Page 107 of Ever With Me

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MADDIE

“I don’t wantto talk to you,” Maddie said as she exited the luxury port-a-pots, where she’d been doing her makeup.

Jake had apparently been waiting for her, his face shadowed by the fading daylight. The Pearsons had plenty of patio string lights up in the area where their barbecue food truck was and over by the stage area, but here it was darker. “I’m so sorry, Maddie.”

“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it.” She brushed past him. She just wanted to put the whole humiliating episode behind her and for this fucking day to be over.

“You should know, I found out that someone started a rumor about the Cortland apples—folks just didn’t want the apples, not you. I have a feeling I know who started the rumor?—”

“Gina Strickland? Yeah, I figured.” Maddie scowled. “I don’t understand what the hell that girl’s problem is. She won. She has Josh. And she’s welcome to him. Why the hell does she have it out for me so badly?”

“You know the Stricklands never forgave Pops for selling gelato at the Depot. Fred has been carrying on about how it has cut his ice cream business in half for the past two years. And then there’s the fact that the whole town is going on about some incident in the Stricklands’ storeroom. Slow down, will you?”

She didn’t slow as she moved toward the tent serving as the “backstage” area. “First of all, the Depot hasn’t hurt the Stricklands at all. With the influx of tourists in the summer coming to the Depot, lines were out the door and halfway down the block to the Stricklands this year. How often did that happen before Pops built the Depot?”

She drew a deep breath. “And the other thing? There might be some truth to it, but I doubt Fred Strickland mentioned he called me trashy, then tried to shake Brooks’s hand. Of course Brooks didn’t take to it too kindly.”

“I’m not arguing. Just saying.” Jake grabbed her forearm. “But it’s the Stricklands. They want to humiliate you now. Don’t let it get to you. You’ve always been good at letting this shit go.”

Maddie almost paused, scanning Jake’s face. The truth was, she was more upset for a reason she couldn’t tell Jake: the crushing disappointment she’d felt when Brooks had let Milton Hirsch win the auction. Instead, she pressed forward, focusing on Jake’s attention to the Stricklands instead. “What if I don’t want to let go of it, though? What if I’m sick of how overblown everything has to get because we all constantly rub elbows with the same people? Brandywood just feels so . . .smalllately.”

Jake’s steps faltered. “What’re you saying?”

“Nothing.” She tucked her long hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t matter. Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it. I have a song to sing and then I’m going home right after that. I wouldn’t even do it if I hadn’t signed up, but I don’t want Gina thinking that she got to me.”

“But she got to you and that’s okay. It was a shitty thing to do. I’m not sure who I’m madder at—her and Josh or the people in town who cared more about not getting a bad crop of apples and want to take Fred’s side every time he wants to bully people. But hey, at least Brooks made you look good at the end. Highest bid ever on record.”

“Yeah, before giving up and letting Milton win,” Maddie muttered, a fresh wave of embarrassment rising in her chest. Was that why he’d done it? She couldn’t comprehend his motivation for driving up the bid like that and then abandoning it at the last second.

He couldn’t have known that, with each bid, she’d felt a spark of hope and excitement she didn’t dare dwell on for too long.

And then he’d just . . . stopped.

Why did he do it?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to stop the onslaught of thoughts.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

“I have to go,” she snapped. “I’m gonna sing and get the hell out of here. See you later, Jake.”

She hurried to the backstage area. The competition had already begun and, even from here, she could hear Millie Price doing her infamous rendition of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.” The familiarity of it was sweet, but Maddie almost rolled her eyes.

Normally, it would have brought at least a smile to her face.

When had she become such a curmudgeon?

“Maddie?” Samantha Doyle came into the tent, holding a clipboard. “You’re almost up. Right after Millie.”

Garrett’s wife had her long dark hair tied up, looking fresh-faced and stylish. When she’d moved back into town after living in New York for years, Maddie remembered how often she’d tried to memorize Sam’s outfits, hoping to go online and find something similar. They’d never been close—Sam was older by several years—but Maddie liked her a lot.

“Okay, thanks,” Maddie said, a flutter of nerves gripping her stomach.

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