Page 18 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MADDY

The stillness crowds in, the walls seeming to inch closer with every breath. Each tick of the clock is a reminder of my stubbornness, a soundtrack to the cold shoulder I've perfected. I've frozen Mason out with ruthless efficiency, and for what?

For being the man Mrs. Patterson said he was, a calculating, dangerous individual. But then ... there are the Jacksons. The sheer terror of being cornered by them, the sudden, undeniable relief when Mason appeared, stepping between me and disaster. He didn't rescue me. He protected me.

And his lies. So smooth, so practiced. I've written it off as evidence of his deceitful nature, yet a new thought begins to gnaw at me.

What if it isn't malice, but training? A lifetime of navigating tricky situations, of controlling narratives, has honed that ability to a razor's edge.

It doesn't make the lies okay, but it changes the why.

He isn't necessarily a liar by nature, but by necessity.

The more I replay the events of the last few days, the more jumbled everything becomes.

The magnetic pull of his kiss, the genuine fear he stirred in me, the absolute heroism he showed at River Bend and around the Jacksons.

It's like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, only the peg keeps changing shape right in my hands.

I thought I had him figured out, tucked neatly into the "bad guy" box, but he keeps breaking out, showing me glimpses of a different man.

A frustrated growl escapes me. I'm furious, not with him anymore, but with myself.

For being so rigid, for letting Mrs. Patterson's whispered fears and my own assumptions paint him in such stark, unyielding colors.

Have I been so blinded by a single narrative that I've missed all the others?

Have I dismissed the undeniable chemistry, the genuine concern I've seen in his eyes, because they didn't fit in my neat little box?

I stare out the rain-speckled window, watching droplets race each other down the glass, and like an unwanted guest, Daniel slips into my thoughts.

I remember how he made it look like support.

Like belief. He brought me coffee during late nights, asked thoughtful questions, praised my wildest ideas.

I thought he saw me. But underneath every gesture was a hook.

His interest was strategy. His kindness, camouflage.

He didn't encourage my dreams, he harvested them.

Pulled them out piece by piece until they were no longer mine.

Mason's nothing like that. He's intense, yes.

Guarded. Sometimes a little too precise for comfort.

But he doesn't ask for things he hasn't earned.

When he steps in, it's not to take the reins, it's to steady the ground.

His advice doesn't come wrapped in manipulation.

It comes with an edge of honesty, like he doesn't know how to pretend.

There's a protectiveness in him. It's not simple, it comes with shadows and questions I don't know how to answer, but it doesn't feel cold. It doesn't feel like a setup.

And maybe that's the hardest part. I've gotten so used to betrayal wearing a friendly face that I don't always know what to do with sincerity when I see it.

Maybe trust isn't about silencing the part of me that's afraid.

Maybe it's about learning how to tell the difference.

My hand trembles as I pick up my phone, my thumb hovering over Mom's contact. I need her, need her grounded perspective, her ability to see the world in shades of gray. This isn't a decision I can figure out on my own.

The phone rings twice. "Hey, sweet pea. Everything okay?"

My voice cracks. "Mom. I ... I need you. I really need you."

A beat of silence, then her voice softens, the easygoing lilt giving way to a more serious tone. "Come home, baby. Your favorite Chinese takeout is on its way. We'll talk."

I sniffle, a tiny laugh escaping me. Mom always knows.

The thought of General Tso's chicken and her presence is enough to loosen the knots in my chest. I grab my keys, leaving the oppressive silence behind, heading toward the one place I know I'll find clarity, Mom's kitchen, where wisdom comes with a side of extra-spicy dumplings.

I pull into the driveway, the familiar scent of damp earth and pine from the River Bend woods doing little to soothe the churn in my stomach.

I kill the engine but don't move, sitting here listening to the hum of the New York evening.

At this hour, Mom is usually still at The Cork & Crown, the vibrant energy of her bar spilling out onto Main Street.

We're ships that pass in the night, me up at dawn, her returning long after midnight, a quick note on the fridge often our only form of communication.

But tonight, Mom is home. A small, unexpected mercy.

I push open the front door, the house smelling faintly of soy sauce and garlic. I wouldn't be surprised if Mom's favorite wok is still hot, she always "doctors up" takeout before serving it, swearing everything tastes better once it's been in her wok.

"Mom?" I call out, my voice still a little shaky.

She emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her once-bustling, no-nonsense demeanor is softened tonight, her eyes zeroing in on my distress. "Hey, come on in, sit. Everything's ready."

I slide onto a stool at the kitchen island, pulling a stray fortune cookie from the takeout bag. I twist it open, but my gaze is fixed on her. "I ... I can't figure anything out. It's like ... everything I thought I knew about him, it's broken."

Mom pours us both a mug of her special chamomile tea, laced with a hint of ginger. She slides one across to me, its warmth seeping into my cold hands. "About Mason, I presume?" she asks gently, her voice free of judgment.

I nod, swirling the tea, steam curling beneath my nose.

"He ... he saved me from the Jacksons. Like he saved River Bend.

But then there's everything else. The way he lies without blinking.

The things people say about him. And I was so mad, Mom.

Gave him the cold shoulder, ignored his calls, acted like a complete ass, honestly.

" A quiet, self-deprecating laugh slips out.

"And now I feel stupid. Like I let myself get swayed by other people's fear instead of trusting what I saw right in front of me. "

Mom leans against the counter, her expression thoughtful.

"It's easy to see the world in black and white, honey.

Especially when things get scary. And people, they love a simple story.

A good guy, a bad guy. It makes the world feel safer, I suppose.

" She takes a sip of her tea, her gaze distant, as if remembering something.

"But life, and people, they're rarely that simple.

A person can be brave and flawed. They can make mistakes and still be capable of great kindness.

They can be shrewd and protective. All at the same time. "

I pick at a piece of General Tso's chicken, my brow furrowed.

"But how do you reconcile it? How do you put the man who kissed you, and the man who's done awful things, and the man who saved River Bend all into the same person?

It's like trying to jam puzzle pieces from three different boxes into one picture. "

Mom's eyes hold a knowing glint, almost playful.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it. It's not about fitting them into separate boxes.

It's about seeing the whole picture, even if it's messy.

My grandmother, she used to say, 'The truest mirror reflects not the face, but the soul. And the soul, it holds many seasons.'"

I stare at her, a new look in my eyes, not confusion, but curiosity. "So ... he can be all of those things? The good, the bad, the..."

I twist my mug between my hands. "I keep thinking about Mason, Mom. He's done so much for me, but … sometimes I wonder if I even know him. What if he's another Daniel?"

My mother's eyes soften. "Daniel hurt you, honey. He took your ideas and made you feel invisible, all while smiling sweetly."

I nod, lips pressed tight. "He seemed so supportive at first, but it was all for show. I don't want to be fooled again."

Mom reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. "I get why you're cautious. Daniel's kindness came with strings. But Mason? He doesn't hide who he is. You see the good and the flaws. That honesty, it's not a red flag. It's real."

She tilts her head, watching me closely. "Being vulnerable isn't the same as being na?ve," she says. "You know that, right?"

I nod, swallowing hard.

"The complicated ones?" She smiles. "They're often the most honest. And the most interesting."

Then she taps my chin like I'm still ten years old and about to cry over a lost spelling bee.

"You're not mad at him anymore," she says gently. "You're mad at yourself. For not seeing it sooner. For not letting it be messy."

I let out a long breath, surprising ease settling over me. "Yeah," I admit, my voice soft. "Yeah, I think I am. I think maybe I owe him an apology."

Mom nods in affirmation. "Well, that's a start. Now eat your cold noodles. They're not going to get any less sticky."

I snort, a genuine, unburdened laugh escaping me for the first time in days. "Mom, you always manage to ruin a profound moment with a comment about food."

"It's my gift," she says with a dramatic bow of her head, her eyes twinkling. "Now tell me everything about this Jackson thing, young lady. And don't skimp on the details."

I lean back on the stool, pulling my legs up and wrapping my arms around my knees.

"Okay, so picture this. I'm in full presentation mode, right?

I've got my projector set up, my fiber optics ready to go, and I'm painting this gorgeous picture of their daughter's proposal under a canopy of stars.

The Jacksons are sitting there like they're judging a dog show, all pursed lips and skeptical eyebrows. "

Mom settles in with her tea, prepared for the full performance.

"So I flip the switch on my fog machine, my beautiful, temperamental, has-a-death-wish fog machine, and instead of giving me this dreamy, ethereal mist, it lets out this horrific gurgling noise. Think dying walrus, Mom. A dying walrus with indigestion."

"Oh no," Mom says, but she's fighting back a laugh.

"Oh yes. Then it starts smoking, not the good, atmospheric smoke, but the your-equipment-is-literally-burning kind.

Mrs. Jackson's face goes from skeptical to horrified, and she's making these little disgusted sounds while waving her hand in front of her nose.

Mr. Jackson is looking at me like I set his money on fire. "

I grab a chopstick and use it to demonstrate, waving it dramatically.

"And I'm standing there, feverishly clicking buttons, thinking this is it, this is how my business dies, death by fog machine in front of the two pickiest people in River Bend.

I'm watching my reputation go up in smoke. Literally."

"And then?" Mom prompts, leaning forward.

"And then Mason appears. Like some corporate ninja.

One minute I'm drowning, and the next he's there, all composed and collected, talking to the Jacksons like this was part of some master plan.

He picks up my burnt wire, my evidence of complete failure, and somehow turns it into proof that we're thorough. "

I shake my head, still amazed. "Mom, he convinced them that my fog machine exploding was a good thing.

He made it sound like we deliberately broke it to show them how prepared we are for disasters.

It was like watching someone turn water into wine, except instead of wine, it was turning my humiliation into a selling point. "

"Impressive," Mom says, raising an eyebrow.

"I stood there with my mouth hanging open, or close to it, while he talked about backup protocols and redundancy systems and risk mitigation.

By the end, Mrs. Jackson was practically prepared to give us a five-star review for our 'incredible attention to detail.

'" I use air quotes, laughing. "They left talking about how reassuring it was to work with such professionals. "

I pause, my expression growing more thoughtful. "And then, after they left, I asked him why he did it. Why he helped me when he's seen so many things go wrong. And he said..." I trail off, the words still echoing in my mind.

"What did he say, sweet pea?"

"He said, 'Because each moment is another chance for us to do something right.'" I look at Mom, vulnerability creeping into my voice. "And I think that's when I realized I might have been wrong about it all."