Just a Name

by Becky Monson

  “Wow, what?” he says, his face turned toward mine, his eyes squinting at me.

  “I never pegged you for a deep guy,” I say.

  “I’m deep,” he says, his voice a protest.

  “And funny,” I say flatly.

  “That too,” he says, not getting the sarcasm in my tone. Or at least pretending he doesn’t.

  “And a stalker,” I say.

  He laughs, this time a little more than his low and soft signature chuckle. A tingle shoots down my back, reminiscent of the time he kissed me, and I feel my cheeks warming at the thought.

  “Well, you know what I have to say about stalkers,” he says.

  “I sure do.”

  Chapter 29

  I had time to think about what Logan said. A lot of time, since I couldn’t seem to get comfortable in my hotel bed. It felt like a whole different bed from the first night here. Like it had been switched out for a harder mattress. Or maybe it was my brain not being able to shut off.

  I see what Logan’s getting at, but I also don’t see his point. So what if I’ve made some choices out of fear? They still got me where I am, didn’t they?

  Logan seems well rested when we meet downstairs for breakfast on our last day in Paris. Tomorrow we fly back home—back to reality. I’ll finally be done with this trip and can get back to my life.

  I should be ecstatic by that thought—going home and getting back to my life—but instead I feel an odd sense of disappointment. This trip was a bust, at least for the first half. But this part, well, it’s been good. Great, even. I find I’m not as enthusiastic about being home as I should be. Or at least, as I think I should be.

  “What’s happening today?” Logan asks, pulling me out of my thoughts. He pours some milk into his coffee.

  “First up, the Eiffel Tower,” I say, trying to do my best impression of an announcer, which I fail miserably at.

  He nods, his lips staying in that firm line of his. This is Logan’s form of agreeing, I’ve found. He doesn’t really have a say since he said I could plan the whole thing, and I’m not deviating from my plans. Not this time, or probably ever again. I’ve learned my lesson.

  We leave the hotel and take an Uber to the tower. I had been doing my best to avert my eyes anytime I saw it since it’s hard to travel around Paris and not see the Eiffel Tower—it’s pretty much impossible, actually. Especially at night when it lights up. But I wanted the full effect when I saw it in person. I wanted to take it all in, so I tried to look away every time it came into view. Which was often.

  It doesn’t disappoint. It’s grand and majestic and very . . . touristy. That part is a disappointment because in my research and planning, many people online had said it was less crowded in the morning. Even the Parc du Champ de Mars is much more crowded today. I’d read that most people usually don’t show up there until afternoon, where they picnic in front of perfect views of the tower.

  I also heard many complaints about the peddlers in the park selling touristy goods, so I had planned to skip this area altogether. But the Uber driver dropped us off on this side, so it couldn’t be avoided.

  “Look,” Logan says, pointing up toward the tower.

  I peer up and see someone in a black jumpsuit wearing a bright yellow helmet, and they look like they’re floating in the air toward us. On closer inspection, I see that the person is on a line—someone is zip-lining off the Eiffel Tower.

  Not long after the person gets to the end of the line, bobbing around as someone helps him or her up onto a makeshift platform about a hundred feet from us, I see another person coming down the line.

  “Should we do it?” Logan asks, a smirk on his face because he already knows my answer.

  “Hell, no,” I say.

  He chuckles, low and deep, a closed-mouth smile on his face, and I swear my ovaries quake at the sound. A laugh from Logan is so rare, I feel like I should write it in my diary.

  Dear Diary,

  Logan laughed today and it did weird things to my woman parts.

  Sincerely, Holly.

  We skip the ticket line since my planning-self had already purchased tickets online with a set time for us to go up to the top.

  The wait for the lifts aren’t so bad even with the crowds, so it’s not long before we’re on the one to the top. I want to start at the top first and then work my way down, ending on the first floor with the glass platform. I figured Logan and his thrill-seeking ways would want to see that. I want to see it too. See? I can be thrill-seeking when I want to be. When it’s controlled and not left to the whims of a wire or a parachute or an oxygen tank.

  When we finally get to the top, I look out over the city. It’s lovely—even through the grating they’ve put around the top floor. The fencing ruins all my pictures, so I make Logan take a selfie with me, and to his credit, he makes an effort to smile and not look constipated like he usually does. Then I put my phone back in the small black cross-body bag I have with me and resolve to take it all in, taking mental pictures.

  Logan stands near me as we look out on the city, taking in the beauty that is Paris. There are a lot of people up here, but not enough to make it feel overly crowded. Despite the people, there isn’t a lot of noise—at least the human variety. No loud talking or laughter. It makes me wonder if everyone is in awe of the view like I am. Like we all just want to take it in, this view below us. It’s a peaceful feeling, even with the wind whipping and tossing my hair around.

  “What do you think?” I ask Logan, who’s also been quiet as he looks out over the city. But that’s not rare for Logan.

  I turn my head to find him scanning Paris below us, a bland expression on his face. So, his normal look.

  “It’s nice,” he says.

  “Nice?”

  “Yeah, I . . . like it.”

  “Wow, Logan. Don’t hold back. Tell me how you really feel,” I say, a teasing tone in my voice.

  This earns me a small smile—with teeth even. I feel tingles spread down my back and out through my arms and legs.

  Dear Diary . . .

  “Sorry,” he says, his lips drifting back to that normal flat line. “I was just thinking.”

  “About?”

  He lets out an exhale. “Work.”

  “Right,” I say. The thought dawns on me that I haven’t thought about work once since we’ve been up here. I don’t know if I’ve thought about it today at all. That’s . . . strange.

  “Oh, yeah,” I say turning my body toward him. “What happened with the AppLee presentation?” I’d totally forgotten about that until just now, and Logan hasn’t mentioned it. Not even once. Which is odd, because it’s kind of a big deal. The biggest deal for him and Nathan, actually.

  He looks at me, his head cocked to the side. “I heard it went well,” he says finally.

  “You … heard?” I repeat, removing my hand from his arm. Did something happen between him and Nathan? Has something been going on and I’ve just been dragging him around Paris, totally oblivious?

  When he doesn’t respond, I shake my head at him. “Well, you were there, weren’t you?”

  He looks at me, the corners of his mouth pulling up slightly. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck. “I was . . . on a plane, actually.”

  “A flight? Where?” Something nibbles in the back of my mind and my brain flips through scenarios of why Logan would have been on a plane during what is probably the biggest opportunity of his career.

  And then my eyes go wide, practically bugging out of my head as I realize what he’s just said. Or rather, implied.

  Here. He was on a flight here.

  Well, not here exactly, since he flew to London. But . . . here.

  “You missed AppLee . . . to fly to London . . . to me?” I ask, scrunching my eyes at him.

  Logan doesn’t say anything; he just gives me one quick head bob.

  “Logan,” I start, but then I stop myself because I’m not sure what to say. This feels almost like it’s too much. Too mu
ch for him to do, too much for him to sacrifice, too much for me to accept.

  “Wh-why? Why would you do that?” I ask.

  He lets out a long breath and then he looks up, locking his eyes with mine. “Nathan handled it.”

  “But you were supposed to be there and now . . . you’re here. Why?”

  He blinks twice and then peers out at the city below. “I wanted to be here.”

  He wanted to be here. He risked the biggest opportunity of his career to be here with me. He flew to a different continent to make sure I was okay. He kissed me on the corner of Church Street. He paid for my freaking coffee for two whole years.

  “Logan, I don’t know what to say.”

  This is only because it feels like there so much I want to say, so much I want to ask him. So much I want him to say to me.

  But all he does is turn his head to me, lifts one shoulder up and then drops it, and says, “You don’t have to.”

  ~*~

  There should be more excitement as we work our way down the tower, stopping to take some pictures on the second floor, and then to the first floor to see the glass surface where we can see Paris sprawling beneath us. Instead, it feels almost awkward.

  I keep peering over at Logan, to see his face. To see if I can read what he’s thinking by his expression. But this is Logan, and I’m stupid for even trying. He just has that same bland look he always does.

  I know that it’s mostly me making this weird. I want to say something, do something to show him what this all means to me. Everything he’s done. But I also don’t know what this all means to me. It feels so massively huge that I can’t begin to work it all out in my head.

  Because of this, I find I’m not concentrating after we exit the tower and not paying full attention to where I’m going, so we end up exiting through the park where the zip line is.

  Logan stops and looks up at it, watching someone zip down the line from the second floor of the tower, the crowd on the grass oohing and ahhing as they fly overhead.

  As he looks up, once again I find myself searching his face. Searching for signs of . . . anything. Any facial expression I can garner information from. There’s an expression there as he watches another person go down the zip line, one I’m not so familiar with. I’m not sure, but it’s almost like longing. There’s just something in his stance, something in the set of his jaw as he watches.

  There is something I can do for him that would show him how much what he did for me means. Or at least sort of show him, since I don’t exactly know what it all means to me.

  I tap him on the shoulder. “You should do it,” I say with a quick upward tip of my chin toward the second floor of the tower where the zip line starts.

  “What?” he turns his face toward me. Then he shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”

  “Logan,” I say, taking a step in front of him and pivoting around so I’m now facing him. “Just go do it.”

  “I don’t want to,” he says.

  “Oh really? So that look of longing I just saw on your face, that’s you not wanting to do this?” I point up to a person zipping over us, whooping and hollering as they go.

  The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts up ever so slightly. He folds his arms, rocking back onto his heels. “I wasn’t longing,” he says.

  “Yes, you were.”

  He exhales out his nose, peering back up at the zip line. “I don’t know,” he says, a smirk slowly appearing on his lips as his face moves back to mine. “Is it on the itinerary?”

  I roll my eyes. “No,” I say. “But I can be flexible.” I wink at him, which I don’t think I’ve ever done before. I feel instantly silly for doing it.

  “Okay,” he says, his eyes holding steadily on mine. I smile brightly, elated that he’s going to do this.

  “Great,” I say and begin searching the park for a place for me to sit while I wait. Preferably away from the peddlers. Which appears to be nearly impossible as I can see about a dozen only feet from where we are. Luckily, so far we haven’t had to fight any off. Probably because Logan doesn’t seem approachable.

  Logan doesn’t move from his spot. He stands there with his arms folded, looking at me. His eyes roaming my face as he does. “I’ll go if you go,” he says.

  Just like that, any elation I had is gone. “What?” I search his face for a smirk, a half smile—anything that would tell me he’s kidding.

  “Come on,” Logan prods, unfolding his arms and letting them hang by his sides.

  I gape at him, a little taken aback by the fact that he’s even saying this. “Logan. You and I both know that’s not happening.”

  How many times? How many times had he seen me have the same conversation with Nathan—him wanting me to do something like this and me saying no? I think I’d have to have an extra hand or two to count it.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, it looks not safe. And I can’t control how fast I go, and it doesn’t look safe.”

  “You said safe twice.”

  “That’s because it needed to be said twice.”

  His lips curl up into a grin and oh, dear heavens. It’s not fair that his smile does crazy things to me.

  “Have you ever zip lined before?” he asks.

  I squint at him because I know he already knows the answer to this. “No,” I say dryly.

  “Then how do you know it’s unsafe?” he asks.

  “It just looks that way.”

  “Ever hear of anyone dying from it?”

  “Well, no,” I say, folding my arms. “But I’m sure I could Google it. And even if not, maybe I’d be the first.”

  He chuckles, low and quiet. Warmth spreads through me. I’ve made Logan smile and laugh today. More than once.

  Dear Diary . . .

  “See, I think you’d like it if you tried it,” he says.

  “Are you peer pressuring me?” I ask, putting my hands on my hips, jutting my right foot toward him.

  “No,” he says. “I’m only stating the facts.”

  “You don’t know how I’d feel,” I say. “I’d probably hate it.”

  “Okay, prove it. Try it, and if you hate it, I’ll never ask you to do anything like this again.”

  “Logan,” I say, chastising him with my tone.

  “And if you do like it,” he says and then looks down at the floor and kicks something with his shoe. Then his face moves back up to mine. “Then I get to kiss you.”

  My breath hitches at that. A quick intake of breath and my heart speeds up a bit.

  “W-what . . . I . . . you . . . you can’t just throw that out there,” I stammer out, trying to keep my brain from traveling back to the last—and only—time Logan’s lips have been on mine, which is not an easy thing to do. My mind wants to go there. As do all the butterflies currently multiplying in my stomach.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Are you worried you’ll like it?” he asks, that smirk back on his face.

  I shake my head, telling my brain to stop reminding me of his hands on my face, his body pressed up to mine. Must stop, must stop.

  “No,” I say, and then I clear my throat and stand a little taller, trying not to show him his words affected me. Or at least pretend like they don’t. “I’m pretty sure I’ll hate it.”

  “Then what do you have to lose?”

  “Uh, my life?”

  “You won’t lose your life, I promise.” He takes a step closer.

  I let out a breath looking up at another person zip lining above us. “How do you know?” I ask him. “I mean, with the way things have gone on this trip, it might be par for the course.”

  “Except for Paris,” he says.

  “So far, in Paris,” I reply. “I never did do a background check on you.”

  Logan’s lips pull up into a smile. “Come on,” he prods.

  “Uh-uh,” I move my head slowly back and forth.

  “Prove me wrong,” he says.

  I exhale out of my mou
th, feeling my shoulders fall as I do.

  “You’re thinking about it.” Logan’s smile now morphs into a big, bright grin, his perfect white teeth sparkling in the sunlight. Like a toothpaste commercial. A toothpaste commercial that’s trying to convince me to do this . . . and maybe succeeding. Dang it all.

  “No, I’m not thinking about it,” I say, trying to push away the spell that is Logan’s grin.

  “You are,” he says with a single chin dip toward me. “You’re twirling your hair. You do that when you’re contemplating.”

  “I do not,” I protest, even though I realize I am currently twirling my hair. S-word.

  He reaches both hands up and places them on my shoulders, squaring my body fully toward his. It’s feels like a strange thing for Logan to do. Not for him to be touching me—although that should feel weird, but it doesn’t. But the way he’s making me look at him, turning my shoulders so I’m forced to see him. That part feels out of character for him.

  “What do you say?” he asks.

  I reach up to grab some hair again, but then I stop myself. The earnest look in Logan’s eyes, that smile that’s melting into something less grand but even worse—he looks hopeful. Oh, dear heavens.

  I swallow hard and peer up at another person zipping down the line, Logan’s hands still on my shoulders. It doesn’t appear that daunting from down here. Sure, it looks risky, but more of a controlled risk, if that’s even a thing. Certainly not anything like traveling to another country with a stranger who ends up being a fraud. If I can do that and not end up at the bottom of a river, surely I can do this. Right?

  “Fine,” I say, setting my shoulders back. I try to seem confident, but as I say the word, my heart starts to pick up speed, nervous butterflies flutter around in my stomach.

  “Fine?” Logan asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. I don’t think he ever expected me to agree to this and that makes me kind of want to do it more.

  I should get therapy.

  He eyes me, dubiously. “Really?”

  I cock my head to the side. “Yes, really. But if we keep standing here and you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to change my mind.”