by Becky Monson
Logan: Bungee jumping.
Me: No.
Logan: Swim with sharks.
Me: HELL NO.
Logan: Spelunking.
I had to Google that one. Exploring caves . . . small enclosed spaces.
Me: Pass.
Logan: I’ll keep looking.
Me: I signed a contract.
Logan: So?
I want to tell him all of this is pointless. I didn’t say yes to the trip because I was trying to be spontaneous. I signed up for it because I painted myself into a corner. And now, even if I wanted to get out of it, I couldn’t. There’s too much on the line. My job, Quinn’s job . . . a contract. I won’t deny I’ve thought about fleeing the state and starting my life over again. But that would be stupid. Mostly.
After about ten more texts from Logan, I leave my building and walk over to the Lava Java. Bypassing the coffee, I go straight to Logan’s booth and have a seat. He doesn’t notice me because he’s got earphones on and he’s peering down at his phone texting me. I know this because my phone beeps as I sit down.
I knock twice on the wood table that separates us to alert him to my presence. He looks up and pulls his earphones off, letting them hang around his neck like a DJ. Except that Logan would be the worst DJ ever. In all history. There would be no getting the party started with him.
“Stop bothering me,” I say, holding up my phone as it beeps again with another incoming text. I’m assuming—with the utmost confidence—that it’s from him.
The corner of his lip twitches upward. “I’m not giving up.”
“Well, you need to,” I say. “It’s happening.”
He huffs through his nose.
“Why do you care so much?” I ask, angling my head slightly to the side. I wanted to ask him this via text, but realized there’s no way to text that and have it come out sounding inquisitively like I wanted it to. It sounds mean any way you type it. Also, I really am curious why he cares. How did we go from barely talking to this?
“I just do,” he says.
“Well, I appreciate it. But really, I’m good,” I say, and I feel a bit confident in this statement and wonder if maybe I’m starting to come to terms with the whole thing. Then a picture of me being rolled up in an area rug and thrown in the Thames appears in my head and my hands start getting sweaty. Dang that Jim. As if I can’t scare myself enough on my own.
“I’d believe you if your face didn’t say otherwise,” he gives a little upward tilt of his head.
I purposefully relax my face and plaster on an extra-wide grin to show him I’m totally fine.
“Better,” he says, overly sarcastic.
He reaches a hand up and pulls off his headphones and sets them on the table next to his laptop.
“So besides harassing me, what are you working on?” I nod over at the laptop sitting near him.
“A presentation.”
“For?”
“AppLee.”
“Right,” I say. “When is it?”
“June fifteenth,” he says, reaching up and swiping a hand down his face.
“June fifteenth,” I echo. A month away. I’ll be in London with someone I don’t know. I hope I will have gotten to know him better at that point, and not been murdered. I need to stop going there.
“Hey, well good thing I didn’t take you up on your offer to go with me—that’s during my trip,” I say, attempting to harness my thoughts.
He pulls in his brow. “I just found out this morning. I wouldn’t have agreed to the date if I were going with you.”
“But what if I asked you to go now?” I say, a teasing tone to my voice.
“Now?” Logan asks, his eyes moving down to the table between us. “Well, now they have executives flying in from California. So it might be harder to change.”
“Right. Well, I’m stuck with this whole name search thing anyway. You’re off the hook.” I smile teasingly. “So how goes it?” I ask, with a nod at Logan’s laptop.
“It’s . . . a lot of work.”
“And Nathan?”
“Not helping.”
I give him an understanding smile. That’s par for the course for them. Nathan doesn’t prepare at all and then shows up and presents. Like me, Logan over prepares. Somehow it all works out. But I know it’s always been a sore spot between them.
I chew on my lip for a second, not sure if I should ask him what I want to ask. I decide to just do it. “Do you think there will be a conflict of interest with Nathan dating someone from there?”
I’ve held off asking Logan about Nathan because I don’t want it to seem like I’m fishing. I’m not. Okay, maybe a little. I don’t even know why. I don’t want Nathan. Even if he told me he’d made a mistake and wanted me back, I’d say no. We weren’t right for each other. I see that now, I’ve seen it for a while. Maybe even before we broke up.
Logan looks to the side, frowning. Then his eyes move back to me. “A little,” he says. “I asked him to wait until after the presentation to ask her out, but . . .”
I can tell by the expression on his face that’s all he’s going to give me and I’m not going to push him on it. I never tried to ask Logan anything about Nathan when we were dating because, well, he barely talked to me. But I get the idea that if I had asked him about Nathan, he would’ve never said anything about it. I think he’s loyal. The fierce kind.
Anyway, I can fill in the blanks there. Nathan can be laid back about so many things, so go-with-the-flow. It’s one of the things that drew me to him in the first place. Perhaps the biggest thing. But he also didn’t hold back when he went for something he was passionate about. Another thing that attracted me to him.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Shoot,” Logan says, his eyes on mine.
“How come you hardly ever talked to me when I was with Nathan?” I’ve wanted to ask him this for a while.
He peers over at the service counter of the coffee shop, his face contemplative. He brings his face back toward me, but his eyes focus on the table.
“I guess I didn’t know how to talk to you before—when you were with him.”
“How’s that? It’s not rocket science. You just talk,” I say, confused.
“I . . . what I mean is . . . I’m not good at knowing boundaries, so I tend to err on the side of caution.”
“What boundaries?”
He stares over at the counter again. “Just . . . boundaries.”
“Right,” I say, now more confused. “Well, you aren’t erring on the side of caution with my phone.” I hold up my smart phone with the screen facing toward him and wiggle it around.
He looks at my phone, but both of his lips pull up into a smile. I kind of like it when I can get a smile out of Logan. It’s so rare. It feels a bit like winning a medal.
It falls quickly, though, as a man approaches the booth.
“Hey, aren’t you that girl from the news?” the man asks. Calling him a man is being a bit generous. He seems more like a college kid with his messy blond hair, basketball shorts and a T-shirt. And flip-flops, of course. It’s the state shoe of Florida.
“I’m looking for you, Nathan Jones,” he says, pointing a finger in my direction.
I close my eyes briefly, wishing I could disappear. I don’t like this whole being recognized thing, and I definitely don’t want to experience it with Logan here. It’s more kindling for his fire. More evidence for his case.
“Yep,” I say, resigned to the fact that this will be my life for a little while. I’m sure once the trip is over it will settle down. At least I hope. If not, there’s always the runaway plan.
“Dude, you’re a total hottie. I’d go with you,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I try to nudge it off, but he’s not getting the message. He doesn’t appear to be the smartest of humans.
I feel uncomfortable butterflies pooling in my stomach, and my instincts to go all ninja on him are coming out in full force. The only problem is I’m not a ninja, bu
t I’m very skilled in the art of verbal butt-kicking.
“Dude, seriously. Can I go with you? I’ll even change my name to Nathan Jones,” he chuckles, and I hear his buddies laughing not far behind him.
I open my mouth to say something, getting ready to give this kid the most epic tongue-lashing if there ever was one, and then Logan says, “Take your hand off.”
He says this quietly, but unmistakably. His voice has a gravelly undertone to it that reminds me of Batman. It’s kind of awesome, if I’m being honest—masculine and brooding.
The kid immediately takes his hand off my shoulder and holds both hands up like Logan might arrest him.
“Yo, man, I didn’t mean anything,” he says.
“Then walk away,” Logan says in his awesome Batman voice.
Without a word, the kid grabs his friends and hurries out of the coffee shop.
“Uh . . . thank you,” I say after we sit in silence for a few seconds.
He replies with a nod.
I’m feeling . . . well . . . a little awestruck. I think that’s the best word to describe it. I’ve never been one to like it when someone tries to rescue me—I’m pretty good at taking care of myself. I don’t need anyone to stand up for me. But this time, I kind of liked it. I didn’t feel challenged, or that my own strength was being stamped on. Rather, I felt a sense of support.
I never felt that way with Nathan—like he had my back. In fact, I can recall a couple of times that he got mad at me for sticking up for myself, and basically told me I should have just ignored the person who was pestering me. I never really needed his help, but it might have been nice for him to at least try sometimes.
“Thanks,” I squeak out. I’m not sure why I say it again. I sort of feel like the thanking needs to be reiterated.
“That guy’s an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“This whole search thing—”
“Logan,” I cut him off, a warning in my voice. I’m just getting all kinds of good feelings about him and his chivalrous gesture. I don’t want him to ruin it.
“Fine,” he says. I can tell it’s a placating fine.
“I like your Batman voice,” I say, changing directions.
“My what voice?”
“That low, gravelly thing you just did. You sounded like Batman.”
The corner of his mouth tugs upward. “Batman,” he echoes, bobbing his head as if he’s considering the title.
And then the craziest thing happens. Both sides of Logan’s mouth keep pulling up and then morph into a broad smile. An award-winning, teeth-showing smile.
Oh, my.
A tingle that starts in my head works its way down my arms, through my torso, cascades over my legs, and lands in my toes. I feel heat instantly rise to my face. His smile is doing weird things to me. Unexpected things.
“Your smile,” I say, sounding slightly breathless—it feels like the air got a little thinner around me.
“Yeah?” his smile gets even wider at my reaction.
“You don’t do that very often.”
He pulls his lips in at my comment, and I immediately regret saying something. I didn’t want him to stop.
“You should,” I say.
“Should what?”
“Smile more.”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Not that much to smile about, I guess.”
“Except when comparing you to Batman.”
His mouth pulls into a smile again. Not as grand as before, but still lovely. “Except for that,” he says.
“Well, we’ll have to remedy that.”
Okay, whoa. I avert my eyes away from him because that came out all scratchy-voiced and flirty-sounding. What the H? That was not my intention. That smile of his must have messed with my brain.
My eyes move up from the table to meet his. There’s no smile there, not even a hint of one. But there’s a different look in his eyes, like something has ignited behind them. This does weird things to me as well. Similar to the smile.
Something has shifted here. The air between us cracks and pops. Unlike before, when the air between us was dull and stagnant.
There’s only one explanation: there’s some kind of voodoo magic going on at the Lava Java.
“Well, I think I better get back to work,” I say as I scoot out of the booth to make my escape.
“Unless you want to stay and see if I might smile more,” he says.
My eyes widen. He’s flirting. It’s unmistakable.
“No . . . I have . . . uh . . . work ado. I mean, work I do, I mean . . .” Stupid flustered brain. I take in a deep breath. “Work. To. Do,” I say, emphasizing each word.
“Okay,” he says, his mouth settling into a smirk.
“Goodbye, Logan,” I say, very formal sounding.
He doesn’t say anything, so I walk toward the door. Before I leave, I peek over my shoulder and catch Logan looking like he’s chuckling to himself as he puts his earphones back on.
I walk across the street to my office building feeling like I stepped out of a dream sequence. Logan and I flirted. I think. I’m pretty sure. I’m actually not sure of anything right now. That wasn’t flirting; it couldn’t be.
As I reach the tall glass doors to my office building, my phone beeps.
Logan: Zip-lining?
I don’t even reply.
Chapter 13
“Is this about the wedding?” my dad asks as we sit across from each other at our regular meet-up—the Mexican restaurant off Orange Street. It’s a busy night; every table around us is full, the clanking of utensils on plates heard all around. No mariachi band in sight this time, though.
“What? Why would this be about the wedding?” I ask him, pulling my brows in and squinting in his direction.
He’s been grilling me for the past twenty minutes about this trip. I should have known when he called me earlier today to see if we could move our regular dinner up a week that this would be the reason.
He’s known about the trip for a while, of course. He was the first person I called after I told Quinn I’d do it. I’m thinking he didn’t understand exactly what was happening. Or perhaps I was so out of my mind with what I’d agreed to that I didn’t explain it well enough. Probably the latter. Either way, it’s all just hit him today: his baby girl is going to Europe with a stranger.
Fatherly pride is probably not one of the feelings he’s having right now.
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head and peering down at his hands, which are together on the table in front of him, his fingers intertwined. “I just thought maybe you were upset about it or doing some subconscious thing.” His eyes move back up to me. “You know you’ll always be my first girl.”
“Dad, I know,” I say. “And it’s not about the wedding.”
Why would it be about the wedding? Why does everyone think this trip I’m taking is about them? Logan and his spontaneity comment, Nathan thinking I’m doing it to get him back, Thomas wanting to be entertained. The only person who can lay any claim to it is Quinn, and I didn’t even do it for her. It wasn’t until Marie cornered me that it all happened.
My dad looks to the side, the corners of his lips pulled up ever-so-slightly, barely a whisper of a smile on his lips. I know this one well. He’s worried. This smile was especially prevalent when I was younger, especially after my mom left. I’d often catch him looking at me with this expression. Even at that age, I got it. I was worried about us too. But we turned out okay, I think.
Obviously, his worry this time is warranted. I mean, I’m going to a different country with a complete stranger. I’d love to put his mind at ease, but I can’t even mollify my own brain.
I reach across the table and place my hand on his. “This isn’t about the wedding. I’m truly happy for you,” I say. The truth is, I’ve been so caught up in all this vacation drama, I haven’t had a moment to think about my dad’s impending wedding. Maybe I can put that in the side benefits column.
“Now I’m wishi
ng I’d have just moved things around so I could go with you,” he says.
“Dad, it’s all good,” I tap the top of his hand with my fingers twice. “I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. Plus, you can’t exactly change your wedding plans now.”
I give him my most confident smile. It’s a fake smile. In reality, his worry is making me worry, like maybe he has some sort of father’s intuition and I’ll be found tied up and left to die in the desert.
That was Jim’s latest narrative. I told him I wouldn’t be near the desert and he looked confused. Maybe for Christmas I’ll buy Jim an atlas.
My dad’s shoulders relax a bit, and the corners of his mouth turn up a little more. He chuckles once.
“What?” I ask, wondering how he could go from worried to chuckling.
“I was just thinking that this is something your mama would like.”
My heart, which was already feeling weighed down from this conversation, plummets into my stomach like a lead balloon.
“Well, I hope she never hears about it, then,” I say. I’m the opposite of most children. To rebel against my mother, I couldn’t do anything crazy or foolhardy. No, I had to choose a life of structure and planning to be a disappointment. Not that she’d know.
“She’s up for parole soon, you know,” my dad says, his lips taking a downward turn. There’s only a handful of topics that can take his smile away, and my mom is most definitely one of them.
He’s kept track of her all this time, even helped her with money. He doesn’t tell me any of this, of course. But I saw his bank statement once and saw a few transfers to a bank in Charlotte, and I just knew it was for her. But that’s my dad for you. Giving even when he shouldn’t be.
“Well, bully for her,” I say, spiritless.
“She’ll probably get it, this being her first offense and all,” he says.
“Her first legal offense,” I say. She has many other offenses—ones that don’t count in the eyes of the law.
His lips pull downward, the ghost of a smile still there.
“She was bipolar, you know,” he says, his voice lower and quieter.
I nod. “That was pretty obvious.” I didn’t recognize it until I was older, until I understood more. But the constant ups and downs—doing wild and spontaneous things for a while and then spending the next while never getting out of bed … it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.