Logan - a Preston Brothers Novel: A More Than Series Spin-Off

by Jay McLean

“Are you two exclusive?”

  “No,” I say quickly, then take a breath. “Okay, so we hooked up before I left for Cambodia, right? Three weeks pass and we don’t see each other—”

  “Because you were gone those three weeks?”

  “Yes. And then when I get back, we bump into each other again and… you know…”

  “Have sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she thinks you were with someone while you were away?”

  “Yes. And with a different someone when I got back. I guess she overheard things and jumped to conclusions.”

  “And I just want to confirm, you weren’t exclusive?”

  “Right.”

  “So… why the guilt?”

  “Because…” I shrug. “Because it upset her, I guess, and I didn’t like seeing her upset, even though I didn’t do anything.”

  “Have you told her you didn’t do anything?”

  I nod. “Last night, after the whole treating-Lachlan-like-shit thing.”

  “And that’s the first time she mentioned it to you?”

  “No.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “When did she tell you about what she thought she knew?”

  “Like, two weeks ago.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  “I…” I look down at my hands and sigh again. “I walked away.”

  “And is that where the sorry part comes in? Are you sorry for walking away?”

  “Part of it, I guess.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “I treated her worse than I did Lachlan. I said some shit that… Jesus.” I scrub my hands across my face, frustrated that it had to come to this. “I said some horrible shit.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mary.”

  She exhales loudly. “Mary’s not a reason or an excuse, Logan. Why?”

  I rush out, “Because I was mad at her for thinking those things about me.”

  “Logan,” she says, her voice stern enough for me to face her. “Can you blame her for thinking those thoughts?”

  Another sigh. “I guess not.”

  “Right.” Amanda nods, focuses on the pen scrawling across her notepad. I sit up higher, try to read what she’s writing, but she just smiles, turns the page closer to her. “Your dad seemed pretty worried when he called me this morning.”

  “Yeah, I had um…”

  “He likes to call it an episode,” she murmurs. “And, we, in the psychology world, like to call this” —she points to me—“a breakthrough.”

  “How the fuck is this a breakthrough?”

  “Because you like a girl, Logan. You care about someone that isn’t a member of your family. And that’s a big deal for you. Your guilt, sorry, disappointment—they all have one thing in common.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  She smiles full force. “They all belong to you. Which means, you have the power to change them.”

  Aubrey

  The Preston estate (according to Google Maps) is huge. The Preston house? Not as extravagant as I thought it would be. Why I pictured crystal chandeliers and white marble floors, I have no idea. It’s big, yes, but it’s also cozy. Warm. Familial. Framed pictures of every one of the kids (from every year, I suspect) hang on the wall next to the staircase, the lower as infants, leading right up to what I assume is now, but I can’t see from just inside the door. Mr. Preston’s walking ahead of me, boxes upon boxes of pizza in his grasp. Behind me, Lachlan says, “You can go inside, you know?”

  “Right.” I put one foot in front of the other, while I look at the pictures, trying to work out who each one is, trying to remember all their names.

  “It’s in age order,” Lachlan says. “Logan’s right in the middle, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

  I was, I realize too late, and the admission has me disappointed in myself. “I was looking for you, you goofball.”

  “Sure.”

  I pass a dining room that looks like it hasn’t been used as its purpose for a while. Computers and camera equipment sit on the table instead, and I assume it’s where the twins do their thing. The kitchen is about the size of my entire house, with a large table in the middle. I count ten chairs before a boy I’ve only ever seen through a computer screen says, “Lachy’s bringing his girlfriends home now? Starting young, huh?”

  Mr. Preston laughs, and Lachlan shakes his head. “She’s my friend,” he says and then points to the other boy. “This is Liam.”

  I raise my hand in a wave. “I’ve seen a few of your videos. You guys are so entertaining.”

  He smiles wide. “Thanks.” And then Mr. Preston dumps the pizzas on the table and they all sit down and begin to eat like boys do—as if it’s a race to the finish. I’m barely through one slice when Mr. Preston’s on his fourth, and I smile to myself when Liam pours two sodas in a glass and sets one next to him. “You’re welcome,” he says, and I giggle out loud. I can’t help it.

  Lachlan says, “I told you.”

  And Liam asks, “Told her what?”

  And Mr. Preston states, “Linc’s not here.”

  And Liam says, “Oh.”

  And then the back door opens, and my heart drops, and Logan’s walking into the house, head lowered, Chicken by his side. He says, “Whose turn is it to wash the pig? He stinks.” When no one answers, he looks up, his eyes immediately finding mine.

  I stand. “I’ll leave.”

  “Stay,” begs Lachlan.

  Mr. Preston says, “I thought you had an appointment.”

  Logan responds, “I did. We finished up early.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me.

  Liam says, picking up his plate, “We’re going to the editing room.”

  “Linc’s not here,” Lachlan says.

  “Oh.”

  I pick up my phone and keys off the table. “Thank you for dinner,” I tell Mr. Preston. “It was very nice of you to invite me.” I’m tapping at my phone, loading the Uber app.

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” he says.

  Lachlan tugs on my sweatshirt. “Stay.”

  And then Logan’s clearing his throat. “You should stay,” he says. “I’ll go.”

  “No one is going,” Mr. Preston mumbles. “Sit down. Everyone. Eat your food.”

  I hold up my phone. “My Uber’s already on its way.”

  “What the hell’s a Goober?”

  “Uber,” Liam laughs out. “It’s the new taxi cab, or in your case, horse and carriage.”

  “Watch your mouth,” Mr. Preston warns, but he’s kidding, the smile on his lips proof.

  Logan opens the back door, lets Chicken out. Lachlan says, “It’s my turn to wash him. I’ll do it after dinner.” He turns to me. “You want to help?”

  “But my Uber…”

  “Cancel it.” Logan jerks his head toward Lachlan. “He wants you here. I’ll get the bath ready.”

  As soon as we hear the front door close, Lachlan turns to me, whispers, sadness linked to his words, “You should talk to him.”

  Liam asks, “You know Logan?” Then he rolls his eyes. “Of course, you know Logan. What girl doesn’t?”

  “Liam,” his dad says. Another warning, only this one’s serious.

  I cancel my Uber and eat another slice of pizza while the boys devour multiples, and then Lachlan stands, puts his hand on my shoulder. “You ready?”

  Inside the Preston garage is a large kiddy pool already filled with water. Around the pool is some kind of contraption like they have at dog groomers with a belt that goes below the dog’s tummy to keep them in place. Next to the contraption stands Logan Preston. Usually tall, proud, and cocky, he stands with his hands in his pockets, his head lowered. He’s not wearing a cap. Instead, his dark hair sways in all different angles, directions, chunks of it higher than others, as if he’s been pulling, tugging on the ends. He asks Lachlan, his voice low, “Where’s all his bath stuff?”

  “Shoot,” says Lachlan. “I’ll be right back.”
/>
  “I’ll come—” I start, but he’s already gone, sprinting away, and the kid’s fast. Super-human fast. There’s no way I could catch up with him. There’s no way I’d even try.

  “Red?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Logan sighs. “Aubrey, then. Will you talk to me?”

  I shake my head, cross my arms. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”

  “There’s a lot to say.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like… I don’t know. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Yeah? Because that’s an absolute contrast to the words you spoke yesterday, and if this is your version of an apology, it’s not good enough.” My voice is strong, unwavering. It should be. I’ve practiced these words on repeat all night. All day. I add, “If you were simply angry that I made assumptions without speaking to you first, then that’s fine. I’d understand that. But the things that you said to me, about me—they were horrible, Logan, vile, and I won’t ever understand it. And honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive you.”

  He licks his lips, tugs his hair, locks his eyes on mine. “I can’t be the only one to blame here, Red—I mean, Aubrey. You assumed that stuff and then you were gone, and not just gone gone, but, like, off-the-grid gone. Do you know how many times I tried calling you?”

  I stay silent, because I have nothing to say.

  “And I wasn’t with anyone—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I cut in.

  “Why? That’s how all this started, right?”

  “Because even if you did that stuff, it’s not like I could…” I exhale loudly and admit a truth I’ve been trying hard to deny. “It’s not like I could be that mad about it, you know? We never… you and me… we were never…” My words die in the air, while my insecurities come to life. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I look over my shoulder. “Where the hell is Lachlan?”

  When Logan doesn’t answer, I turn to him, my breath catching when I realize how close he’s gotten. He’s so close he could easily reach out, touch me. Please, God, don’t touch me.

  “Did you see what I was carrying the day I went to see you?”

  I shake my head, annoyed, my heart thumping wildly. Where the fuck is Lachlan?

  “Red, I—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Blue eyes blink, blink, blink. Then: “I had my work jacket.”

  “What?” I huff. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  He shrugs, his thumb going between his teeth, his lips moving around it. I think he says, “I don’t have a lemmami yacki.”

  “What?” I ask again, my eyes narrowed.

  He clears his throat, drops his hands. His words are clearer when he says, “I was never an upperclassman, so I don’t have a letterman jacket.” My heart, my world, stops the second realization hits. My mouth opens, but there’s no air in the atmosphere to jump start my pulse. Logan scratches the back of his head, and he’s nothing but wild hair and wild eyes and wild words. “I wanted to ask you to go steady, you know? Like you said that night. I wanted to ask you on Friday night, but… but you left.”

  “I don’t know what to say.” It’s barely a whisper.

  “Say yes, Red.” He steps forward, his hand reaching for me. Not my hand, but my wrist. “Please say yes.”

  My eyes drift shut when his fingertips brush my skin. “You called me a kiddy fiddler, Logan.”

  His touch is gone. “I should not have said that. I have… I have… issues.”

  “Maybe you should lay off the weed, then.”

  He laughs once. Bitter. “No shit.”

  Lachlan returns, bucket filled with bottles in his hands. His gaze switches between Logan and me when he says, “I can come back.”

  “No,” I rush out. Then look at Logan, repeat the same word, but with a completely different meaning. “No.”

  27

  Aubrey

  When I wake up the next morning, there’s a text waiting for me.

  Logan: Friends, then?

  Aubrey: No.

  There’s a reply almost immediately:

  Logan: You’re friends with my brother. So, that means… friends by association? That’s how we do it in the Preston house. It’s all of us or none of us.

  Aubrey: Please stop.

  Logan: One question.

  Aubrey: No.

  Logan: Last Thursday, after dinner with Lachy… if I’d come back that night and given you the stupid jacket, would you have said yes?

  I grip the phone tighter in my hand, release my frustration in the form of a moan. He’s asking all the right questions, but he’s asking at the wrong time, because it’s too damn late.

  I flip the script, switch the focus.

  Aubrey: Why does your dad call you self-destructive?

  A minute passes with no response, and so I get out of bed and into the shower, pretending not to be focused on my phone sitting on the counter. I stare at it, wait for it to light up, to vibrate. As soon as it does, I switch off the water, step out, and read the text.

  Logan: He said that, huh?

  Dripping wet and too anxious to care, I write:

  Aubrey: Answer my question.

  Logan: You answer mine first.

  “So fucking stubborn,” I mumble to myself, my thumbs flying across the screen, leaving a trail of water in their wake.

  Aubrey: Yes.

  …

  …

  …

  I chew on my thumbnail, tap my feet.

  …

  …

  …

  Aubrey: Why does your dad call you self-destructive, Logan?

  …

  …

  …

  Logan: Because it’s true.

  28

  Logan

  The problem with wanting something, or someone, is that you can’t control how long you keep them for.

  Even when my eyes are closed, scarlet replaces the darkness. I see her everywhere. Even in the places of my mind. The grocery store isn’t the same anymore. There are shades of scarlet in every aisle, taking up every inch. The ice cream freezer is nothing but Red, and every single tub of ice cream is Peanut Buttah Cookie Core. The roads are different somehow, and every sidewalk reminds me of her desolate face, the tears she shed when I ripped her apart. Her tears, too, are scarlet. Which is probably why when Dad asks me to pick Lachlan up from her store to take him to his specialist training, the first thing I do is tap my empty pocket in search of my mind’s only reprieve. My dad’s the one who thinks I’m “self-destructive,” and yet here he is, handing me the directions and a trigger to a ticking bomb. When I don’t respond, he adds, “I have an important meeting I need to get to, Logan. Please do this for me?”

  “Why can’t he just go to Lucy’s? I can pick him up from there.”

  Will says, smirking, “Is Aubrey an ex? I thought you and Joy—”

  I shake my head, glare at him. Will’s only a year older than me, and since Garray joined the crew, Old Man Niall has dubbed us “the fearsome threesome,” which is as dumb as Garray’s name.

  “He likes it at Aubrey’s,” Dad says with a shrug. “So? Will you get him or not?”

  When I don’t respond, Garray says, “I can pick him up for you, sir. Who’s Aubrey, anyway? Is she cute?”

  “I’ll go,” I say. “It’s fine.”

  It’s not fine. And with every second that ticks by, the un-fine-ness of it all gives me more and more anxiety. A half hour before I have to leave, I call Lucy. “Can’t you just pick him up from there, like, five minutes before I have to get him?”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Luce,” I sigh out. “You’re not fucking busy. You’re never busy. That store is your own personal library. No one even reads for pleasure anymore, and half this town is illiterate.”

  “Aubrey reads for pleasure. She’s part of our book club. Last week, the girls and I all went to her house.”

 
In my mind, Aubrey’s house is the brightest shade of scarlet. So bright it’s almost blinding.

  I sigh again. “Just pick him up for me.”

  “No, Logan. You play stupid games…” she trails off, and I don’t need to hear the rest to know the ending: you win stupid prizes.

  The glass door to Aubrey’s shop is heavy—as heavy as my legs that unwillingly dragged me here. Aubrey looks up from her spot behind the counter, her eyes widening when she sees me. I nod at her, switch my focus to Lachlan. “Are you ready, buddy?” My gaze fights to stay on him, but it deceives me, moving to Aubrey again. She’s wearing a white blouse beneath a mustard sweater, suspenders, and when she moves around the counter to help Lachlan pack his shit, I notice the short skirt attached to said suspenders, and black thigh-high socks. Her hair’s up today; like a librarian’s bun—scarlet upon scarlet upon scarlet—and she looks so fucking cute I almost tell her that. Almost. I stop myself at the last second and take Lachlan’s backpack when he hands it to me, but I can’t take my eyes off Aubrey. I want to say so many things in such little time and I want to be so many things in such little space and I miss her, but I get it and I want her but I shouldn’t and—

  And…

  I am conflict.

  But then she smiles.

  At me.

  Because she is hope.

  “She asked about you today,” is the first thing Lachy says when he gets in my truck. “Which is weird, because she hasn’t mentioned you at all since… you know… that night.”

  I force air into my lungs. “Oh yeah?” I try to play it cool but blood rushes to my face, and I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel so hard my fingers cramp. “What—I mean, what—what—what—” Fuck. I take another breath. “What did she say?”

  Lachy’s removing his sneakers, replacing them with his spikes, and I pull out of the spot, almost run down Old Lady Laura.