Just a Name

by Becky Monson

  “There was a form,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah?” Nate’s eyebrows pull up.

  “You were asked on the form if there was anything you needed to disclose and it specifically said felonies and misdemeanors.” I know this because I read every one of the applications and paid close attention to that particular part. Especially after dimwitted Jim got into my head.

  “I didn’t think to put it on there,” Nate says. “It’s not even resolved yet. I still have to go to court for it.”

  “You didn’t think to put it on there?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

  He huffs out his nose. “Well, I did think to . . . but then I thought it might ruin my chances.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” I say holding my phone to my stomach. “You lied.”

  “Come on, Holly,” he says, sounding exasperated. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

  The thing with me is I can tolerate a lot. Well, I can’t tolerate all that much—but one thing I definitely cannot handle is lying.

  To think I was going to come up here and make amends and ask him if we could start over. I mean, if he can hold this bit of info back, what else is he not telling me?

  “What else?” I demand.

  “What else?” he parrots, leaning against the door, folding his big, muscly arms. Arms that could wrap around my neck and . . . Holy crap, I can’t believe I ever thought his too big arms were attractive. Now they look all wrong and gross and maybe a little sinister.

  “Yes, what else did you not say on your application?”

  He reaches up and rubs his chin with his index finger and thumb as if trying to recall what he wrote on the application.

  I think about it too. What else could he have lied about? Then my eyes go wide as I remember how evasive he’s been about work. “Do you own a gym?”

  This time he has the decency to seem nervous, if only slightly.

  “I work at a gym,” he says, like this answer will suffice.

  “But do you own it?”

  His eyes peer down at the floor. “I don’t,” he says.

  “Oh, my gosh, I knew something was going on there. I knew it,” I say, my voice suddenly shaky.

  He shrugs briefly, like he doesn’t care all that much.

  “But why? Why would you lie about that?”

  He looks up, but not at me; his eyes are focused on something down the hall.

  “I just embellished.”

  “That’s lying,” I say through my teeth.

  He relaxes his arms, standing straight, his form taking up most of the doorway. “Maybe, but everyone does it.”

  “Lies on applications?”

  “Sure. I wanted to go on this trip, so making myself sound a little more appealing so I might have a chance seemed like a no-brainer. It’s a sales tactic,” he says, one of his big hands gesturing outward, palm up as he states his case.

  “A sales tactic? Seriously?” I ask, nausea rolling through me. “Is your name even Nathan Jones?”

  He looks at me, his head cocked to the side. “Holly, it’s on my passport.”

  I huff out my nose. I don’t know what to believe anymore.

  “You lied,” I say since this seems to be my strongest defense.

  “Tell me this, would you have picked me if I had said on my application that I’m part-time trainer, part-time guy who passes out towels?” He stares into my eyes, his face so serious I hardly recognize it. Five days was not long enough for me to see this side of Nate. Which is more fodder for why I should have never done this in the first place.

  “Yes, I would have,” I say with full confidence. “What would have probably pulled you out of the running is the felony.”

  “I’m not a felon,” he says, his voice louder.

  “Misdemeanor, whatever,” I say. “The fact is you lied.”

  “Well, then it’s a good thing I left that off,” he says.

  This is the wrong thing to say and I wonder if Nate’s brain decided to leave the building.

  “Are you serious right now?” I know my face is probably as red as a tomato, but I don’t care.

  “I’m not sure what else to say,” he says.

  “Well gee, Nate, you could start with something like ‘sorry I lied’?” I say, wondering who I’m even talking to. It’s like everything I knew about Nate went out the window.

  “Sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t sound all that confident.

  I shake my head slowly, steadily. “I don’t think we can continue this,” I say.

  “Continue what?”

  “The trip . . . this whole thing,” I say.

  His eyes widen. “Holly, you can’t be serious.”

  “I’m totally serious. You lied . . . and I can’t . . . I don’t do this,” I say as tears fill my eyes.

  I turn and run back to my room, Nate calling my name as I fumble to open the door.

  Once I finally get inside, I slide down the door and, covering my face with my hands, I cry.

  ~*~

  I don’t know how long I sit here crying. Maybe an hour. Maybe more. I just let the tears fall. I let them fall for so many things. Being on this trip, not knowing what’s going on back home with my job and all the drama there, being lied to by Nate. I cry about Jerry—freaking corner-cutting Jerry. Can I sue him for this? I should on principle.

  Once I’m down that rabbit hole I cry about other things. Like the fact that my team probably still hates me and I don’t know how to fix it. And my dad is now married, even though I’m honestly happy for him. I cry about Nathan moving on already, despite not wanting him back. I also cry about my mom, which makes me angry because she doesn’t deserve tears from me.

  I have released the floodgates.

  My mind keeps going back to my current predicament and the tears start to come even faster when I go there. What do I do now? I knew this wasn’t for me—this whole trip—and yet instead of putting my foot down with Quinn, with Marie, I still ended up here, and look where it got me.

  Nate and drugs . . . of all things. What were the other options on Mugshot Mondays? I believe it was theft and disorderly conduct. I could have dealt with that, I think. But the drugs hit too close to home. Maybe he was telling the truth—maybe it was just a friend’s, but I don’t know if I can believe him now. Especially since he lied on the application. I can’t handle liars. I have such a limited amount of trust as it is—once someone loses what’s there, it’s nearly impossible to get it back. That’s why I surround myself with people who tell me the truth—some of them don’t know how to sugarcoat it. Like Thomas.

  Thomas . . . I can’t believe him. How could he send that picture out like that? How could he do that to me? But even as I think about it, I know. He didn’t think he was causing any harm. That’s Thomas. He thought he was being clever and funny—going for the drama of it all. Thomas knew Nate’s crime, unlike everyone else who saw the email. He probably didn’t think it was that big of a deal, and he couldn’t know it would affect me like it did.

  I haven’t read the rests of the texts. I’m sure they all say the same thing. I did send a note to the group that I was fine and not to worry. Quinn’s called me probably ten times since I’ve been sitting here. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. Not yet. She’s got to be feeling guilty about all of this. Because unlike Thomas, she does know me. She knows how I’d be reacting right now. It’s her fault I’m here. Well, it’s a lot her fault.

  A knock on my door jolts me back into reality. I know it’s Nate. He’s been knocking every now and then, trying to get me to talk. I get up off the floor, not to answer it, but because I need tissues to blow my nose. I go into the bathroom and grab the entire box of tissues and bring it out to the bed where I sit down and cross my legs and proceed to blow so hard into the tissue my head feels wobbly.

  The knocking keeps going.

  “Go away, Nate,” I yell at the door.

  The knocking doesn’t stop and he doesn’t say anything. I guess this is
his new tactic. Just keep knocking until I’m forced to open the door.

  The tactic works, because after a minute of this, I get up and crack open the door.

  “I don’t want to talk,” I say.

  But the eyes that meet mine are not Nate’s pale blue ones. They’re an unmistakable sea-blue.

  “Logan?”

  “Holly?” he says, his voice full of concern.

  “Wha-what are you doing here?” I say, still leaving the door cracked. Logan Palmer is standing at my hotel door. He’s wearing his classic outfit of jeans, a plain colored T-shirt, and flip-flops. He’s got a backpack on one shoulder and a computer bag on the other.

  With my snot-filled head, I almost wonder if I’m somehow home and this whole trip has been a nightmare I’m just waking up from.

  No such luck. I’m pretty sure I’m still in London. The question is, how is Logan here?

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I open the door and let him in, my mind still unable to reconcile that he’s here.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask again. My tone is not demanding, it’s more awestruck. It also has a very frog-like quality since I’ve been crying for who knows how long. I briefly wonder how I must be looking right now. Big splotchy red patches on my face and puffy eyes, I’m sure.

  “I flew here,” he says as he enters my room and shuts the door behind him.

  “I know that,” I say. “But . . . why?”

  He puts his bags down on the floor and then grabs me by the shoulders, his eyes looking me over, searching my face—as if he’s wanting to make sure I’m really here.

  “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?” he asks.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

  He drops his hands from my shoulders and then starts pacing the floor back and forth. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Everyone’s been worried,” he says, his tone full of tension. He looks as if he hasn’t gotten any sleep.

  I’ve never seen Logan like this—so frazzled as different expressions cross his face. Expressions I don’t recognize since Logan doesn’t display many of his feelings.

  But this Logan pacing the floor in front of me seems to be having all kinds of feelings right now.

  “It’s not working,” I say, pointing to the bed where my phone is. “I haven’t been getting any texts or calls. Not until this morning.”

  Logan stops pacing and releases a breath like he’s been holding it in for a long time. He runs a hand over his face and then looks at me, his hands dropping to his sides. He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them.

  “You’re okay,” he says as if he’s not sure he believes it.

  “Yes,” I say, trying to convey through my tone that I’m fine. I’m sure my puffy eyes are making it hard for him to believe me. “You came all the way out here,” I still don’t fully understand how or why.

  “I got the email,” he says.

  “The . . . email?”

  “Mugshot Monday.”

  “Right,” I say.

  “I saw his face on there and the only answer Thomas had was that it was possession, but he didn’t have any other details.”

  “Prescription drugs,” I say.

  He exhales out again, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “So you . . . you flew out here?”

  “Well, someone needed to,” he says, exasperated.

  “How did you find me—how did you find where I’m staying?” I ask.

  “Quinn,” he says.

  I stare down at the ground in front of me, contemplating that. Quinn told him where I was? Why didn’t she tell me he was coming? Maybe she was trying to, all those times she called me. But not even a text? A little heads-up?

  “Logan, I . . . I can’t believe you’re here.” My eyes find his. I feel tears start to fill the base of my lids and I blink them away. “Thank you.”

  That doesn’t feel like enough, just saying thank you.

  Logan’s lips form that straight line he always makes. He takes a step toward me and, putting a hand on my shoulder, he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly.

  I bury my head into his chest and I take a deep breath. He smells of airplane and dingy taxis. But I don’t care. He’s here. As I let him hold me, the weight I’ve been feeling since seeing that picture of Nate lifts off me and I feel a thousand times lighter.

  Chapter 27

  The feeling doesn’t last long.

  I didn’t see Nate the rest of the day yesterday. I didn’t try to find him, and he never knocked on my door again. At least, not after Logan showed up.

  Logan spent the night in my room—on the floor, of course. He offered to get himself a room at the hotel, but by the time we had dinner and came back to the room, the jet lag had hit him hard. I told him he could have the bed, but he wasn’t having it.

  So Logan Palmer slept in my room. I wish I could go back to Holly from two years ago and tell her this—back to the beginning when I was first dating Nathan and Logan was his cold, aloof self. Younger Holly would never believe it. Oh, sweet two-years-ago Holly. How naive you were.

  Honesty, the current me is still having a hard time accepting it. I almost thought I had dreamed he was here until I woke up this morning and saw him on the floor only a few feet from the end of my bed, his chest rising and falling as he slept.

  Last night during dinner, Logan wanted to know everything that happened, so I told him. I left out the kissing bits because I doubt Logan would want to know. Plus, I’m having a hard time believing I did it, now that I’ve taken a step back from it all and seeing the whole thing through different eyes.

  Even more odd, the kissing felt—in a way—like a betrayal to this man who traveled all this way to, well, rescue me. That’s what he did, didn’t he? I mean, I’m no damsel in distress; I could have handled it on my own. But having Logan here and not having to do this by myself has me feeling relieved, in a way. It doesn’t make any sense that I’ve betrayed him by kissing another man—yet that’s where my mind keeps going.

  Logan was mostly interested in what happened after I confronted Nate, after I saw his picture on the Mugshot Monday email. I appreciated that he didn’t scoff or make me feel dumb for reacting like I did. I didn’t tell him exactly why—just that drugs, in any form, don’t sit well with me. Or lying. That was two strikes for Nate. Two big ones.

  If anything, Logan agreed and would have acted the same in my shoes. That’s the thing about Logan I realized last night over pizza that tasted a bit like cardboard—he gets me on some level. Maybe on more levels than I’ve given him credit for.

  There was no “you should have listened to me” or “I told you so,” nothing of the sort even implied in his tone or his facial expressions. In fact, the only time he seemed to even be upset was when I told him about corner-cutting Jerry and the supposed background checks. That seemed to get his blood boiling. Mine too, actually. Jerry and I will be having words when I get back. Lots of words.

  So I went to bed last night feeling so much lighter than I have in a while. But then I woke up this morning and felt the weight of it all again. It was much more stifling this time.

  My brain had a hard time turning off once I awoke. I went through many emotions—frustrated, sad, overwhelmed, and an odd sense of failure. That emotion hurt the worst. I’ve failed this vacation. I can’t go back to Orlando feeling refreshed because this trip hasn’t been refreshing. It was at first, I suppose, but now it’s been tainted. Marie won’t like this, and she won’t understand. She might even demand I take another vacation . . . or wonder if I’m so tightly wound that I can’t ever relax no matter what. That wouldn’t bode well for the manager position.

  Because I couldn’t get my brain to stop bothering me after I woke up, I did what I do best. I take action.

  “What are you doing?” Logan asks through puffy and sleep-filled eyes. He’s propped himself up on his elb
ow and is watching me as I frantically pack.

  “I’m packing,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says, acknowledging with a head bob at the suitcase I have on the bed and the fact that I’m folding my clothes.

  “I’m supposed to be going to Paris today for the second half of this trip.” I want to add this ridiculous, stupid trip and throw in a few cuss words for good measure, but I don’t.

  “Okay,” Logan says. “What about that . . . Uh, Nate.” He says his name like it’s hard for him to get out.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I should talk to him.”

  “Is he going with you?” he asks, his voice sounding tentative with a hint of irritation.

  “No,” I say. “Because I’m not going.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.” I start picking up clothes and haphazardly folding them and putting them in the suitcase. “I think I just need to go home. This trip has been . . . well, it was a mistake. I think I should call it good and go home.”

  Logan sits up. The blanket that was around him falls down so his shirtless self is in full view. It’s a good view—a great view, actually. I purposefully avert my eyes and focus on my packing since I don’t need to be looking at Logan’s naked chest and my mind doesn’t need to be wandering off like it is. Like, wondering how it would feel to touch him, his toned and muscled torso under my fingertips. Or maybe, you know . . . lay my head on him.

  Get a grip, Holly.

  I’ve gone mad. That’s what’s happening here. I’ve finally flipped a switch and have lost my mind. I was kissing another man not even days ago, and now I’m in my room with a different man—one who flew across an ocean to make sure I was okay—and my mind is now conjuring up the craziest of things. I should get therapy when I get home.

  “What if,” Logan says, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Yes, that’s good, cover that thing up. “What if I come to Paris with you?”