“You got some strength in that skinny arm of yours,” he says in a strained voice.
I clutch it tightly to my chest. “These are my private thoughts, not meant to be read without my permission.”
“I had to keep myself entertained being bedridden and all.” He rubs his stomach as he straightens. “It was a good read. You’ve got talent.”
Coming from him, the compliment soothes my irritation. “Fine, I forgive you. But I won’t do the same if you make a scene at the festival.”
His stance tells me he’s somewhat annoyed. But it’s for the best if he avoids public gatherings . . . at least till the wedding.
***
The day of the Spring Festival finally arrives, and it’s unconventionally hot. Droplets of sweat gather at my temples before I’ve even finished my morning coffee. Scowling at my weather app—seventy-six degrees in April?—I toss on my breeziest rose-pink sundress, slip into well-worn sandals, and head to Mom’s room to help her with last-minute decorations neatly stacked inside labeled boxes.
Weighted down with three boxes of crepe paper and a suspicious number of glue guns, we arrive at Founders’ Square Park to find the place already humming like a beehive that’s been kicked. Volunteers scramble between half-assembled booths, teenagers test the PA system with feedback that could crack glass, and at least six women from Mom’s book club clutch clipboards with color-coded schedules.
The heavens over the mountainside park are a cloudless blue. Strings of triangle pennants—citrus orange, cherry red, lake blue—run tree to tree in bright diagonals, fluttering in the breeze. Beyond them, the Ouachitas rise in layered blues and greens, a calm backdrop that makes every color in the foreground pop. The air smells of kettle corn and wood smoke, with a sweet edge of spun sugar; a freckled boy shuffles past with cotton candy the size of his head, leaving a trail of glittering pink threads on the breeze.
“Go check on the face painting booth,” Mom says, already walking backward toward a huddle of silver-haired women armed with industrial-sized staplers.
I weave through the growing crowd, dodging children with balloon swords and couples with entwined fingers. Mr. Jenkins catches my eye from his caramel apple stand and waves me over, pressing a glistening treat into my hand before I can refuse.
“On the house,” he insists, his weathered face crinkling at the corners. “For Maplewood Springs’ favorite teacher.”
Three steps later, I’m ambushed by a horde of miniature humans with sticky fingers and wide smiles.
“Ms. Lang! Look at my unicorn face!”
“Ms. Lang! I won second place in the pie-eating contest!”
“Ms. Lang! My tooth fell out on a candy apple!”
I crouch down to admire Penny’s glitter-bombed cheeks, congratulate Mateo on his pie triumph, and suitably marvel at the tiny gap in Lucas’s smile. This feels so good. Nobody’s asking about Logan or whispering as I pass. At this moment, I’m just a first-grade teacher and official tooth-gap admirer.
Near the face painting booth, I spot Chrissy and Theo fluffing Noah’s bunny ears while he bounces in place, desperate to join the kids chasing giant bubbles across the lawn. The replacement artist—a college student with blue hair—applies whiskers to a line of impatient children.
Would Claire be here by now? I quickly scan the crowd, but no luck. The restaurant must be keeping her busy, especially with the festival crowd likely to descend for dinner later. She has been working overtime since her grandmother got sick, trying to keep the place afloat.
I turn toward the central lawn—and freeze. A tall figure cuts through the crowed in a plain hoodie pulled low, paired with—surprise, surprise—the world’s most inconspicuous disguise: baseball cap and sunglasses. Classic Logan.
My ribs seem to contract around my lungs as he approaches. What part of “stay home” did he not understand?
When he reaches me, I slap his arm lightly. “Seriously?”
“Ouch.” He rubs the spot like he’s in tremendous pain. “You know, you’ve been on an aggressive streak as of late.”
“You’re lucky I don’t drag you out of here by your ear,” I say, pulling him behind a nearby cotton candy stand. The vendor gives us a curious glance, and I smile like we’re definitely not here to make out. “You promised—“
“I promised I wouldn’t make a scene.” Logan peers at me over his sunglasses with puppy eyes. “And look at me, being totally scene-free. I’m practically invisible.”
“You’re six-foot-two wearing sunglasses on a day everyone else is in tank tops and shorts. You might as well wear a neon sign.”
He shrugs, adjusting his hood. “I came just for a little bit. I’ll keep my head down, I promise.”
Unbelievable. Every time with him.
I reach up and pop his collar higher, fussing until more of his face is covered.
“Was it always this crowded?” Logan asks, gaze sweeping the valley of food stalls and carnival games.
