I grab my keys off the kitchen counter, shove my feet into the nearest pair of sneakers, and nearly trip over an amp cable on my way out. The afternoon sun hits my face like a spotlight, but for once, I’m not worried about being recognized.
Here we go.
My fist slams against the door. “Maisie?”
No answer. I bang again, louder this time, my knuckles stinging against the wood.
The door creaks open, but it’s not Maisie—it’s her mom, wearing a frilly apron with cartoon chickens and holding a spatula like it might double as a weapon.
“You’re going to alert the entire neighborhood,” she scolds and steps out, eyes scanning the perimeter to make sure no one is spying on us, then shooting me a glare that makes my blood run cold.
I take a careful step back and swallow hard. Moms can be terrifying. Especially the ones who look at me like I’m the reason their daughter’s life is in shambles. “Can I talk to Maisie?”
Mrs. Lang crosses her arms, the spatula jutting out like she might stab me with it. She means business. “Stay away from her, Logan. Ever since you showed up, her life has been chaos. Reporters. Rumors. She’s been missing school and can’t even walk through town without someone snapping a photo. Do you even know what they’re saying about her on social media?”
Truth be told, I learned to ignore socials after becoming famous. Too many faceless, nameless people dictating how I should lead my life when they should worry about their own. But this isn’t about me anymore.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through Twitter. My stomach plummets with every swipe. #LoganLovesTeacher seems to have the most comments, some positive, but mostly cruel.
Gold digger.
Attention seeker.
Another fame chaser.
What have I done? This is all because of me.
“It’s not what it appears—” I begin.
“Oh, isn’t it?” Mrs. Lang tilts her chin up, knuckles on her hips. “Because what it looks like is my daughter being dragged into your circus while you keep one foot out the door.”
My jaw tenses, muscles working beneath my skin. “I never meant to—”
“You don’t get to ‘mean’ anything.” She cuts me off with a flick of the spatula. “How long before you go back to your celebrity life, your escapades with actresses, and leave her behind? No matter what the rumors are, there’s always a touch of truth to them, isn’t there? All that’s waiting for her at the end of”—she waves her hands frantically and almost smacks me in the face with that spatula—“whatever this is between the two of you, is heartbreak. She’s suffered enough.”
I’ve been accused of much in my career—fraud, cheating, manipulating, even stealing kittens—all falsehoods. But none of it had landed as hard as Mrs. Lang’s words. I want to argue, to defend myself, but haven’t I given the world plenty of reason to see me as exactly what she’s describing? The playboy. The troublemaker. The guy who never sticks around.
But that’s not who I want to be Maisie.
“I know what she’s been through,” I say.
“You havenoidea what she’s been through.“ Mrs. Lang’s finger is more threatening than my record label’s lawyer when he threw consequences at me for attempting to break mycontract. “That despicable boy tore her heart out. Humiliated her in the worst way possible. And now I’m afraid it’s happening again, just with a bigger audience.”
Yeah, I’d like nothing more than to punch Andy in the face, but in a messed-up way, I’m kind of glad he did what he did. Otherwise, Maisie never would have knocked on my door.
“At least let me apologize to her.” I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “She deserves that.”
“And you promise to stay away after?”
I meet Mrs. Lang’s eyes, for I must make this crystal clear. “I can’t do that.”
The way she looks at me, I brace myself for a smack on the head with her spatula, but it never comes. Instead, something in her expression shifts—not softening, exactly, but reassessing.
“I care about Maisie, Mrs. Lang. More than—” I catch myself before admitting just how deep my feelings go. “I need to talk to her.”
A long sigh escapes her mouth, and her hand flies to her forehead, massaging the space between her eyebrows. I know I’m a headache, but I can’t do as she asks. “And if she tells you to leave her be?”
“Then I will.” But the thought makes my chest constrict. “She’s stronger than you think. Please tell me where she is.”
