But Victoria’s warning holds me back. If I stay away, maybe he has a chance at the life he deserves.
So, when Monday morning comes, I stay in bed, tucked beneath the covers. When Mom knocks and asks if I’m okay, I claim a headache. Not a lie—my head is splitting, my eyes raw from crying all night.
At exactly 10:35 a.m., my phone buzzes with a text from Logan:So this is your decision . . .
And just like that, my heart shatters.
Chapter 26
“What’s wrong, Ms. Lang?” Lucy’s worried voice pulls me from my daze. “Are you not feeling well?”
I blink at her little face, framed by unruly pigtails that have come partially undone during art period. My red marking pen hovers motionless over her spelling test from last period, the same test I’ve been staring at for twenty minutes without marking a single word.
Sunshine spills across colorful artwork pinned to bulletin boards, but the brightness can’t touch the hollow space behind my ribs. It’s been nearly a week since Logan left for L.A., and though the reporters packed up their circus and followed him there—allowing me to return to school without dodging cameras—I’ve been such a vacant-eyed zombie that even my first graders have noticed.
“Your eyes look all puffy,” Lucy adds. “Like when my mommy watches those commercials with sad puppies.”
My stomach knots. Could I be any more pathetic? Making a seven-year-old worry while I’m supposed to be teaching addition.
With a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me, I set down my pen and rise from my swivel chair. Smoothing my floral skirt, I round my desk and crouch beside Lucy’s table, where her math worksheet sports more doodles than actual numbers.
“I’m fine, just a little . . .” My voice cracks like thin ice on a puddle. What word could possibly describe the sensation of having lost your shot at true love?
Lucy tilts her head, those big brown eyes sizing me up with the unflinching assessment only children can deliver. “You miss Logan, don’t you?”
God bless the magnificent, unfiltered honesty of children. Everyone else—Mom, Chrissy, even Claire—has been telling me how better off I am without him and the chaos he brought to my life. Nobody gets it. Nobody except little Lucy with the rainbow barrettes and chocolate milk stain on her sleeve.
“Just a tiny bit,” I admit, pinching my thumb and index finger together with barely a millimeter between them. A complete and utter lie. I miss him like a garden misses rain.
Lucy giggles, the sound like tiny bells, and for just a heartbeat, the gripping sensation around my chest loosens.
“I think you looked great together in the photos,” she declares with all the confidence of someone whose biggest dilemma is which pudding cup to choose at lunch. “And you both sing well. You should just go see him if you miss him.”
If only it were that simple and life were a playground game of tag instead of this battlefield of impossible choices.
“He’s got a lot on his plate right now,” I tell her gently, guiding her stubby pencil back to problem number six. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”
Deep down I’m convinced he’ll never step foot in this town again.
My life as a teacher feels like it’s returning to normal, at least on the surface. The rows of little desks with their fidgeting occupants, the steady rhythm of spelling tests and science projects, the predictable bells that divide our days into neat segments—they’ve all reclaimed their rightful place after the tabloid tornado ripped through. I cling to these routines like a woman who’s found herself suddenly standing on a tightrope, arms outstretched for any semblance of balance. Principal Hargrove has resumed his usual patrols of the halls without the grimace he wore when reporters camped outside like a flock of scavenger birds. I even caught a rare smile twitching on his face yesterday—until he spotted me and quickly wiped it off.
The whispers still follow me—parents at pickup, colleagues who suddenly find fascinating things to discuss when I enter the teacher’s lounge, certain board members with their thin-lipped “concerns.” They’ve all seen the photos, read the stories, and formed their opinions about the teacher who briefly ran wild with Logan Humphries before he returned to his natural habitat. They look at me and see a cautionary tale, a small-town girl who reached beyond her station and got predictably knocked down.
None of them know about the contract, Victoria’s threats, or how I’ve taken to sleeping with my phone turned off so I won’t be tempted to check for messages that never come. And who could blame Logan? I sent him away with nothing but silence.
Each day after school, I do what any rational adult with lovesickness would do—become a permanent fixture on the living room couch, a pint of rocky road ice cream balanced on my stomach, flipping through TV channels like I’m searching for a portal to another life.
The floorboards announce Mom’s approach as she paces by for the third time in ten minutes. Her shadow falls across myblanket before she plants herself directly in my line of sight to the television.
“We should do something,” she says, her voice optimistic. “Get you out of this funk. How about a trip to the hot springs? The weather’s perfect for it.”
Hot springs. I remember it so clearly—how embarrassed I was when he saw my underwear, the sunset gilding his skin, the shape of his abs as my toes grazed his torso.
I pull the blanket higher until it tickles my chin. “Not really in the mood for hot tubs and relaxation.”
“This can’t continue, Maisie.” Mom plants her hands on her hips, channeling the same look she gives Noah when he refuses to eat anything green. “You can’t just eat ice cream and wallow all day. It’s not healthy.”
I excavate another heaping chunk of ice cream. “It’s the only thing that makes me feel a little better.”
