Chapter 23
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined it—Logan and me, away from the world, somewhere quiet where no one knows us. A place without trending hashtags, without cameras flashing in our faces, without Mom’s worried glances every time I come down to the kitchen. Logan’s lake house invitation caught me completely off-guard, and now I’m standing in my bedroom, staring at the pile of clothes on my bed, trying to put together the perfect getaway wardrobe.
My fingers trace the edge of a sundress—canary yellow with tiny white daisies—before I fold it and tuck it into my oversized suitcase.
Another sundress joins the first, then another. Three bathing suits (because options), two pairs of shorts, four tops, a hoodie for cool evenings, and my favorite straw hat with the blue ribbon. Packing light has never been my strength.
Lake Martin, Alabama. That’s where Logan’s taking me. Crystal blue waters, towering pines, and a sky that stretchesforever—at least according to the pictures he showed me. His “sanctuary,” he called it. The place where he can escape the turmoil of his notoriety and decompress.
“Maisie? Are you ready?” Mom calls from downstairs.
“Coming!” I give the zipper one final, victorious tug and hoist the suitcase off my bed.
Downstairs, Mom’s keys jingle in her hand. Dark circles shadow her eyes—probably from staying up half the night worrying about me going away with Logan. Our kitchen table discussion had stretched past midnight as my reassurances met her concerns in an exhausting back-and-forth.
“I’ll have my phone the whole time,” I promise, for what must be the hundredth time since yesterday.
“And you’ll call if—”
“If anything feels off. Yes, Mom.” I soften my interruption with a quick hug. “It’s just a couple of days.”
Mom’s car smells like vanilla and cinnamon—the air freshener she’s used since I was little. Logan sits in the back seat, completely unbothered by her disapproving glares in the rearview mirror. I don’t think he even notices.
At the airport, Logan gets out first, baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses hiding half his face, looking every bit the celebrity in disguise from a cheesy movie, and I begin to worry if someone will recognize him.
“Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Lang,” he says, taking my suitcase as if it weighs nothing.
Mom’s smile is polite but chilly. “You better take good care of my daughter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The sincerity in his voice warms me.
When mom drives away, Logan and I get our tickets and check in luggage.
“Have you ever flown first class?” he asks, adjusting his sunglasses.
I snort. “Have I ever—no, Logan. Small-town teacher’s salary, remember?”
“You’re in for a treat,” he says and winks at me.
The TSA line crawls forward at a glacial pace. A woman ahead of us keeps glancing back at me, her eyes narrowing in that “do-I-know-you” way that makes my skin prickle.
“Just say you’re a lookalike,” Logan murmurs, lips barely moving.
We inch closer to the window. “That never works in movies.”
“Better than running away once they figure out who you are.”
I make a curtain of hair fall over half my face as we inch closer to the checkpoint. Once there, Logan presents his ID with a confidence I envy. The TSA agent’s eyes widen comically, darting between the photo and his face.
“Oh my god,” she says, fumbling in her pocket. “Could you—I mean, my daughter would—”
Logan presses a finger to his lips and she nods, then he takes her pen and signs the yellow notepad she slid toward him. When he winks at her, I swear the woman nearly faints.
“Is it always like this for you?” I ask as we retrieve our personal items.
Logan’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “Pretty much. You get used to it.”
I’m not sure I could ever get used to strangers thinking they know you, wanting a piece of you, all because your face appears everywhere. I admire him for that.
