Just a Name

by Becky Monson

  I drop the shirt I was attempting to fold and it lands on the floor, missing my suitcase completely.

  “What?” I ask, thinking I heard him correctly, but not entirely sure.

  “Why don’t you still go to Paris,” he says, his voice low and quiet, “with me?”

  I stare at him for a moment. He stares back.

  “You want to go to Paris . . . with me?” I ask.

  I know Logan kissed me and I remember what my friends said after he did. Specifically, Thomas’s words are running through my mind right now. But for two full years, I was under the impression—a very strong one—that Logan Palmer hated me. No, that he couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as me. Whether that was out of “boundaries” or whatever he keeps calling it, or if it was because of some unrequited feelings like Thomas said, it’s kind of hard to reconcile that he’s sitting on the floor of my hotel room, half naked, telling me he wants to go to Paris with me.

  “I don’t think so, Logan,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because . . . because this trip has turned out to be a disaster. And I think I just want to go home.” I pick up the shirt I dropped and put it in my suitcase.

  He gets up from the floor and walks over toward me, his torso now in complete view, his pajama bottoms hanging nicely on his hips. I swallow hard as he approaches and find myself wishing he would put a shirt on.

  He stands near me, resting his hands on his hips, his eyes on mine.

  “What can you do at home? Go back to work?” he asks.

  “Well, yeah,” I say, taking my eyes off his body since I just realized I’ve been staring, and resume my packing.

  “But aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?” he asks.

  “Sure, but—”

  “Wasn’t it your boss who wanted you to take this trip?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So,” he puts a hand on my arm and I look up at him once again. “Finish the trip . . . with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he echoes.

  “Yes. Why do you want to go?”

  He gives me a half-shrug. “I’ve never been. And I’m here.”

  I let out a breath and then, pushing my suitcase over to give me some space, I sink down on the edge of the bed. We’ve both never been, and he is here. I have a train ticket and two hotel rooms booked in my name.

  “I don’t know, Logan,” I say, still conjuring up reasons why it’s better if we just go home. “I mean, don’t you have work to get back to?”

  “I have some time,” he says.

  He sits down next to me, pushing the mattress down with his weight, the force of it making us lean into each other. I don’t think he meant to sit so close, but he doesn’t try to move even with his leg and arm pressed up against mine.

  “If you want, I can provide a background check,” he says after a few beats of silence, only the hum of the air conditioning bouncing around the room. The corner of his mouth pulls up. He’s teasing me.

  I laugh, louder than I mean to, and it feels good. “Too soon, Palmer,” I say and punch him lightly on the arm.

  “I have good references,” he says, and then he does the oddest thing I’ve ever seen him do—he winks. Logan winks at me. It does things to my stomach. Twisty, strange things.

  “So, what do you say?” he asks, his voice low and soft.

  I let out a breath. I envision myself home and sleeping in my bed—my very own bed. It sounds so amazing right now. Even the thought of getting off the plane, the muggy summer Orlando air surrounding me, sounds welcoming. Then I picture myself in Paris with Logan. Winking-naked-torso Logan. Seeing the sights, eating pastries. And although it doesn’t sound as great as being home—it does sound . . . interesting.

  “Let’s go,” Logan says. “And if after a day or two you still want to, we can go home.”

  We . . . home. Why do I like the way he says that? Why does putting those two words near each other make the hairs on my arms stand up? Therapy. Must get therapy.

  I cover my face with my hands. There are a gazillion reasons to go home, and very few to stay here.

  Logan nudges me with his elbow and I release my hands.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay?” he repeats, sounding as if he didn’t expect me to say yes.

  “Yes,” I say a note of resignation in my voice. “I’ll go to Paris. But—” I say, holding out a finger. “I get to plan everything. Where we go, what we do, where we eat—everything.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he says, his lips pulling up into a smile. Not the grand one—but one that still does funny things to my insides.

  “Okay, then,” I finally say after I shake myself out of the trance that is Logan’s smile. “I just have one thing I need to do.”

  ~*~

  “Are you serious?” I ask, gaping at Nate, baffled by what he’s just asked me—by the entire conversation, actually. He’s got some nerve, that one. I suppose I’d be impressed if I didn’t want to poke him in the eye.

  We’re in the small entrance of the hotel, where I told him to meet me. Logan is standing off to the side, watching. He wanted to be here with me—standing next to me like some sort of bodyguard, but I told him I’d be fine and to give me a minute to figure things out with Nate. I’m not scared of Nate, but I don’t mind having Logan here for the support.

  “I just figured since I’m on this trip too, that the money the station gave you for food and stuff for the both of us—half should be mine,” he says.

  I gawk at him. I have no words, really. I don’t want to argue, and I suppose he has a point. I grab my purse, quickly counting what’s left of the cash, and give him half.

  “Well,” he holds out a hand after pocketing the money. “I guess this is goodbye,” he says.

  “I guess so,” I say, taking his hand and shaking it.

  We’ve mutually decided to part ways. I found this initially annoying because I wanted to be the one to tell him that the rest of the trip was not happening—at least not together—but apparently Nate had come to that same conclusion as well.

  As it turns out, he’s going to stay in London for the rest of the trip. Or maybe longer, so he said. Apparently when I wouldn’t talk to him yesterday, he went out and did some exploring around the city on his own and he “met someone.” And they “totally clicked,” according to him. So I guess he’s going to stay here and explore . . . all that.

  I did not see that coming. There have been a lot of things in my life recently I did not see coming.

  To think I kissed this man—made out with him, even. I’m not proud of myself. Lesson learned, though—always go with your gut. Don’t talk yourself down even if you think you’re reaching. I’m going to listen to the voice from now on, even if it tells me to jump off a bridge. It clearly knows better than me.

  Chapter 28

  Quinn: Heads up, Logan is on his way there.

  I got this text the morning of our second day in Paris, I’m guessing a couple of days after she sent it. Stupid phone.

  It was too little, too late. And I’m actually okay with it. Paris is . . . well, I don’t regret coming here. Not so far, at least.

  It was love at first sight. Well, technically it was after we’d taken the train from London, then a taxi ride to a quaint café that came highly recommended online where I had the best chocolate croissant I’ve ever had. Then I realized I was in love. So maybe it was love at first pastry.

  I wonder if I had gotten the text before Logan showed up how different this would have been. Would Logan have been able to talk me into this if I’d known he was coming? If I’d had time to consider everything? I’m not sure what I would have done, honestly.

  Regardless, so far I’m glad Logan talked me into coming here, to finishing the trip. I’m even glad to be here with him. He fits in well with the French. They don’t smile all that much either.

  That’s generalizing, I realize—but I mean it in a good wa
y. In my not-so-educated opinion—which only consists of a day and a half or so of research—the French aren’t rude so much as they’re straightforward. They know what they want, and they don’t give their smiles away freely. You have to earn them. I bet if we looked it up, Logan’s ancestry would be mostly French.

  For Logan’s part, he’s been very patient with me, letting me plan it all and then drag him around. After we arrived from London and I fell head-over-heels for that croissant, we went to Sacré-Coeur and saw amazing views of the city, Eglise Saint Pierre—one of the oldest surviving churches in Paris, and some of the covered passages where we browsed through shops that can only be found here. Logan was a champ about the whole thing. He even held my purse while I tried on this gorgeous dress I saw in one of the boutiques we passed.

  This morning we got up and headed to Versailles, where we toured the palace and the amazing gardens. I wish we had at least another half day to see more. It was amazing.

  After Versailles, we headed back to the Latin Quarter where our hotel was and grabbed some dinner, and then walked along the Seine.

  Logan’s been a pretty great traveling partner. Maybe vacation Logan is more talky, because it’s never felt like there’s been a lack of conversation with him. We’ve talked about families, a little bit about work, and we’ve even dabbled in politics and religion. We have a lot more in common than I thought we would. Which makes me feel like we wasted a lot of time when Nathan and I were dating. We could have had real conversations if he would have just tried. We could have been friends. Logan and his stupid boundaries.

  I find that I keep stealing glances at him—still wondering how this all happened, how we ended up together in Paris. Even on day two, I still haven’t wrapped my brain around it. I mean, I know how it happened. But how did this happen?

  Normally I would have called Quinn to talk about it, but she’s off the grid at fat camp. She warned me before I left that they weren’t allowed to have cell phones with them.

  Truthfully, I don’t need my friends knowing I’m here with Logan. Not right now, anyway. They’ll find out soon enough. For all they know, I sent Logan home and went to Paris with Nate the felon. I know he’s not really a felon, but it feels more dramatic to call him that.

  “Is this boring for you?” I ask Logan as we walk along Rive Gauche—the left bank of the Seine.

  It’s dusk and the cobblestone pathway is not quite so crowded. Mostly people are sitting in groups near the banks or off to the side on some of the grassy areas. Some are on blankets having picnics, and some seem to be there for the view, relaxing as they watch the colors of the sky change from oranges and pinks into the dark blues of twilight.

  “I’m not bored,” Logan says, walking next to me, our pace now relaxed after I made him rush around Versailles today.

  “But wouldn’t you rather be cliff diving or jumping out of a plane or something?”

  Nathan and Logan were always off doing random adventurous things. Deep sea diving, diving with sharks, night diving in Devil’s Den . . . there was a lot of diving. It’s Florida, after all. Not a ton of high mountain adventures there, unless you consider riding Everest at Disney World a high mountain adventure, which you shouldn’t.

  It bothered Nathan that I didn’t want to do any of the daredevil things he and Logan did, but it never appealed to me.

  I see Logan lift his shoulders briefly. “I like doing those things, but I also like doing this.”

  “Nathan didn’t like that I’m not very adventurous, did he?” I say. I know the answer to this already, but part of me wants to know if he ever said anything to Logan. I don’t know why I ask; it’s not as if I’m fishing for information to win Nathan back. I don’t want to be with Nathan. Not anymore.

  “He never really said,” Logan says.

  “Liar,” I say, and that earns me a half Logan smile.

  “He may have mentioned it a time or two.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “I told him he was being an idiot,” he says, his eyes focused on the pathway in front of us.

  We walk in silence for a bit after that because I don’t know how to respond. I want to ask Logan so many things, but I also don’t. Like, if he was creating “boundaries” or whatever, then why did he have to be so standoffish, so rude? You can create boundaries and still be a nice person.

  “Why don’t you like it?” he asks.

  “The daredevil stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  I lift my shoulders briefly, blowing air out of my nose. “I like having my feet on the ground.”

  “Did you try something and get hurt?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Then you’ve formulated your opinion on what?”

  I peer down at my feet, one foot moving in front of the other as we walk. “My mom was into all that.”

  “So?”

  I look over at him, furrowing my brow. How does he not understand that? But then I remember Logan probably doesn’t know all that much about my mom. Not many people do.

  “My mom isn’t someone I aspire to be like.”

  “Right,” he says, understanding dawning on his face. “And you think if you do something adventurous—something like she did—that she might approve of it?”

  I think about this for a beat. “I guess. I mean, it’s not like she would know since I haven’t seen or talked to her in over a decade.”

  “Then why?”

  I feel the churning of my stomach—the feeling I usually get when my mother is the topic of conversation. “I just don’t want to be like her,” I say.

  “I get that. My dad chose a hard life.”

  I’m quiet, wondering—or maybe hoping—he’ll say more. I feel like getting Logan to open up is like peeling a mango with your fingernails, it’s hard to do.

  When he doesn’t say anything, I say, “How’s that?”

  “He was always working different jobs; we never knew if food would be on the table.”

  “Oh,” I respond. When I was dating Nathan, I had thought maybe the fact that Logan and I were both raised without moms would be some common ground between us—something that would help us become friends or at least be friendly. But from what I gathered from Nathan, and from what Logan’s saying now, it seems we had very different upbringings.

  “That’s why you’re so driven, then,” I say after a few seconds.

  “I work hard because I don’t ever want to live like that again,” he says.

  “And I like structure and keeping my feet on the ground because I don’t want to be like my mom.”

  There. I guess we do have common ground.

  “How old were you when she left?”

  “Nearly twelve.”

  “And you haven’t seen her since then?”

  “Nope,” I say. “We talked a couple of times on the phone when I was a teenager, but that’s it.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  “Only because my dad keeps tabs on her.”

  “Where is she?”

  I sigh. Do I tell him? I could give him the answer I give everyone else, which is last I heard she was in North Carolina. I’ve never said the truth out loud to someone other than my dad. Part of me wonders if it would be freeing to just say it. Logan is the perfect person—being the man of few words that he is. I know he will keep my secrets.

  I let out a long exhale as I ramp up the courage. “She’s . . . in jail, actually.”

  I don’t know what I expect Logan to do. If it were Quinn, she would have screamed “WHAT?” so loudly it would have echoed down the Seine, disrupting the family of ducks currently swimming near us.

  Logan keeps walking, nothing but stoicism on that handsome face of his.

  “What for?” he asks.

  “Um, she stole from a pharmacy,” I say. It feels weird to say out loud, but it also doesn’t punch me in the gut like I thought it would. “More than once, apparently. I guess she was self-medicating or something.”

&n
bsp; “Oh,” he says, dipping his chin just once.

  He doesn’t seem taken aback by this info at all, and I wonder what would surprise Logan. If I told him the sky were falling would he give me a one shoulder lift and that would be that?

  “Nathan—”

  “I never told him,” I cut in, knowing what he was about to say since this might have been something Nathan would have told him. Nathan wasn’t the best secret keeper.

  “Were you afraid to tell him?”

  “No,” I say. “More like embarrassed.”

  He glances up at the sky, tilting his chin upward. “So that’s why with that Nate guy . . .”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “You’re not her, you know,” he says after a beat or two of silence between us.

  “My mom?” I chuckle sardonically. “Well, I’m half her.”

  “I’m half my dad, but that doesn’t mean I’ll someday turn into him. Even if I made the same choices.”

  “That’s because we both work hard to not be like them.”

  “I don’t work hard so I won’t turn out like my dad,” he says, turning his face to mine, his pace slowing as he does. “I work hard because I see the life he leads and I don’t want that for myself.”

  “How’s that different?”

  Logan breathes out his nose, his chest falling as he does. “Because,” he says, “there’s a difference in working to not have the same life as someone, and choosing a completely different life because you’re afraid you might turn out like them.”

  “I’m not doing that,” I say, my response instant.

  He gives me one of his signature Logan half smiles. The one that verges on a smirk.

  “I’m not,” I say emphatically and slightly annoyed. “I’m not scared, I’m . . .” I trail off as the voices in my head start arguing back in forth.

  Do I do that? Do I purposefully keep my life the way it is because I don’t want to be like my mom? Or is it because I’m afraid I’ll become her? Like someday a switch will turn off—or on—and I’ll be just like her.

  “Wow, Logan,” I say after I realize this might be too big for me to think about. Yes, this is definitely too much for me to contemplate right now as we walk along the Seine, the setting sun forming rays around the Notre Dame Cathedral not far in front of us.