"Thank you, New Jersey!"

I wave playfully toward the left side of the stage, then to the right, a grin plastered on my face until the stage begins to lower, taking me out of sight. As soon as I'm below the surface, I exhale, my chest finally loosening after what felt like an eternity.

Crying in front of seventy thousand people wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. It definitely could have been worse.

When I started breaking down during the fourth song, the crowd took over, their voices carrying the rest of the lyrics while I stood there, completely unraveling. They went wild. The roar that followed shook the entire stadium. I think they thought I was crying for a different reason—because they all still think August cheated on me, not because of the mess I've made of everything.

But somehow, I managed to push through the rest of the concert. Half the songs were sung with tears still streaking down my cheeks, but by then, I was smiling through it. They didn't seem to mind.

I might regret it all tomorrow, though—when every video of me crying on stage is all over the internet, dissected and reshared a million times.

"You were amazing, Maisie," I hear Andrea say as the platform comes to a stop. A stagehand is immediately at my side, steadying me as I step off the stage lift. They press a tissue into my hand for the leftover tears streaking my cheeks. Thank God for Anna—whatever magic she worked on my makeup has somehow kept it perfectly intact.

Andrea is exactly where I left her when the concert began, stationed at her post like she hasn't moved an inch, but now Rachel is at her side again.

My eyes sweep the area quickly, but there's no August.

And I feel it all over again. The realization crashes into me. A truth that wedges itself beneath my ribs, burrowing deeper. He didn't come. August didn't come. If he were here, Andrea would have had him right here waiting for me.

I know I told her I didn't want to know if he came. I thought maybe, if I didn't let myself wonder, I could focus better on performing—that I could make it through tonight without spiraling. But it didn't stop me. I spiraled anyway, my eyes scanning the crowd, hoping that after everything, he was still out there somewhere, watching.

Maybe August was just lost in the sea of faces or tucked away in the VIP tent, hidden from view. That the lights were too blinding, the darkness too thick, swallowing everything beyond the first few rows. That had to be why I didn't see him.

I feel the pressure start to build behind my eyes, and I bite the corner of my lip, desperate to hold it back.

"Is there anything you need?" Andrea says as I approach. Her lips press into a thin line, the iPad clutched tightly to her chest as her eyes scan my face like she's trying to gauge how I'm doing.

I shake my head listlessly, pulling out my in-ears and handing my mic to someone from the audio team for tomorrow. "Just a car to take me back to the hotel."

All I really want is to disappear under the weight of the hotel's thick comforter, to curl up in a dark, quiet room, cry until I'm empty, and pretend the world doesn't exist—at least until I have to do it all over again tomorrow night.

"Alright," Andrea says, her and Rachel trailing behind me as we head back to the dressing room, everyone I pass offering a tentative congratulations. I force a smile, murmuring thank-yous that feel hollow in my throat. "Why don't you change out of the costume and into something comfortable? I'll have a car ready whenever you're set."

I nod as we reach my dressing room, and Rachel's hand moves to the door handle to open it for me. But from the corner of my eye, I catch the faintest curve of her lips—a small, giddy smile. My brows furrow as I glance at her, confused.

She quickly blinks down at the handle, her smile vanishing just as Andrea says, "Take your time. Let us know when you're ready. We'll wait out here."

Rachel swings the door open, and when I look up, all the air rushes out of my lungs. My heart stutters. Because standing there, right in the middle of my dressing room, is August.

"Hi, Maisie," he says softly.

I could cry just at the sight of him. God, he looks... well, devastatingly handsome. He's in jeans, a simple white shirt that stretches across his chest tucked beneath that tan coat, his mess of waves on his head. I want to reach out, rake my hands through it, and pull him closer—close enough to press my mouth to his and lose myself in the taste of him, until I can't remember what it was like to be apart.

"August," I breathe, his name catching in my throat as I take two hurried steps toward him. But he holds out his hand, stopping me in my tracks, and I freeze.

"Wait," he says, and my heart lodges in my throat. I blink hard against the sting behind my eyes.

Oh—I get it now. I understand why he's here. Why he wasn't out in the audience. Why he wasn't waiting for me backstage. He's come to tell me this is it—that our friendship is over. That after everything, after all the lines we've crossed, he can't do this anymore. And how can I blame him?

I glance away from August, my eyes settling on his Red Sox hat sitting on the makeup counter—the one I had been wearing when I walked in for sound checks. The one I'm not giving back. Because if that's all I have left of him when he leaves, I'm keeping it. I fixate on the hat, willing the tears burning behind my eyes to stay put. Crying in front of August feels infinitely worse than breaking down during a concert in front of a stadium full of strangers.

I swallow hard and glance fleetingly at his face, just as he reaches into the front pocket of his tan jacket and pulls out the tiniest... cat?

I gasp, unwittingly closing the distance between us as I reach for the kitten.

"You were right," he says, clearing his throat as he hands it over. Its smoky gray fur is impossibly soft, and its bright blue eyes are wide and curious. It's so tiny I can hold it with one hand. I huff, trying to swallow the lump rising in my throat because it's unbearably cute, and I'm dangerously close to crying. I want to take it home. I want to keep it forever. "I mean about the cat. It must have been hiding in the foot of space under my porch."

"I told you it was a kitten," I mumble into its fur.

He nods, dragging a palm over his jaw. "You did."

"Does it have a name?" I ask, frowning at the absurd thought of August naming a cat without me.

"No."

"Hi, kitty," I whisper to the kitten as it bats at my nose with one tiny paw. My chest tightens, and I hold it closer, already deciding I'm not giving it back. Or, at the very least, we're negotiating shared custody. He can have weekends. I'll take weekdays. I'll fly it back and forth on my jet if I have to. Maybe it'll be the only excuse for him to see me, and maybe that'll be enough for me. I can survive on those few seconds every week—when we exchange the kitten.

I press a kiss to the top of its head. The decision is made.

"I thought maybe you might want to be the one to name it," he adds.

"I do want to name it."

I'm already running through a list of names in my head, mentally thinking through how I'll shuttle this kitten back and forth on my jet, when August's voice cuts through. "I watched your interview on The Tonight Show."

My eyes snap to his, wide with panic, before I quickly blink back down to the kitten. My throat feels dry, my pulse hammering in my ears. I'd been hoping—praying, really—that he'd never lay eyes on that segment.

"Oh?" I rasp out. "You did?"

"I did."

"Did you like my dress?" I deflect, scratching two fingers between the kitten's ears. "It was made by—"

"Who are your songs written about?" he cuts in, stepping closer.

"Oh, um..." I trail off, wiping a tear I didn't even realize had fallen. I take a half step back, pressing the kitten to my face like a fur shield. I kiss its tiny head again, trying to buy myself a moment. "What do you mean?"

He takes another step forward, and I take a half step back, his hand reaching out to gently take the kitten from my arms.

"Hey," I protest, watching as he sets it down on the couch against the wall, its tiny paws kneading the fabric until it finds a spot it likes to lay down. "I was holding my kitten."

A small smile tucks at the corner of his lips. "Your kitten?"

"Yes," I say with a firm nod. "I've decided. We'll share custody."

"Custody?"

"You can have the weekends when I'm doing concerts," I say with a half-shrug, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "I'll take the weekdays while you're at work."

"I don't want to share cu—" He stops himself, shaking his head like he knows I'm trying to derail the conversation. He drags a hand over his mouth, steadying himself before looking back at me, eyes as serious as ever. "Who are all your songs about, Maisie?"

"I don't know what you're ask—"

"You know exactly what I'm asking," he interjects.

"I mean..." My voice wobbles, and something about August's expression softens just a fraction. "Does it matter? They're just songs, Gus."

"It matters to me."

I glance over at the kitten running through my options. I could lie again, like I have before—but he's seen the interview now. And that really only leaves me with two choices now: I tell him the truth, or I move to Europe and start a new life far away from the humiliation of my best friend, who has told me he no longer wants to be my friend, discovering I've secretly been in love with him for the last ten years. I think they like me in Europe, right? I'd have to steal the kitten, of course, but I think I could convince Ryan to hold August back long enough for me to grab it.

But that would mean never seeing August again.

The thought of never seeing him again presses down on my chest like a weight, squeezing tighter and tighter until I have to close my eyes against the pressure building behind them.

"Maisie," August says quietly. I blink my eyes open to him, everything blurry at the edges. "Tell me—"

"You." The word bursts out of me, and a sob breaks from my chest as I bring my hand up to cover my mouth. I shake my head, a tear slipping free before I manage to mumble through my fingers, "They're all about you."

He stares at me for what feels like forever, long enough that the silence starts to claw at my chest. He's shocked—no, angry, humiliated? Maybe confused. But I can feel it, the moment it sinks in, the weight of my mistake. It sends a sour feeling rolling through my stomach. I should have just called Andrea in here. Told her to pack my things, to get the jet ready to fly me off to Europe.

Because, of course, he doesn't want this. He's probably freaking out, and why wouldn't he be? I was supposed to be his best friend. The person he could count on without complication, without all this... mess. Instead, I've dragged him into fake dating me, somehow convinced him to cross that invisible line into something far more intimate than what friends are supposed to be, and then went and confessed that every love song I've ever written is about him.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out, my voice trembling. "I know it's probably, like, a violation of your privacy, but... they're all about you."

"Maisie," he whispers, my name wrapped in something so earnest it makes my chest ache. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh—a quiet, resigned sound that seems to say, I wish I could feel the same, but I don't.

That sour feeling in the pit of my stomach twists, pulling tight, and my gaze drops to the sequins of my dress from the last set of the concert. I focus on their muted sparkles, willing myself not to burst into tears.

"August," I rush out, desperate to salvage whatever's left of us. "I know I've said this before, but we can forget everything from these last few months. If that's what you want, we can go back to just being friends. I swear, I have no problem with that. I'll even write an official statement—an affidavit—if Gwen—" I pause, squeezing my eyes shut briefly before sucking in a shuttered breath. "Or whoever it is you end up with—doesn't trust us to stay just friends."

"I don't want to end up with Gwen, Maisie."

"Sure, you say that now, but..." I trail off, the thought catching in my throat. He will end up going back to her. If him going after her the other day wasn't a clear enough sign, then I don't know what is. I glance around the room, grasping for the words that won't make me sound like I'm drowning in heartbreak. "Eventually, you'll end up with someone else, and, um, that's fine. I mean, I'll even agree to supervised visitations. Lucy can be our chaperone—"

"Along with shared custody of the cat?"

"Yes, along with shared custody of the cat," I repeat, nodding fervently as I swipe a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand. "Whatever it takes, August. I've made a lot of mistakes; I know I have, but... I just—I can't lose you."

He stares at me, his expression unreadable through my blurry tears, before shaking his head lightly. "And how's that supposed to work when I know every single one of your love songs are written about me?"

"Oh, um... we can pretend they're not. Sure, I love you, but—" I choke on a sob, the words sticking in my throat. It's the first time I've ever told my best friend I love him. "—I can love you just as a friend, too, August. I've done that for nine years. Almost ten now. I'm really good at it."

"I already told you I don't want to be your friend."

"Right." I nod, my gaze dropping to my midnight blue ankle boots. I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that might somehow stop the ache in my chest. "I, um... I remember."

"Maisie," he says after a moment, and when I blink my eyes open, I find him closer than before. "The only reason I went after Gwen that day was because she thought I'd been cheating on her—with you."

"That's ridiculous," I let out with a wet laugh, swiping at my face as my gaze drops to his jacket. I stare at the spot where the kitten was nestled in his pocket. Why would Gwen even think that? I had gone out of my way to keep my distance when they were dating. I barely even hugged August when I saw him. "Why would she think that?"

"I think there are a lot of reasons why she thought that," he says, his hand lifting tentatively to brush a wisp of hair from my face. "Things I think were my fault. But mostly because of something you said on The Tonight Show. About dating someone for months before we broke up."

"Oh." I grimace, the realization hitting me as he gently swipes a tear from my cheek. I have to fight the urge to lean into his touch, to bury my face in his chest, and let him hold me until everything feels okay again. "Andrea really shouldn't allow me to be on talk shows anymore."

I hadn't really thought about it before—the timeline. The overlap of my fake relationship with August and his breakup with Gwen. At the time, I was too busy trying to dig myself out of the mess I'd made, too focused on making sure August never found out about my feelings for him.

"I don't want to end up with Gwen, Maisie. And when I told you I don't want to be your friend, it's because—" I feel his hand touch my chin, tipping it up so I'm forced to look at him. He's so close now that all I see are warm chocolate-brown eyes, those flecks of amber. His gaze traces every inch of my face—from my eyes to the edge of my jaw—before his thumb brushes over the corner of my lips. He whispers, "Because I'm in love with you, Maisie."

The words hit me so suddenly, so shockingly, that I almost stumble backward through the door, into the hallway. I must have misunderstood—no, there's no way I heard that right. He didn't just say—

"I love you," he repeats, his voice steady. "And I've missed you these last few days. If I'm being really honest, I fucking hate being friends with you. I think it sucks."

I blink at him, nodding absently, like my body is trying to respond before my brain catches up. I stare, mute, as the corners of his mouth curve into the faintest smile. He thinks my reaction is funny. Or maybe... maybe he's joking. He has to be joking.

"That's what I meant when I said I didn't want to be your friend." His thumb trails lightly over the swell of my cheek, his eyes searching mine, waiting for the gears in my head to start turning and catch up. "I want to be a whole lot more than just your friend, Maisie."

"Are you... Are you sure?" I whisper, my voice barely audible as I swallow nervously. "You're not just, like, hypnotized by my singing or something? I know how obsessed you are with my voice. You might just feel like this for an hour until it wears off."

He huffs out a laugh. "Maisie, it hasn't worn off since the first time I saw you in Hannigan's. Since I saw you standing there with those pink strawberry barrettes that you always used to wear in your hair and those Converse sneakers, you wore up until, like, four years ago. The ones with the little yellow and pink flowers you doodled on them. Since I thought your name was Debbie O'Connell because you had the wrong name tag pinned to your apron. And I convinced myself I could learn to love the name Debbie," he says, and a wet laugh bubbles out of my chest. "You know I'd just wander around after school, hoping to see if you were working?"

"No, you wouldn't," I huff out in disbelief, a tear slipping down my face.

"I would. I used to have a closet full of Monsters from all the times I'd go in there just to have an excuse to see you." He brushes a tear away with the pad of his thumb. "I spent years thinking you'd never want me that way. Years trying to convince myself to get over the fact that I'd never have you. Years wasted thinking you only ever wanted me as a friend. But it's you, Maisie. It's always been you. Every time. I've made a lot of mistakes. I haven't handled anything the way I should've. But not telling you the moment I knew how I felt, trying to move on without telling you—that was the biggest mistake of all. And if you'll let me... I'd really like the chance to make up for the last nine years."

I shake my head in disbelief that this is even happening, and his face shifts, his eyes faintly worried, that crease between his brows creasing. There's nervousness there, a hint of sadness too. I think maybe he's panicking now. He just spilled his heart out, and I'm standing here, staring at him in shock—speechless.

"Look, Maisie," he starts, swallowing hard. "I know people in your life haven't always stuck around or that they've had to leave you. And that it's a big deal for you, the idea of people leaving—you, being alone. But you have to know, I'm not going anywhere. If it's reassurance you're looking for—if you need to hear it from me—I'll say it as many times as it takes. I'm here. I've spent almost a decade wanting you. And if being your best friend, being by your side all these years, isn't enough to prove that, then I have no problem getting down on one knee right now and asking you to spend forever with me."

A shocked laugh chokes out of me. I watch as the tips of his ears tinge pink, and a bashful look spread across his face. I reach for him, my hands sliding to his waist and fisting into the fabric of his shirt beneath his jacket before he has time to say anything else.

"As great as that sounds," I say, tucking my smile into his shoulder, "I think I'd just really like to date you for now, if that's okay."

"Oh, good," he breathes. I lean back just enough to see his face, greedy for every detail after being without him these past few days. August loves me. He's loved me all this time. The thought settles over me, warm and certain, like the first light of morning. His hand moves, cupping my jaw before pressing a kiss to my head. "Because I'm pretty sure Clara and Lucy would've murdered me if they found out that's how I proposed."

I laugh against him, weightless, but before I can respond, he leans closer, closing the last bit of space between us. His lips press against mine, and I melt into his arms.

"I love you, Maisie," he whispers against my lips.

"I love you, August," I sigh, and I can feel the curve of his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, drawing one out of me, too. He bends slightly, slipping his hand beneath my thigh and lifting me effortlessly off the ground. My arms loop around his neck, anchoring me to him as his words settle deep in my chest.

"I love you so much."

This time, when he kisses me, it doesn't feel like goodbye. It doesn't feel like a mistake or a secret I have to tuck away and pretend not to want. It feels like the beginning of something true—something I've always been waiting for. The start of everything I've ever dreamed of.