Mom waves the idea away like it personally offends her. “Don’t say that. You just need to take that leap of faith and let someone in.”
Not happening. Not after Andy.
Trust is like an egg—once it breaks and spills, it’s impossible to put it back together.
Chrissy’s phone vibrates on the table. “Gotta go. Theo’s waiting for me outside.” She takes the last bite of breakfast and chases it down with orange juice, then grabs her bookbag and steps out the door.
It’s just Mom and me at the table now. I return to my notebook, trying to rhyme “cloud” with something other than “proud” or “loud” for the fifteenth time this morning.
“Did you hear Lindsey Stewart is engaged to Andy?” Mom says, and my pen stops cold. “I expect an invitation to the wedding any day now.”
Chapter 3
Oh, I’ve heard, all right. I’ve heard it at the grocery store from two aisles over while pretending to read cereal labels. I’ve seen the Instagram post of the ring glinting with a reminder of what could have been. And of course, I’ve heard it in the teacher’s lounge—because why suffer alone when you can suffer in a shared space with stale donuts?
The news has been following me all week like an overly enthusiastic puppy—except instead of adorable, it’s just painful. Even Mrs. Jenkins, who runs the pharmacy and can’t remember which day to take her own medication, managed to corner me by the cold remedies to express how “sometimes the Lord works in mysterious ways, dear.”
Mysterious ways. Right. Like orchestrating my ex-boyfriend’s engagement to my former best friend. Real divine comedy there.
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I say with a snappy voice as I lean forward and refocus on the song in front of me, which now reads about as cheerful as an obituary. The lyrics about puffy whiteclouds have somehow morphed into morose metaphors about thunderstorms and rain.
Mom stands at the kitchen sink, washing dishes my siblings left behind. “He’s a good boy. Always greets me in church. Such a shame it didn’t work out between you two.”
I feel my face rage with fire. The fact that Andy still greets my mother every Sunday while sitting three pews behind her with Lindsey makes my skin crawl. The audacity of small-town living.
I grip my pen so tight, it might just split in half. My knuckles turn white, and I swear I can hear the plastic cracking under the pressure. “Can we just eat breakfast without dredging up the ghosts of boyfriends past?”
The words come out harsher than intended, but the burn of betrayal has that effect on me every time the wound reignites.
Mom doesn’t reply, just keeps scrubbing dishes as I stare at my half-finished plate and pick at the pancakes. My appetite threatens to abandon ship entirely.
In Maplewood Springs, gossip spreads faster than a fire during a drought. Everything you say becomes public domain. And Mom, bless her heart, unknowingly contributes by attending a Sunday book club that hasn’t read a full novel sinceThe Helpcame out. Instead, the ladies gossip about the town’s latest rumors, and I have zero intention of being the next chapter in their verbal fanfiction. After all, I’ve never said a word about why Andy and I broke up, and I’d like to keep it that way.
Over the past year, the town’s rumor mill has already suggested everything from irreconcilable differences over paint colors to my supposed inability to commit. If they knew the truth, I’d never escape the pitying looks and whispered conversations that would follow me down every aisle at the Piggly Wiggly.
“What are you working on?” Mom asks, drying her hands on a paper towel.
The sudden change of topic gives me whiplash, but I’ll take it. Anything to escape the Andy-and-Lindsey show.
“A song for the kids,” I say, scribbling lines about rain clouds with silver linings that feels a bit too on-the-nose even for first graders.
“Are they behaving?”
“They’re first graders, Mom. Mischief is literally in their DNA.”
Twenty-three tiny humans with sticky fingers and boundless energy—it’s exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure. But at least their drama is refreshingly straightforward. No hidden agendas, just honest chaos.
She chuckles and takes a sip of juice. “I always thought you and Andy would end up together. Both of you being teachers and all.”
My fork hits the plate with a clatter. “Mom!” She doesn’t know that he changed schools after he cheated on me, and I’m not about to tell her.
“I’m just saying.” She tilts her head, looking at me intently. Her expression is a blend of concern and meddling that only mother’s frown can achieve. “This town is running out of eligible bachelors. And you’re not getting any younger. If you don’t put yourself out there again, you’ll end up lonely and miserable.”
Right. Because nothing soothes the soul quite like a maternal doomsday forecast.
Lonely and miserable still sounds better than betrayed and blindsided. That day with Andy is forever seared into my memory—hot, raw, and painful.
It had been a regular Tuesday. I’d been chaperoning a field trip to the Maplewood Springs Historical Museum with a bus full of loud chatter and sugar-high first graders when I started feeling unwell. My head pounded, my throat burned, and all I wanted was home, cough syrup, and sleep. I came home early, expectingDayquil and silence. Instead, I walked in on Andy and Lindsey—my best friend since kindergarten—spread out on my bedsheets.
