.”
“And how many janitors do you see around Founders’ Square Park? Here’s a hint”—I make the big “O” sign with my fingers.
At least while Logan has been cooped up at home, the media frenzy has settled down. No more reporters hiding in bushes on school grounds or questions shouted across the parking lot. Not even a whiff of Victoria—who, according to Logan, likely received a stern lecture from their label’s publicist for turning a quiet elementary school into a TMZ hunting ground.
I should feel relieved, but honestly, I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing anymore. The whole pretend-boyfriend scheme spiraled faster than I would have imagined. I thought we’d last three months without raising alarms. I never meant to land in national gossip columns or duck behind mailboxes to avoid paparazzi with zoom lenses that could probably capture my pores in glorious high definition.
“Everyone will be too busy celebrating spring to notice me,” Logan says as we throw darts in his living room. He’s wearing a flannel shirt today—red checkered with black—his hair naturally tousled, fever days officially behind him. “I’ll blend in.”
“Blend in,” I repeat, watching as he nails another bullseye. “You? Blending in? Your face is on billboards and bedroom posters.”
“Scout’s honor. I’ll keep my head low.” With a salute like that, he might as well have his fingers crossed behind his back.
“It’s not you that I’m worried about.” I squint at the dartboard, holding my breath in an attempt to hit the bullseye at least once before admitting defeat. My dart lands on the outer rim, and my shoulders deflate faster than a week-old birthday balloon. “It’s the reporters who’ll turn this entire festival into a tabloid circus if they catch even a whisper of your presence there.” I turn, pointing a stern finger at him. “Do not, under any circumstances, make a scene.”
He grins like a boy who fully intends to do the exact opposite.
“I’m serious, Logan. Stay at home.” He doesn’t respond, and I fear my words keep falling on deaf ears.
I’m zipping up my bag, preparing to leave, when Logan says, “Oh, I almost forgot.” He disappears into his bedroom and returns with my leather-bound notebook.
My eyes widen. “I didn’t even realize I’d left it here.”
“There’s some good lyrics in here.” He flips to the middle. “Especially about the boy next door. Very compelling stuff.”
“That’s private!” I run up to him, my hand almost around my notebook when he raises it above his head. Even if I jump, I wouldn’t reach it. “Give it back.”
He then reads, “You changed the song inside my soul . . .”
“Logan!” I punch him in the stomach so hard he folds at the waist, and I easily regain possession of my notebook.
