“You think that makes me feel better?”
He scrapes a hand through his hair and sighs. “Maisie, I’m here with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, because I don’t know what the truth is anymore with you.”
He flinches like I’ve struck a deeper emotional chord than I intended. I can tell he has no desire to tell me what’s really between them.
My chair grinds the floor as I stand. “I can’t do this right now.”
Logan rises too. “Maisie—”
But I’m already at the door, hand on the knob. “Just give me space, okay?”
I walk home in a daze, head straight for my room, and slump onto my bed where I stare up at the ceiling.
I wanted this to be simple. Temporary. A harmless game of pretending to get back at my ex. But it’s never just a game when your heart gets involved.
And the worst part? I don’t even know if Logan ever stopped playing. And that terrifies me, because I already know I have.
Chapter 21
For the next few days, I voluntarily miss school, which feels like a small rebellion against my normally responsible self. My phone buzzes every few hours with Logan’s texts—apologies and jokes and little observations about squirrels on his porch that would normally make me smile, but I’m in no mood for his deflecting shenanigans.
Social media has become my personal horror movie. One glance at Twitter—huge mistake—shows #LoganLovesTeacher still trending, with strangers debating whether I’m a clout-chaser or Logan’s secret muse. Both theories make my stomach churn like I’ve swallowed a blender.
At night, my Kindle becomes my escape. I dive headfirst into romance novels where fictional relationships keep me distracted from the messy situation I’ve created. My latest obsession,Fake Skatingby Lynn Painter, follows me everywhere—to breakfast, to the bathroom, even to the dinner table until Mom confiscates it with a pointed look.
“This isn’t blowing over, sweetie,” Mom says every morning, the newspaper spread open to yet another gossip column mentioning my name.
Dad keeps clearing his throat and asking if I need to talk to someone professional, as if I’m in need of a shrink.
Even Chrissy, who should be my ally, corners me in the hallway with screenshots of Logan’s ex-girlfriends. “Just saying, all these women have something in common, and it’s not their natural hair color.”
Would it be wrong to fake my own death? Could I start over in Wyoming with a new identity and a small alpaca farm?
The worst part isn’t the prying or the gossip or even Principal Hargrove’s daily voicemails asking when I’ll return. It’s the inconvenient, persistent heart-flutter whenever Logan’s name lights up my screen. My traitorous pulse quickens reading his “good morning” texts at 8 a.m. Despite my best efforts to smother these feelings with logic and ice cream, they refuse to fade.
This can’t be real. Shouldn’t be real. After Andy’s wedding, Logan will go back to world tours and supermodels, while I’ll return to alphabet songs and glitter glue. It feels like our realities exist in separate universes.
So I read. And read some more. Stories where the fake relationship magic works, where pretending leads to forever. My Kindle battery goes out at least once a day from overuse.
By Friday night, while buried under blankets hiding from yet another family meeting about my “celebrity status,” the truth hits me harder than the softball in fifth grade that knocked out my baby tooth: I’m not avoiding the world because I’m embarrassed or overwhelmed—though holy macaroni, am I ever both. I’m hiding because facing Logan means facing feelings that terrify me more than all the paparazzi lenses combined.
When Saturday arrives, I realize I can’t hide in romance-novel worlds forever, no matter how much safer they feel than my own unwritten ending. Still, it’s not until afternoon that I come out of my room, knowing that Chrissy is at Theo’s and Dad took Noah to swimming practice.
“I don’t like this,” Mom says, towel-drying a coffee mug aggressively.
I shuffle into the kitchen, sleep still clinging to my eyelids, and head straight for the fridge. My bare feet stick slightly to the hardwood floor with each step. “Good morning to you too, Mom. What exactly don’t you like? My pajamas? The weather? The state of democracy?”
“Don’t be smart.” She sets the mug down with a decisive clink. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Ah, yes. Why not ruin my breakfast with commentary on my love life. Your new morning routine.” I reach for the jar of peanut butter and twist the lid off, scooping a tablespoonful and savoring the nutty delight.
The air feels thinner, like Mom’s disapproval is taking up all the available oxygen. Through the window, our backyard looks deceptively peaceful—birds chirping, dandelions dancing in the breeze, the world carrying on like mine isn’t imploding in spectacular fashion.
“Maisie, I’m dead serious. It’s not justyourlife anymore. You’ve dragged your job, this town, and, frankly, me into it.”
I spread grape jelly over my toast in broad, furious strokes. Logan’s dismissive words echo in my head:It’ll blow over.
