"You really don't have to help with the dishes," Lucy says, grabbing the washed plate from my hands and drying it off with a towel.

"It's fine. There are only a few left anyway." Plus, I have a perfect view of August in his gray button-up and dark jeans, standing in the backyard with his dad. They're looking at the new Traeger grill his dad bought a few weeks ago. August is bending down to inspect it, and his butt is perfectly framed in my view through the kitchen window as I rinse the soapy suds off the plate.

After everyone found out about our fake dating situation and we swore them all to secrecy, we sat down for dinner. I trust them not to breathe a word—even Lucy. She may have spilled the beans to her family, but Lucy's too sweet and tender-hearted to hide anything from Clara. She's the type who would shoo a fly out the door instead of swatting it because it might have a family. But knowing Andrea, she'll probably still make everyone sign NDA forms, just in case.

August's parents didn't probe much into our staged relationship, but Clara's expression across the table while we ate Mrs. Williams' homemade lasagna—a recipe passed down through four generations of Italian women—made it clear she wasn't going to let it go easily.

After dinner, August and his dad went outside while his mom took a last-minute call for a client, leaving the rest of us girls to finish tidying up.

Clara clears her throat from the other side of me, and I tear my gaze away from August to look at her. She stands there with her unruly curly brown hair pinned back in a claw clip, holding a bottle of wine in the hand adorned with tiny stars, dots, and petal-like tattoos. She tilts her head at me with a smirk and I give her a forced smile back that hopefully says, I wasn't looking at anything. Especially not your brother's ass.

"More wine, Maisie?"

"Please."

I rinse off the last plate, dry my hands on the towel Lucy hands me, and take the glass of wine Clara pours. "Thank you."

"So, fake dating, huh?" Clara says. Her tone suggests she already knows the answer to whatever she's about to ask. She leans against the counter behind her, wine glass hovering near her lips. "What does that entail exactly?"

"Oh, well, we just have to go out a few times, make sure the paparazzi get some pictures. That sort of thing. Nothing too crazy." Except for the fact that it is crazy, and I can barely hold his hand without internally freaking out.

"Does that mean you have to, like, kiss and stuff with my brother?" Lucy asks as she slides the strawberry rhubarb pie she made earlier at Sugar Moon Bakery across the counter. She cuts three even slices and starts serving them on plates.

"Oh, um, well..." My voice comes out about four octaves too high. I shrug as nonchalantly as possible, though it feels like my shoulders reach all the way to my ears. I take a sip of wine. "I'm not sure."

"But I mean, you were holding hands when you walked in," she pauses, glancing at me as she licks the strawberry filling off her thumb before handing Clara a plate of pie, "so, like you have to be physically close, right?"

"Right," I say, lifting my wine glass to my lips to shield myself. "I mean, we might—most likely will have to. For the publicity."

Clara nods thoughtfully, humming as she takes a bite of pie. "So, how does that work when you're already in love with my brother?"

I inhale just as my lips touch the red wine in my glass, and I choke, sputtering out, "Excuse me?"

"Clara," Lucy scolds, her eyes widening. "She doesn't know that we know that."

I feel my face burn as wine drips off my chin, one drop soaking into the fabric of my jeans. Lucy quickly hands me a paper towel from by the sink. I dab the spot, still hacking out coughs.

"Of course, she knows we know," Clara says, patting my back as she glances over my shoulder to Lucy.

"I don't know, I've never talked to her about it... and look at her face," Lucy says, gesturing in a tight circle to my face with her fork. "It's all pink, just like on The Tonight Show when Ricky asked if the rumors were true."

Oh god. I shake my head, trying to inhale a deep breath. It gets caught in the back of my throat, sputtering out into another cough.

"Oh," Clara says, studying my face closely. "You really didn't know that we knew? I thought you knew we knew."

"I didn't—I'm not," I wheeze out, shaking my head at her and squeezing my eyes shut for a second. "That's not at all what—"

"See I told you," Lucy says, pausing to glance over at me. She is mid-spooning a ball of ice cream now. "Do you want ice cream with your pie?"

"I—um, yes please."

"I mean, we've always had our suspicions," Clara continues. "Right, Luce?"

Lucy nods her head side to side, plopping the ball of ice cream onto the plate and handing it to me with a fork.

Clara goes on, "I just thought that maybe you guys talked about it, and he turned you down or something. But then you stayed friends for so long, even when he was dating Gwen. For a long time, we thought maybe we were just reading the whole thing wrong until your last album came out. And what are the lyrics to that one song again?"

"Which one?" Lucy asks, scooping up a forkful of pie. "The one that goes I kept quiet so I could keep you, or the one about friends?"

"Oh, the friend's one. The part that goes..." Clara thinks for a moment, snapping her fingers before singing unashamedly off-key, "We weren't meant to be just friends 'cause when I close my eyes, you're mending my broken ends."

She stops singing to dip a piece of pie into her ice cream and takes a bite. I stand there with my plate in one hand and fork in the other, staring at the two of them in disbelief. Dumbfounded at how they could possibly know? I've certainly never told them before.

Has it been this obvious the whole time? I wonder, quickly followed by, Has August known this entire time and he's just been pretending like he doesn't?

"Oh, and then," Clara says with her mouth full. She swallows. "When you went on The Tonight Show the other night and talked about how it's all just your personal diary and everything. That's when I knew I was right about it all."

I must have some kind of look on my face because when she glances at me, she adds, "Oh, but don't worry Mace. August is clueless. You could literally have a neon sign over your head that says 'I'm in love with you' and he'd still be oblivious."

"That's, um... reassuring?"

"But what I don't get though," she muses, pointing her fork at me, "is why you just don't tell him. Or is it the masochism that's just good for songwriting or something?"

"I—"

"What's good for songwriting?" Lelia asks as she steps into the kitchen. She places her iPad and notebook on the desk behind us, tucking a strand of her salt-and-pepper, Andie MacDowell-like hair behind her ear.

"Pie," Clara responds without hesitation.

"Pie?" she questions, her gaze darting between her daughters. Clara—bless her—shows no sign of what we were just talking about, while Lucy stares down at her plate. When Lelia's eyes meet mine, I quickly stuff a sizable piece of pie into my mouth.

"Really good for the creative process," I manage to mumble through my bite.

"Oh," she says, her eyebrows furrowing. I hate lying to her; She can see right through me, I know it. Apparently, everyone can.

She nods thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side as she studies me while I chew. I quickly glance out the window hoping August is coming back, but he's still busy with his dad. "So, Maisie, how long are you in town for?"

I whip my head back over to her, swallowing my bite. "Oh, um, just until the tour starts. About five weeks."

"Are you planning on visiting your father since you're in town for a bit?"

"Oh," I say, caught off guard by the question. It's not what I expected her to ask, but it's a great one nonetheless. Considering the last time I saw my father was two years ago, I'd say the chances of visiting are slim.

The last instance I even heard from him was about a year ago. He sent a text message apologizing for missing our annual "family" dinner that I usually get invited to around this time of year and asked if I wanted to get lunch to make up for it. I'm not even sure why I'm invited to dinner in the first place. Maybe it helps ease his guilt for abandoning me and my mom, or maybe he feels bad that she passed and I have no one else left. My bet is that it's my stepmom's doing, just so they don't look bad in the press. Whatever the reason, he never responded when I said I'd love to have lunch, and I haven't heard from him since.

Maybe he's finally given up on me. With my mom being gone, there's no one left to force him to stay in touch. And he has made it abundantly clear in the past that he doesn't want any part of my fame for him and his family. That's now practically impossible to avoid.

"I, um, I haven't talked to him yet," I say, forcing out my best Yes, of course, I'm fine and no I don't have daddy issues face. It feels just like the face I give when I say Yes, of course, I'd love to take a picture with you.

"You haven't talked to him?" she asks, surprised.

"Um, no, not yet," I admit, feeling my smile falter knowing she sees straight through my façade. I look down at my fork and toy with the piece of pie mixing in with my ice cream, turning it a pretty pink. "Our schedules have never aligned very well."

She hums for a moment, regarding me. "And how does that make you feel?"

"Oh my god, Mom," Clara interjects just as the back door opens and August steps in. "Stop therapisting her!"

"Therapisting who?" August asks as he walks to me. He sees my plate of half-eaten pie and ice cream, then gently takes the hand that's under my plate and pulls it towards him. Taking my fork right out of my hand, he forks a bite of my pie into his mouth, a little bit of the strawberry filling smudging on the corner of his lips.

"Maisie and her dad," Clara says.

"Mom," August groans.

"It was a simple question," she says, holding her hands up innocently before she heads towards the porch outside.

All three of her kids roll their brown eyes before Clara adds, "There are never simple questions with you."

Lucy snorts out a laugh.

"Are you ready to head out?" August asks, taking another bite of my pie, this time with ice cream. The smudged filling is still on the corner of his mouth, and I have this undeniable urge to lick it right off his face. But instead, to my horror, my hand unconsciously reaches up with the paper towel I used to clean my wine dribble, and I brush away the smudge from the corner of his mouth.

My eyes widen briefly at my actions, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Clara's smirk through her pierced lips, while Lucy's fork pauses mid-air, hovering between her lips.

I've never done that before. That's like girlfriend-level behavior, and we don't usually cross those lines (except maybe once or twice). We've always had strict unspoken boundaries: quick hugs, high fives, light shoves. I'll normally point it out or tell him ten minutes later that it's still on his face. I might as well have licked my thumb and wiped it off of him.

"You had— There was," I stutter out, "um... pie."

August looks at me, almost baffled, or maybe on the verge of a smile—I'm not sure. "Thank you."

"Mhmm," I murmur, nodding, willing my cheeks not to flush. "Uh, yeah, let's go."

"Oh, wait, Maisie," Lucy says, setting her plate down and straightening up from leaning against the counter. She clears her throat nervously. "Um, I was wondering if it would be possible for me and Clara to get tickets to your concert?"

"Jesus, Lucy," August interrupts. "Don't ask her that."

"What? Why?" Lucy's face turns a rosy shade of pink. "It's not like we didn't try to buy them online. They sold out within thirty minutes." She turns to me. "We'd even take nosebleed seats."

"Go buy them off someone else then."

"I'm sorry," Clara says, looking pointedly at August. She sets her plate down and crosses her arms. "Do you know how much tickets are reselling for? I'm sorry, Mace." She glances at me. "I love you, but I don't have an extra two grand lying around."

"August, will you relax," I say with a small smile, giving his crossed forearm a playful poke—I really need to keep my hands to myself. Turning to Lucy and Clara, I add, "I can get you seats up in the nosebleed section, but I have plenty of all-access passes that rarely ever get used."

Lucy's eyes light up with excitement. "Really?"

"Sure," I say, "but only if you guys come say hi to me after."

Lucy's squeal rings out as Clara teases August, "Don't be such a killjoy."

"I'm not a killjoy," he retorts. I glance up and meet August's eyes, his lips tilted down in a frown.

"What? Do you want a pass too?" I ask, my voice light, teasing. But then, quickly looking down at my now-empty plate, not wanting him to think I'm making assumptions as it would be past our six-week agreement. "Or two if... if you want to bring someone?"

"Why would he need two passes?" Clara asks. "Won't you be fake dating?"

"Um, no. Just until the tour starts," I explain to her, then turn to August. "I can get you two passes if you want, though."

"Just one is fine," he says, taking my plate and placing it in the sink. "We should head out."

"Yeah, okay," I say softly. I then say my goodbyes to Lucy, Clara, August's dad, and finally his mom, Lelia.

She places both hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length to get a good look at me. Her eyes search mine deeply before she says, "Your mother would be so proud, Maisie."

The words startle me unexpectedly, and I immediately have to choke back what feels like a sob.

August's mom had only met mine once. I had taken my mom to Hannigan's Market to grocery shop one afternoon. Mom was already so fragile at the time that I had tried to convince her to stay home, but she refused. We were wandering slowly down the cereal aisle when we ran into Lelia. After I introduced them, Lelia insisted we come over for dinner that night.

Mom agreed without my consent, and an hour later, we found ourselves seated on their back patio. When Lelia went inside to get a bottle of wine for her and my mom, I turned to her and asked, "Are you sure it's a good idea for you to drink?"

"Darling, I'm a dying woman, let me live a little." She had never been so blunt about it before. Her dying. We knew it was coming, but we never really talked about how long she had left. She grabbed my hand and continued more softly when she realized I was about to break down in tears, "Maisie, I'd like to have dinner with the mother of the boy you're practically in love with."

What I hadn't told her was that August had already broken my heart; he didn't see me that way. But I nodded anyway, and we sat there on the Williams family's patio, eating lasagna and drinking wine from the very same glasses etched with flowers and the same plates hand-painted with Sicilian fruits that we used tonight for dinner.

Mom was the only constant in my life, the only thing that mattered. She died before any of the fame. I had hardly written a song when she was well, and I wonder now what she would think of it all. What she would think of me. How ridiculous she'd find it, given that she didn't even like pop music (she was more of a '90s grunge kinda gal), or would she have loved it?

Leave it to Lelia Williams, intimacy therapist, to touch on all my family issues in one fell swoop.

I swallow the lump in my throat and look back at her before croaking out, "Thank you."

And for the third time tonight, I feel August's hand brush against mine, warm and light. Our fingers just barely tangling together, almost as if he can't help it but that can't be the case. I turn to look at him. He meets my eyes. Warm chocolate brown. Flecks of amber.

Practice, I remind myself. This is all practice.

"Let's get you home."

"Right," I breathe out. "Time to go."