Famous in a Small Town(64)

Overhead I could hear Heather moving around—footsteps back and forth, like she was bouncing Harper.

“If we crack the window, we should be able to hear,” August said, leaning over the side of the bed to reach the small window.

“No, don’t.”

He paused, eyeing me questioningly.

“I mean. I think we heard enough. It’s between them.”

“You mean now that we’ve heard all the good stuff?”

“No.” I looked away sheepishly. “Well. Maybe a little. But it’s personal. We should … leave it to them.”

“Then why’d we come down here?”

The kiss upstairs was meant to be a diversion. And our first ones were for research, and our second ones were a mistake. I couldn’t keep up. What if all our kisses were like that? What if we just went on kissing for oddball reasons, like because a Kiss Cam is pointed at us at a sporting event, or to generate warmth when we’re snowed in with no power—what if we just trope-kissed for the rest of our lives?

“Wanted to see your room,” I said after a moment.

“What do you think?”

“It’s no kitchen window. But it’s pretty nice.”

A smile flickered across his face, and then it was quiet.

“Look, Soph—” He paused, dropped his gaze to the ground, took a deep breath. “I know I’ve messed everything up between us. And I’m sorry, I’m so—”

“I’m still mad at you.”

He nodded. “That’s fair.”

“You left here without leaving a note.”

He looked up, eyes shining. “I could leave you one now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Dear Sophie. I will be staying in Acadia for the foreseeable future. I regret to inform you that you’re stuck with me.” He swallowed. “And that I love you.”

It was quiet.

“You didn’t sign it,” I said. “Where are my fondest wishes?”

August smiled, tentatively. “Fondest—”

I was already kissing him.





fifty-four


I lost track of what was happening upstairs, couldn’t tell when Heather went back outside, but eventually two sets of footsteps were moving across the length of the ceiling.

We broke apart, August blinking at me. “Is she leaving?”

I sat up. “I have to—” I climbed out of bed, slipped on my shoes. “Sorry, I have to talk to her. Just—quick, I’ll be back—”

And I dashed upstairs.

Heather was in the living room when I got up there, shutting the door.

“Is she—”

“Hurry,” she said, swinging the door back open.

“Megan!” I called out the front. She was at the end of the driveway. A large black SUV was parked across the street. A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat, probably Megan’s age or a little younger, scrolling through her phone, looking bored.

I caught up to Megan, my flip-flops slapping against the front path.

“Sorry,” I said when I reached her. She looked a little bewildered, like she had when I originally answered the door. “I just wanted to …”

It felt stupid, in person. It felt like asking so much, but somehow at the same time, embarrassingly little? But I had to. I owed it to the band. I took a deep breath and it came out fast:

“The Marching Pride of Acadia is going to the Rose Parade this year and we were wondering if you would be willing to appear at the fall festival this year as part of a fundraising concert?”

“Uh.” A wrinkle appeared between her brows. “Uh, yeah, I saw—I read something about that. My publicist showed me a … Let me … I’ll give you my manager’s info, you can contact her about it.”

I didn’t have my phone, or pen and paper, but I could run back inside, I’d be right back—

“I’ll text Heather, how about that?” she said, crossing around to the passenger’s side of the SUV. The woman in the driver’s seat looked up, set her phone aside.

“That would be great. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She nodded, and got into the car.



* * *



August and Heather were sitting in the living room when I went back into the house. The TV was on, playing softly.

I sank down on the couch next to August, and we all pretended to watch whatever show this was for a few moments. At least, I was pretending. I was waiting for Heather to say something—anything—but she just sat looking at the screen, expression unreadable.

I wanted to hold August’s hand, but I felt embarrassed in front of Heather. Which was silly, seeing as she had sent us downstairs with full knowledge of what would probably happen down there.

“Why’d she come back now?” August asked finally.

“They told her someone got hurt at her house,” Heather said. “She got into Springfield a day early for the state fair, thought she’d come out and have kind of a last look at the place, I guess. Said they’ll probably knock the house down, try to sell the land.”

“Did you tell her it was me?” August said.

“I kept that part to myself,” she replied with a wry smile.