Mrs. Lang studies me for a moment. The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease, but the fight in her eyes ebbs. Finally, she says, “Maisie went back to her place in Unity Grove. Cottonwood Flats. Apartment 5E.”
I jump off Mrs. Lang’s porch and run to my Camaro. The engine roars to life, and I peel out of the quiet suburban street with a squeal of tires that’ll probably earn me another glare from Mrs. Lang if I ever dare to show my face again. Three blown red lights and a sharp turn at Halloway Drive later, the wheelsscreech into the entrance of Cottonwood Flats, coming to a stop by the curb in front of Maisie’s building.
That’s when I see them.
A thicket of reporters clogs the sidewalk, hunched behind bushes and slinking around parked cars like predators in a nature documentary on PBS. Cameras flash like lightning in a summer storm. Microphones extend like accusatory fingers. And there, at the center of the feeding frenzy—Maisie.
I barely throw the Camaro into park before I’m out the door, weaving through the chaos. First come the gasps, then every camera turns on me, each flash of light sending a spike of anger through my chest.
“Logan! Over here!”
“Is she pregnant?”
I keep my eyes locked on Maisie, afraid if I look at any one of these vultures, I’ll knock their teeth out. She stands terrified in the middle of the pack, knuckles white as she grips the strap of her duffle bag. Her chest rises and falls too rapidly, eyes wide with that deer-in-headlights panic that makes my heart feel it’s in the grip of a vise.
But the second she sees me, something shifts. Her shoulders drop a fraction. She exhales, barely perceptible.
I reach for her hand. “Come on.”
Her fingers are ice against my palm, and I want to warm them, protect them, protect her. We push through the crowd shoulder-to-shoulder, my arm around her back creating a barrier between her and the shouting mob. The reporters close in like the tide, firing off question after question.
“Are you engaged?”
“Is it true you bought a house for her?”
“How long have you been together?”
Like I’m gonna answer. It’s none of their business what Maisie and I are to each other. And where are all these wild rumors about us coming from?
We make it to my car, and I open her door, help her in. With Maisie safely in the passenger seat, I slide across the hood—a move that would’ve looked cool if my jeans hadn’t caught on the wiper blade, nearly sending me face-first onto the concrete. Smooth, Humphries. Real smooth.
What are the chances of that headlining tomorrow’s newspapers instead of Maisie? Slim, at best.
Back behind the wheel, I click Maisie’s seat belt into place, then slam on the gas and leave the vultures behind us in a cloud of smoke and dust.
“Are you okay?” I chance a glance at Maisie, who sits ramrod straight, staring out the windshield. Her face has gone pale, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m so sorry about this. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
She just sits there, still as a statue, like she’s afraid moving might break her to pieces.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles match the white of her own. “Will you say something? Even if it’s to tell me what an absolute jerk I am.”
Maisie turns toward me slowly. “I don’t think we should continue this.”
Those exact words are what I was afraid of the most on my way here. I downshift, forcing the engine to slow, though my heart’s kicking into high gear. “I know you’re scared, but—“
“It’s not just that.” She exhales, a long, tired breath that seems to deflate her whole body. “How can I trust you if you won’t even tell me the truth?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, tasting copper. What can I say that won’t sound like another performance? “Then ask me—anything you want to know. I’m an open book. A slightly damaged, occasionally inappropriate open book.”
“For starters,” she says, fingers fidgeting with the seat belt strap, “what’s really going on with you and Victoria?”
I look at the road ahead, the yellow lines blurring together. “Victoria . . . she has a thing for me, but I’ve never felt the same.”
Maisie waits for me to continue, silent, patient. It’s one of the thousand things I like about her.
“She convinced our record label that we’d be a goldmine together—two big names, one big lie.” Just saying it out loud makes me wanna vomit. “Romantic duets. Promo appearances. Manufactured chemistry. The label ate it up like a bag of Hershey chocolates.”
“And you went along with it?” No judgment in her voice. Just curiosity.
