On the drive to my apartment, I ruminate on the argument with Mom. Her concern. Her fear. Her biting words. I hate fighting with her. I hate feeling like I’ve disappointed her.
But I can’t live my life based on her fear of the worst-case scenario. It’smylife. If it crashes and burns, it should be because of my decisions—not because I let everyone else make them for me.
I turn into the narrow lot in Unity Grove, a red-brick, two-story apartment complex that’s walking distance to school. The familiar sight of my second-floor unit with its drooping spider plant in the window should feel comforting. Instead, the hair on my arms stands at attention.
Glancing around cautiously, I step out of my car and sprint down the sidewalk when something rustles in the bushes nearby, making me stop in my tracks.
Three reporters leap out from behind the hedges. Two more emerge from nearby parked cars. Before I can even move a muscle, there’s a flash of lights, a sea of microphones, and a wall of voices all around me.
“Maisie! Over here!” one reporter shouts, thrusting a recording device at my face.
“Did Logan propose?” asks another, his camera clicking rapidly.
“Are you in a love triangle?”
“Are you pregnant?”
I clutch the strap of my duffel bag with both hands like I’m holding on for dear life. Then my vision narrows as bodies and cameras close in. I can’t breathe. The air feels thin, like I’m gulping through a straw.
The questions keep flying, fast and loud.
I try to defend myself by saying something—anything—but my voice fails me.
Chapter 22
How did we end up like this?
It was so freeing—saying it out loud. Or, almost saying it. That moment with Maisie on the festival stage . . . I told her the truth in the only way I knew how. Not with some big dramatic speech, but with action. With the way I looked at her. Held her. Kissed her.
The memory of her lips against mine is all I can think about. This sizzling excitement preventing me from falling asleep at night—it’s so much more than just the novelty of kissing someone new. It felt like . . . coming back home after a long and arduous journey, gazing into the eyes of the one who’s been waiting for you and knowing, in that moment, how much they’ve missed you.
Am I crazy to think that?
I know she felt it, too—the way she reciprocated my enthusiasm—you can’t fake that.
So how did we go from that tothis?
I yank open the refrigerator door, hoping for something edible, but it offers nothing but half a bottle of water, an expired yogurt, and a sandwich I wouldn’t feed to a raccoon.
“Pathetic,” I mutter, grabbing the water and slamming the fridge shut, wishing I had more of Maisie’s chicken noodle soup to slurp.
It’s my fault. All of it.
She asked me to be honest, and I wasn’t. Not because I didn’t want to tell her everything—about Victoria, about the contract I’m obligated to keep, about how I’m one lawsuit away from career implosion. Would she even want to be with someone whose entire life is one big dumpster ready to be set ablaze with a strike of a match? If she knew everything about me, how messed up my life has been, would she reject me?
My parents mastered the art of rejection before I hit puberty. Every gold record, every sold-out arena—just more desperate attempts to make them notice. Yet somehow, the thought of Maisie turning away hurts more than twenty years of parental indifference.
If I lose Maisie—
I shake off the thought and down the water so fast it feels like icy spikes stab the center of my forehead. I wince and slap a palm against the ache, squeezing my eyes shut.
Coward.
Yeah, that sounds about right. Here I am, a grown man who’s spent years on stage in front of hundreds of thousands, frozen by the idea of knocking on one woman’s door. A woman who teaches first-graders finger painting and doesn’t care if my socks match or if Rolling Stone thinks my last single was derivative.
I pace the kitchen from restlessness. The house feels hollow, just like the fame, just like everything except those moments with her. When I’m with Maisie, I don’t feel empty.She’s beautiful inside and out. Her small-town charms are intoxicating.
I can’t lose her. No more waiting. No more hiding. No more pretending.
