Yeah, right. Just like that blizzard blew over last year and took half the town’s power lines with it.
“Mom, all I want is some peace and quiet so I can think straight.” My knife clatters against the plate. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Not the reporters, nor the social media stuff—none of it.”
“Then why did you kiss him at the festival?” Her eyebrows arch high.
“If I remember correctly,” I say cheekily, “you were the one who made me go up on that stage.”
“Well, it was supposed to be a kiss on the cheeks. You could have pushed him away.” Mom reaches for her phone and scrolls, her lips pursed in the universal expression of mothers who’ve just found evidence to support their argument. “Have you seen what they’re saying about you?”
“Don’t want to hear it, Mom.” I shake my head so hard my brain rattles.
Too late. She reads anyway, inflecting each quote with increasingly dramatic emphasis. “‘She’s just using Logan for clout.’ ‘Maplewood’s own Yoko Ono.’ ‘Pretty sure she’s just another rebound.’” She pauses, squinting at the screen. “Oh. This one has memes.”
Wonderful. I’ve evolved from a first-grade teacher to an internet meme. My college degree is really paying off.
The peanut butter grape jelly toast sits forgotten in my hand as I walk—no,flee—from the kitchen and up the stairs. My appetite has been replaced by a ball of anxiety large enough to choke a horse.
“Maisie!” Mom follows, her slippers flapping. “They know where your apartment is—they even named your school.”
I stop in my doorway and turn to face her. My pulse ticks in my ears, a tiny time bomb of frustration counting down. “That’s why I’m taking a few days off, so I don’t make things worse for the kids.”
She crosses her arms, maternal concern cloaked in judgment. “It’s not going to end well. And I’ll be the one picking up the pieces while you mope around the house like you did after Andy.”
The mention of his name sends fire racing through my veins. If my blood ran hot seconds ago, it’s nuclear now. “You wanna know why I didn’t leave my room for days? You wanna know why I could only fall asleep after exhaustion set in from crying all day? He cheated on me, Mom. With Lindsey!”
I slam the door shut with such force the family photos on the wall rattle. With a trembling hand pressed to my chest, I try to slow my shaky breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry.
I need to get out of here. Figure out what to do. Preferably somewhere without an audience.
Yanking open my closet door, I pull out a duffle bag and start tossing clothes into it—jeans, tops, my favorite green sweater with the loose sleeves I like to disappear into when the world gets too loud.
As I struggle into a pair of jeans, a soft knock rattles the door. “I’m sorry, honey.” Mom’s voice has lost its judgmental edge. “Why didn’t you tell me about Andy?”
Guilt nibbles at my resolve. Because I was ashamed? Because admitting it made it real? Because I didn’t want anyone looking at me with those sad, pitying eyes.
With the duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I open the door and say. “Because I didn’t want anyone to know. And I didn’t want you to worry.”
She throws her arms around me and pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon rolls. “I’m always worried about you. You’ll understand when you have your own children one day.”
Chances of that are dwindling with each passing day. If recent social media hostility is any indication, it’s just a matter of time before no eligible man in this town will want to associate with a gold digger.
Mom pulls away and her eyes fall on my bag. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my place.”
Her brows pinch together like worried parentheses. “Maisie, the reporters—“
“They’ll be gone. It’s been days.” I hoist the bag higher.
“You don’t know that.”
I can’t tell her that I’m in love with Logan. She’d flip. “I can’t think here, Mom, and I need to figure out what to do about all this.”
Her face softens for a heartbeat. “How long?”
I push past her, avoiding eye contact. “A couple days. Maybe more.”
She doesn’t follow me out this time.
