“I gave her a reality check.” Victoria examines her nails. “Whatever. She wasn’t right for you anyway. She doesn’t fit our image.”
So that’s why Maisie did it—to protect me.
Victoria’s hand slithers inside the folder and produces a yellow envelope, which she slides on the coffee table toward me. “The label wants us to sign this new agreement for our collaboration. My signature’s already on it.” A predatory smile spreads across her face. “We’ll be music’s ultimate power couple.”
I scoff at her. “You really think I’m going to sign my life away again?”
“Don’t be stupid, Logan. Fame. Money. Everything most people dream of but never get.” She steps closer, voice dropping to a velvet purr. “Everything we talked about back when we first met.”
I laugh bitterly, the sound bouncing off my expensive, empty walls. “You don’t get it. I never cared about all that. I started singing because I wanted the freedom to express myself, to uncork the feelings I’ve kept bottled up. It was therapy.” After meeting Victoria, I got sucked into endless parties, hook ups, and talks of building up a fake image. It was fun at first, but it left me feeling hollow. Perhaps that’s the reason I ran back home. A slow smile curves one corner of my mouth as I say, “I never imagined true love would come knocking.”
Her face twists like she just heard the most absurd thing ever spoken. “Love? That’s for fools and song lyrics.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Money and influence—that’s what everyone really wants.”
So this is her true character. I always suspected but seeing it laid bare is still shocking. The person I once thought I wanted versus the person my heart pines for—the difference couldn’t be more striking.
I move to open the door wider. “Get out.”
Victoria’s expression cycles through disbelief, anger, and finally indifference. “Fight all you want. But you’re contractually obligated, same as me. If you back out, they’ll sue you for everything you got.” She snatches up her folder but leaves the contract envelope on the table. “Your little teacher won’t want you when you’re broke and forgotten.” Victoria storms out, her heels clicking angrily against the hardwood like tiny hammers.
I slam the door shut behind as she turns around for a final word I don’t want to hear, then slump on the couch.
The yellow envelope sits before me, innocent-looking but loaded with consequences. If I sign, I’ll have it all—the world at my feet, the adoration of millions—but I’ll lose Maisie forever. If I tear it up, I’ll lose my career, my financial security, my dream . . . but maybe I’ll get a second chance with the only girl who’s ever seen the real me.
I bury my face in my hands, wishing I never wrote that damned contract.
Chapter 29
It’s the end of May, and as I stare out my bedroom window at the shadows of clouds sailing across rooftops, all I can think is that I’ll never see him again. Not after what I did.
Two weeks since Los Angeles. Two weeks since I grabbed that microphone on stage and exposed the lie we were living.
My family thought I had turned to the dark side after they saw my little stunt on the news, so I had to come clean. No more lies or half-truths. I told them about our silly contract, Victoria’s blackmail, and my desperate attempt to protect Logan’s career. Dad just muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . .” while Chrissy squeezed my hand so tightly, I nearly lost feeling in three fingers. But it was Mom’s reaction that moved me to tears. She just looked at me with pride and hugged me dearly, and I told her how sorry I was.
Since then, they’ve collectively decided to treat my notorious public debut with the delicacy of handling a room-temperature soufflé. Chrissy confiscated my phone after catching me doom-scrolling through #MaisieMistake tweets past midnight. Mombrings home my favorite pastries and pretends like nothing has happened. Dad awkwardly pats my shoulder whenever we pass each other in the house.
The last days of school drag like a snail towing a cinder block. In my classroom—now emptied of crayon masterpieces and alphabet charts—I put away supplies while my students dash about, summer-vacation energy rendering them practically radioactive. Lucy, my blunt truth-teller, hugs me and says, “Don’t be sad, Ms. Lang, it will all be okay,” before skipping away to play with the others.
Inside my purse sits an ivory envelope with the invitation to the wedding I need to face in exactly one week. Andy and Lindsey’s names swirl across gold-embossed cardstock like a taunt. I trace the wedding date with my fingertip, wondering how I’ll manage congratulating them when the entire town has watched me spectacularly crash and burn on national television.
At night, I wonder if the whole country has already moved on to fresher scandals. Perhaps I’m yesterday’s old news, replaced by some politician’s indiscretion or celebrity baby name. Hope springs eternal in the heart of a woman desperate to become forgotten.
Logan’s silence is what haunts me most. No calls. No texts. Nothing since I told him not to follow me. His voice echoes in my memories, the laugh that would bubble up unexpectedly, the way he’d hum in the kitchen, the little dimple in his cheeks when he smiled.
I have no one to blame but myself, though. I should have never agreed to fake anything with Logan. None of this started with Andy or Lindsey; it started with me, with the lie I blurted out in Granny Jo’s diner out of nothing but bruised pride. Who would have thought one reckless lie would snowball into the biggest heartbreak of my life?
Chrissy keeps telling me I should write a song about this. “Turn heartbreak into art,” she suggests, quoting something she read in a magazine. I considered it until I realized every lyric would just be his name repeated with different punctuation: Logan? Logan! Logan . . .
Every day leading up to the wedding is the same. In the mornings, I put on a brave face, tossing my hair into a messy bun, slapping on some mascara, pretending the swelling under my eyes is just allergies. In the afternoons, after Mom leaves for work or errands, I curl up in bed with a pint of rocky road, the TV droning in the background. I cycle through the same few shows, none of which I actually watch, and let my mind wander to memories of him. At night, I press my face into my pillow and let the loneliness settle over me, heavy and familiar, until it feels like a second skin.
The calendar above my desk seems to mark the days of its own accord until Saturday, June tenth. Wedding day.
I slide open my closet door and run my fingers along the dress Logan bought for me—a soft shimmering navy blue that glows from all angles in the presence of light. It catches the afternoon sun now, scattering glints of silver across my room like tiny stars fallen from some celestial ball. The memory of the boutique store seems so distant now but pleasant, like I’m in my golden years looking back at my life’s greatest hits.
By late afternoon, I’m fully dressed—makeup hiding the remnants of a long week of insomnia, hair tucked neatly into an elegant updo Mom helped me style. She worked her fingers through my stubborn waves, humming softly the way she used to when I was little.
Once everyone is dressed, we drive downtown to the Lakeside Garden Banquet Hall, one of the prettiest buildings in Maplewood Springs with sprawling white columns resembling ancient Greek architecture and vintage lanterns adorning theentrance. The building stands aglow in purple and pink as we pull up.
One by one, guests are filing in—ladies in colorful dresses teetering on high heels, men tugging at ties that seem too tight in the Arkansas humidity. My grip on the small clutch tightens, fluttering in my stomach intensifying as we approach the entrance.
