Logan’s face flutters through my mind. His bright blue eyes and almost shy, yet mischievous smile light a bubble of excitement in my stomach.
I snort. “I do,” I say before I can catch myself.
“What?”
“I saw him. He’s cute, Navie.”
“Dylan …”
“I mean, he’s an asshole,” I say, getting to my feet. “We know that. But it’s not hard to see why you took him up on whatever offer he threw down.”
She groans. “He’s not that cute. I have guys in the bar every night cuter than him.”
“Then I think it’s time that I accompany you to work.”
“Not tonight,” she says. “Machlan just left, and I’m here alone. I can’t protect the men from you.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha. See ya when you get home.”
“Adios.”
I end the call and toss my phone onto the couch. The apartment is ridiculously quiet—even quieter than my apartment in Indiana. There are no neighbors fighting or talk shows seeping through the walls. Heck, there’s not even the smell of burnt pizza. Everything is just … still.
It’s very Navie, very calm-in-the-storm. She always has a way of doing that. Riots and chaos can be going on, and Navie is the one in the middle doing yoga.
We met on the first day of kindergarten and bonded over chocolate pudding as finger paint. We were virtually inseparable until she left to come here.
I was devastated when she left, but I understood. If my family is difficult, hers is toxic. Seeing her so happy and adjusted here makes the months I spent without her okay. I’m just glad to be here with her, my only real friend, now too.
I study the length and try to guess how many steps it would take to get from one to the other when a movement catches my eye outside the window. I slink over to the curtain.
Logan walks up to the front door with a big box in his hand.
“Victory is mine,” I whisper as I reach for the door handle. I yank it open. “Well, hello there.”
He grins over the top of the box. His teeth are white and straight, his hat pulled down over his forehead.
“I was going to leave this here,” he says, tapping on a box of pots and pans.
He’s the enemy, Dylan. Be strong.
He shoves the box toward me. “Since you opened the door, here you go.”
I take the box and set it inside. I should flash him a tight smile and close the door, but I’m only human. Besides, I’m not the queen of karma, so I should probably have manners.
For karma’s sake.
“I’m happy to see you bringing those by,” I say, clearing my throat. “Even though they aren’t her old ones, they’ll do.”
“I couldn’t find the old ones.”
“Pawned them.”
He fights a laugh. “I’m doing the best I can here, okay?”
I lean against the doorframe and take him in. He’s so disarming with his blond hair poking out the sides of his cap and tall, lanky frame. And no man should have lashes that long. It’s just not fair.
But it is proof that everyone is a disappointment. I’ve speculated for years that no one actually cares about other people anymore, and this Logan thing proves it. By looking at him, you’d think he was the kind boy-next-door type when, in reality, he’s a hedonistic jerk. It’s very disappointing.
It’s either that, or I set my standards way too high.
Like top of the ozone layer too high.
“Navie will appreciate you being a man about this after all,” I say.
“Yup. Logan is a real winner.”
I arch my brow. “Third person? Really?”
“I didn’t take the pots and pans, Dylan,” he says with a sigh.
“Then what happened to them? A burglar broke in and ignored the television and her computer and the cookie jar of cash that probably holds thirty bucks, but still? Not plausible, Logan. But why you’d want them, I don’t know. Was it to get back at her in a way she’d think about every day? Is that it? Are you so in love with her—”
“With Navie?”
“Obviously.”
He laughs. “No. She’s like my sister.”
My brain scrambles. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Forcing a swallow, I eye him carefully. “I have a lot of questions as to why you’d sleep with someone who’s like your sister and then steal from her, but I’m not sure I want the answers.”
“Good,” he says, leaning forward. “Because if I start giving you answers, you’re gonna feel really stupid, and I don’t want to see your pretty little face all scrunched up in embarrassment.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
He shrugs, the corner of his lips tugging to the sky.
He’s lit from behind by the setting sun and a sky full of vibrant rays. It’s like he’s the center of a painting, the star of a poster from some Hollywood romantic comedy, and I can barely take it.
I have to look away.
And berate myself for thinking this about a guy who screwed over my friend.
“I forgot your Jack,” he says. “I can bring it by later. Thinking maybe you need it.”
“Nah, I’m good, Chef Boyardee. I shouldn’t drink anyway. Drinking puts me in all my feels, and that’s not the place for a sane girl to be.”
“You mean you’re sane?” he teases.
I level my gaze with his and try not to laugh. “Yup. You don’t even want to see me really mad.”
“Does smoke come out of your ears and everything?”
“Yup.”
We both struggle to keep a straight face. In seconds, we’re laughing.
The sound of our voices mixing together sets a too-comfortable ambiance on Navie’s front porch. It shouldn’t be this easy to be friendly with Logan, and I shouldn’t be questioning how he could possibly be such a jerk to Navie, but I am.
I’m a traitor.
A traitor who can’t quit talking.
“Did you get that truck done?” I ask.
“Yup. And I paid the guy back for the gas. Just mentioning that so you don’t think I’m a thief.”
“But you are. You know, pots and pans.”
He takes his hat off and scratches the top of his head. “But I brought the pans back and paid for the gas. So maybe I’m a good thief like the good witch in the Wizard of Oz.”
“She was still a witch,” I say.
“But pretty in that pink dress. It was pink, right? It’s been a while.”
He moves to put the hat back on. The air comes alive with his cologne. It’s aromatic with an aquatic, slightly woody hint that barrels through my veins and makes my brain foggy.
Glancing at his watch, he frowns. “I gotta be hitting the road.”
“Hot date?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins. “Yup.”
My stomach flip flops as I take a step back toward the door. The logical part of my brain tells me that this is a good thing—that he’ll be leaving Navie alone—but the female part of my brain, the one that favors charisma and looks over sensible actions, is kind of sad.
“My date tonight makes the best cheeseball in the world. She puts extra bacon in it just for me, and word on the street is that she made fried chicken. It’s the best,” he adds. His eyes twinkle as he describes the night waiting for him.
“Good. I need to get going too,” I say, jamming a finger behind me. “I have to, you know … make sure all of my stuff is ready to move and all that.”
“Where ya movin’?”
“I’m renting a house on Vine Street. Just waiting on the tenants to get out. They were supposed to be out last week, but the landlord had a hard time getting them to go, so now I have to wait.”
He nods. “Cool. Well, if you need anything done around there, I know people who’ll work for cheap.”
“Thanks.”
“Now I gotta get going, or Nana will be pissed.”
“Nana?” I say as he heads down the sidewalk. “What kind of name is that?”<
br />
He smiles before climbing in his truck. The engine starts before he rolls the window down.
“Don’t forget to give Navie the pots and pans,” he says.
“I will.”
“And if you get a hankering for fried chicken, I know a grandma who loves to feed people. It’s one of Nana’s best recipes.”
My mouth drops open. “You just ghosted my best friend, and you’re inviting me to dinner? With your grandmother, no less.”
Even though I’m quietly thrilled Nana is his grandmother and not some exotic beauty, I feign indifference.
“Sorry,” he says, revving his engine. “I forgot about all that ghosting thing.”
“You’re a bastard, Logan.”
His laughter is loud as he backs down the driveway. He waves from the street before his tires bark as he pulls away.
I go back inside and close the door behind me. Venturing into the kitchen, I spy a shirt slung over the back of a chair. Navie tossed Logan’s shirt there this morning as she complained about not being able to make breakfast.
Glancing back at the door, I try to imagine Logan screwing Navie over like that.
It’s hard to imagine him being such a dick. He seems so … I grin before I can even get the words into a coherent thought.
“Face the facts,” I say as I pick up the shirt. “He’s a troll like Navie said.”
I toss the shirt into the trash can.
And force myself not to take it back out.
Four
Dylan
“I am an adult, for heaven’s sake.”
Glancing at the pile of paperwork in front of me—bills that need paid, papers that need my signature, and a budget that I need to peruse to remind myself of its existence—I do the logical thing: I fall back on the floor, sending papers flying in the air, and think happy thoughts.
Happy thoughts that, by definition, don’t include adultish things.
“I need a grown-up,” I moan.
I think back to my last birthday, the one where I turned twenty-nine, and how I thought this would be the year I got myself together. The year I felt like I knew how to handle all the things. Life. Paperwork. Insurance.
Instead, I’m camping out on Navie’s couch at two in the morning while she’s at work, and I’m killing time. I don’t even have my own place yet and am living out of a suitcase and a duffel bag.
I might never reach adult status when it comes to all the things.
I gasp as the front door pushes open. The only available weapon close by is a tube of mascara. I grab it and hold it in front of me as Navie walks in.
“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, blowing out a breath.
“Sorry. I just live here.” She shoots me a tired smile before dropping her purse on the table. “And what were you going to do with that?” One of her fingers makes a slow circle in the air as it points to the mascara in my hand.
I drop it.
“Um, maybe poke the intruder in the eye,” I offer with a sheepish shrug. “That’s a solid plan. Right?”
She nods like I’m crazy. “Sure. Or you could’ve smothered him in all those papers. What on earth are you doing?”
Grabbing the closest paper to me, I take a look at it. “Sorting my life.”
“I hope it’s going better than it looks.”
“It is. Kind of.” I peruse the financial data on the paper I’m holding. “According to this, I’m doing great at living on a budget. Well, except for this one little line item.”
“Eating out?”
“Kind of. I call it the HAS Line,” I say.
“Has? Like, you has to have it?”
“Kind of again. It stands for Hungry Angry Sad. It’s where I put all the things I buy when I’m hangry, mad, or sad. It’s quite the line,” I cringe. “I’ve heard of stress eating. Who knew stress shopping was a thing? Because it is, and this HAS Line proves it. I mean, who spends two hundred dollars, give or take, on gourmet ice cream delivery? Me. That’s who.”
“Hey, I’m not going to judge you over ice cream. But I will take a little offense to the fact you didn’t bring any of it here.”
I laugh. “Don’t say that. I’ll order some and that HAS Line will double next month. I mean, do you like pistachio coconut or brambleberry pecan?”
Navie giggles. “Neither. Right now, I just want to save enough money to cook at home without using the microwave.”
“Oh!” I bounce to my feet. “I helped you with that today. Can’t help my damn self, but I did help you.”
Navie gives me a worried look while she unwraps her hair from a bun on the top of her head. Then she slips her arms into her shirt, shimmies around, and then tosses her bra toward the closet that houses the tiniest washer and dryer known to man.
“There,” she says. “I can think now.” She slumps into a chair with lavender padding and looks at me. “What did you do?”
I smack my lips together with a little shrug and turn my eyes toward the big box by the door. She follows my gaze.
Her head falls to the side as she looks at me again.
“What?” I ask.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“Afraid to ask what? I got your pots and pans back.” I sit on the sofa. “You can say thank you. That’s the socially acceptable reply.”
“You didn’t buy that, did you?”
“Nope. Logan did.”
I’m unsure if the sigh that comes from her mouth is in disbelief or frustration. She rests the back of her head against the chair and watches me carefully.
“What exactly did you say to him?” she asks.
“Nothing that I feel sorry for.”
She chuckles. “I’m not sure that you’ve felt sorry for anything you’ve ever said in your life.”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I thought I’d feel bad about it.”
“So …”
I pull my legs up on the couch. “I just told him what a jerk he was and the least he could do was return your stuff. I must’ve been very convincing because he took the money he got from pawning your stuff it and bought you a new set.”
She cringes.
I smile widely.
She cringes harder. “You’re a pistol,” she says.
I’m not sure she means that as a compliment, but I definitely take it as one. “Thanks. I think so too. Why do you always underestimate me?”
“I don’t know, but I really did this time. I mean, Logan isn’t a cupcake, if you know what I’m saying. He doesn’t bend to people’s will very often.”
I imagine him throwing punches and sweating all over the place. Dayum.
“It’s just hard to believe he succumbed to your … tactics,” she says.
“Well, I don’t really like the word threaten because it sounds so harsh. But I guess you could say that I kind of threatened him—in a very ladylike manner, of course.”
She presses her lips together and nods. “Ladylike. I’m sure.”
“It was,” I insist. “I don’t even think I cursed. And I didn’t suggest the removal of any body parts either. Ladylike. Boom.”
She laughs, wiping her hands down her face. “I bet he didn’t know what to do with you.”
“I didn’t know what to do with him,” I admit. “I expected him to be cocky and just completely disgusting, but … he wasn’t.”
I pull my knees to my chest and think of Logan’s smile. He wasn’t any of the things I thought he’d be. He was sort of kind, actually, and not quiet, per se, but polite. He definitely let me say my piece—even if I didn’t give him much leeway to talk.
Still, he wasn’t the manwhore I braced myself to encounter.
Navie screws her face up as though she can’t understand my thought process. “He wasn’t?”
I look at her like I’m missing something. She looks at me like she’s awaiting an explanation.
“No, he wasn’t. And I feel bad for saying that because he ghosted you, and he’s a thief,” I say. “He’s completely t
he enemy, and I get it. I’m with ya, sister. But he was … nice. Although I’m sure it was an act,” I add.
“Interesting.”
I shrug. “Or not.” I bite the end of a fingernail and contemplate a way to change the subject. Luckily, she does it for me.
“You look comfy,” she says.
“I am. Considering we’re sharing about six hundred square feet of space, I’m rather cozy.” I pick up the yellow pillow and toss it side to side. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”
She laughs. “Shut up.”
“I mean it,” I say, laughing too. “I actually took a couple of mental notes about how you use mirrors to make the rooms feel bigger, and the use of plants to make it feel more outdoorsy or something. I don’t know what it is, but I like it.”
“We’ll have fun decorating your house. When does your stuff get here?”
“A couple of days. The moving guy left me a text today that they’re a couple of days behind, which works out perfectly since I don’t have my house yet. And I don’t start work at the bank for a couple of weeks, so it should be enough time to get semi-settled before I start work.”
A bolt of excitement tears through me as I think about my new place. There’s so much hope in a new house—a place free of negative vibes. I’ve needed this for a long time, probably longer than I even realize. Navie has been saying it for years.
“Have you heard from your mom?” she asks.
My spirits sink as I avert my eyes from Navie. My heart is still sore, my feelings tender about leaving my family behind. It was definitely by choice because I made the decision to go, but I wish it didn’t have to be this way.
“Yes,” I say. “She texted me yesterday and asked if I made it. I said I had, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
I attempt to keep my voice void of any emotion, shielding Navie from the hurt I feel at my mom’s antiseptic behavior toward me. But she’s Navie. She hears it. She’s seen it. She’s walked every frustrated moment alongside me and has been angry on my behalf many times.
“I’m sorry, Dylan.” The words come out thick and heavy.
“It’s okay,” I say past a lump in my throat. “She’ll call when she needs something—when there’s an opportunity to earn her love.”
Crazy: Gibson Boys Book #4 Page 3