Beginning we pretend we don't see

Monday came too soon.

Logan slumped against the locker-lined hallway of Beaufort High, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a permanent scowl forming between his eyebrows. The halls buzzed with teenage noise—slamming lockers, flirtatious laughter, gum smacking against teeth—and none of it cut through the weight sitting on his chest. He was officially marked.

Community service. Tutoring. The damn school play.

He could already feel his popularity leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire. It wasn’t like he cared. Not really. Except, of course, he did—at least a little. He liked his comfort zone, liked being untouchable. But now he was stuck playing the school’s poster boy for “bad decisions and second chances,” with the town reverend’s daughter glued to his side.

Speaking of which—

“Logan.” That voice—soft, measured, not quite demanding—cut through the crowd.

He turned slowly to find Emily Hayes standing behind him with her hands clasped neatly in front of her, a clipboard tucked against her chest.

“Rehearsals are in the auditorium after last period. I assume you remember.”

“I was hoping you’d forget,” he said dryly.

“I don’t forget things,” she replied simply.

Logan rolled his eyes and pushed off the lockers. “You gonna carry that clipboard everywhere?”

“It helps me stay organized,” she said, unfazed. “And I find it comforting.”

He looked at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “You’re weird.”

Emily smiled gently. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

By the time last period ended, Logan was ready to climb the walls. His friends had all bailed on him at lunch—too nervous to be seen with someone doing “Reverend rehab,” as they’d jokingly called it—and he’d had to endure two hours of geometry next to an underclassman who smelled like tuna sandwiches.

He made his way reluctantly to the auditorium, kicking a loose piece of paper as he went. When he stepped inside, the scent of old velvet and dust hit him like a wall. The stage lights were dimmed, casting long shadows on the worn wooden floor. A handful of students gathered at the front—most of them drama club types with hopeful eyes and expressive hand gestures. Definitely not his crowd.

And then there she was. Front and center. Clipboard in hand.

Emily looked perfectly at ease as she explained the scene setup to Ms. Garber, the drama teacher. Her voice carried a calm, patient rhythm. She wore a long pale yellow cardigan over a navy dress, her hair half-tied back in a way that framed her face like something out of a painting.

She didn’t notice Logan at first.

He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed. Watching.

When she did catch his eye, she walked over without hesitation.

“You’re late.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the same thing as being on time.”

He gave her a sarcastic grin. “You going to punish me?”

Emily ignored the bait. “You’ll be reading for the male lead.”

Logan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“The play is The Christmas Angel. You’ll be reading the role of Tom Thornton.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will,” Ms. Garber said, approaching behind Emily. “Mr. Brooks, this is part of your community service. And if I may add, it wouldn’t hurt to try something that doesn't involve near-death experiences.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He didn’t have a choice. He grabbed the script Emily held out with a muttered, “Whatever.”

The read-through was agonizing.

Logan stumbled through his lines with a mix of irritation and boredom, while Emily—standing across from him—read hers with soft clarity. She wasn’t trying to act. She just was. And somehow, it made the words feel more real.

In the middle of one exchange, their characters were meant to lock eyes. Logan glanced up, expecting the same dull neutrality he gave everyone.

But Emily looked straight into him.

And for one weird second—just a flicker—he forgot to speak.

After rehearsal, as everyone packed up their things, Emily approached him again.

“You’ll need to practice,” she said.

“I’m not planning on taking this seriously.”

“You should. There’s more to you than what you pretend to be.”

He laughed dryly. “And you figured that out already? What are you—some kind of psychic nun?”

“I pay attention,” Emily said. “You might try it sometime.”

She turned to walk away, leaving Logan staring after her, oddly unsettled.

Something about her didn’t fit. She didn’t chase him. Didn’t beg for his attention. Didn’t try to impress. She just was, and that seemed to bother him more than anything.

Later that night, as Logan sat in his room tossing a baseball against the wall, the script open and ignored beside him, he caught himself thinking about the look in her eyes when they’d read that scene.

She hadn’t been acting.

That much he knew.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan Brooks wondered if maybe he didn’t know everything after all.

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End of Chapter Two

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