by Ella James
Logan stopped by his dad’s chair and held out the drink, and his dad snatched it. Logan flinched a little, and his dad laughed at that, too. But it wasn’t a real laugh.
He fixed his red eyes on Logan’s mom. “Sarah, I need to start teaching this boy to be a man. He needs to start learning the shop. That’s where a boy should be. Not readin’ stories.” Logan’s dad laughed, low and scratchy. “I’ll show you some stories, son. Down at Finnigan’s Store. They’ve got pictures, too.”
For some reason, the mention of pictures made Logan’s mom really mad.
He tried to figure out why, but his parents seemed to be talking without sound. After a few more minutes, his mom got up and shoved her chair in. She took her plate and put it in the sink and got Maggie’s plate and tugged Maggie with her down the hall.
As they were going, she turned around. Her face was red. “Just because Hank’s dead doesn’t mean you can act like this!”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I well want!”
“Don’t curse in front of the children!”
Logan’s dad knocked him on the shoulder, a stinging slap that made him slide to the edge of his chair. “This one’s nine years old!”
His mom left after that, and Logan’s stomach felt like it was falling. He tried to eat, but it was hard to swallow. After what felt like ages, he finished up his beans and asked to be excused.
His dad didn’t answer. He was still eyeing the hall.
“Dad. Um, can I be excused?”
His father waved at him. He was hunched over, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth and breathing like the cows did when they had calves.
Logan hurried washing his plate because he wanted to get outside fast. He headed for the den, walking right by his dad’s chair instead of going around the table’s other end, so his dad wouldn’t notice he was scared.
He held his breath until his hand touched the doorknob. Hallelujah! He was almost out. Almost free. And then, just as he started to turn it, something snatched his upper arm.
Logan’s feet left the floor as he was wheeled around to face his father. The elder Tripp seemed as big and angry as a bull.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Logan swallowed. “T-to the fields.”
“What are you gonna do in the fields?”
“Um…nothing.”
Logan’s dad leaned in closer. “Speak up. I can’t hear you.”
“Nothing.”
“I’ll ask you again: what you gonna do in the fields?”
“Just…look around.”
That mean face came closer. Logan could smell that bad smell on his breath. “Look me in the eye, son.”
Logan did.
“Didn’t I always tell you to look me in the eye?”
“Y-y- I mean,” he inhaled, “yes.”
“No more going outside at night. There’s rattlers out there. No more going outside, you hear me?”
Logan heard, but he had to go out. His chest felt really tight just thinking about staying in. “Dad, I’ll bring my flashlight! And stay on the porch! I need to see the stars for my class.”
“I said no!”
“But my teacher—”
“Miss Suffolk,” his dad sneered. “I don’t care what that uppity bitch says! You think ’cause you’re in some special smart-ass class you can do whatever you want to?” Big fingers caught his hair and yanked it back. “Let me tell you something, son, look me in the eye, right now! This is my house. My house. Doesn’t matter what Miss Taylor thinks. And a man’s in charge of his own goddamned house! He says who does what, and I say you’re staying in! You’re staying in here, and in the daytime you’re coming with me to the shop!”
“No!” Logan jerked away. “I don’t want to go with you!”
That hard hand struck like a cobra on his cheek, then it jerked him so close their noses almost touched. “You’ll do whatever I say. Whatever. I. Say. And I say you’re staying inside. You’re gonna sit on that couch over there and… No.” He shook his head. “You know what, you go out there on the porch like you want to. Sit in that rocker and wait for me.”
Fear quickened Logan’s heart and he barely managed to open the door as his father stormed off toward his parents’ room. He stood frozen by the porch lamp, surrounded by moths and mosquitoes. His throat felt full, and he wondered if he might puke up his supper.
Logan still wasn’t sure why he did what he did next. Why he didn’t just stand there and take what was coming.
But he couldn’t. The second the door opened, he shot off like a comet, streaking down the steps and through the yard before his father even saw him run.
He ran faster than he’d ever run before. To him, it seemed faster than the horses. He ran into the cornfield and started to fly.
His father was clumsy and heavier, and he didn’t know the fields like Logan did. But his legs were longer.
Somewhere near the big pecan trees that split up the peanuts from the corn, Orry Tripp caught his son. Logan tried to pull ahead, but his lungs ached and his muscles shook, and he couldn’t go any faster.
His father brought him down like a linebacker, smashing his breath out as he hit the hard red dirt. He couldn’t move at all. He couldn’t yell. He couldn’t even breathe.
The first blow, to his jaw, hurt like sin, and the next one busted his lip open, but it got better after that. He looked up at the sky and picked the brightest star, and he imagined himself up there, drifting toward the star which he realized was red, red like the blood oozing out his fist right now, because it hadn’t been a star at all.
Mars.
He’d gotten off the farm. The summer after fifth grade, he’d finally outrun Orry Tripp’s long arm. To Milton, then MIT, but always he was looking up at the sky. Through the panic attacks, nightmares, guilt and loneliness, his one companion had been the red planet. He’d close his eyes, and see himself in the stars.
When he closed his eyes this time, all he saw was Margo.
12
Four hours and twenty-something minutes later, Margo curled her knees to her chest and tugged the duvet closer to her chin. The ice-filled baggie lying awkwardly over her head shifted, sending half-moon ice cubes sliding over her ear, where they liked to pool and melt.
Below the ice, her left iPod earbud whispered some crap Evan Timberdime uploaded under the name “Relaxing Bach.” The songs were titled one, two, three, and so forth, so Margo had no idea what she was hearing. Not that she cared. She was only listening to the iPod so she didn’t have to listen to Jana. The O’s manager was in the hallway, cursing violently into her cell phone.
Margo would’ve been listening to music with actual words, but real music hurt her head. She had a concussion—the mildest grade, apparently, but mild was plenty, thanks. The pain was concentrated over her left ear, and the bone-deep sting made it difficult to think. Which was all she’d been doing for the past two hours, as she lay in this room—a guest room on the first floor of the casa, which Jana had taken from a visiting Nobel laureate in physics because she thought Margo couldn’t handle stairs.
All Margo had thought about was Logan.
Analyzed him, really, and their every interaction—knowing that this was obviously more than professional interest.
Margo had even called Elizabeth after she’d returned from the island’s tiny clinic.
“I can tell you two things from right here.” Right here was the deck of a yacht in some bay in Monaco. Margo could hear seagulls cawing—cawing painfully—in the background. “First, this guy sounds like a giant nerd. I can’t believe he’s all that cute; nature isn’t that nice to anybody. And second, you obviously like him.”
“Does he like you back?” Elizabeth mused before they hung up. “My crystal ball says ‘very likely.’”
“Very likely." Margo was less certain, but a small part of her—okay, a large, insane part of her—wanted to agree.
She heard Jana’s voice peak, and paused her song. The manage
r’s twins were sick, and Margo worried something had happened. But no: Jana sounded pleased. Someone answered, a voice much softer than Jana’s. Jana responded, and Margo pulled the earbuds out.
A male voice. His voice? Jana said something else, and the voice responded. Jana’s voice picked up again, she was speaking loud and fast in Spanish, thanking someone—
Logan. He walked into the room, and all the blood drained from Margo’s head. He was holding an ice pack, wearing a white t-shirt that made his tan look almost fake in the dim light. When he noticed her staring, he tilted his head to the side, pressed his lips together, and walked over slowly, stiffly, like he was approaching an open casket.
He sat in the chair Jana had pulled close and draped the ice pack over his knee. He lifted his finger and pointed at her. “You have a bruise,” he said. “Right there.” He pointed to the skin under his eye.
The hand he pointed with was also bruised, and the skin on his knuckles was torn and scabbed.
“What happened to your hand?”
He jerked it down, looking almost…guilty.
“Apollo,” he told her.
“Oh, God. Did he hurt you when you caught him?”
“No. It happened earlier today.”
He was lying, for some reason. Both of his hands had been fine when she’d ridden with him.
“How’s the headache?” he asked, wiping his palms on his jeans.
“They said it should go away soon.”
His mouth twisted down, and he glanced over his shoulder, toward the hall. He looked like he wanted to get up, but something was stopping him.
“Did Jana leave?”
Logan nodded.
So he was her babysitter now. “That doesn’t mean you have to stay. I’ll be fine by myself.” Margo lifted her head to prove it, refusing to wince when a burst of pain shot under her eye.
“No, no. I can stay.” He held out the ice pack, obviously guilty. “I wanted to bring you this.”
Sitting up was one thing, but grabbing and lifting a giant ice pack was another. Margo hesitated, and Logan leaned closer, slowly reaching out to touch her cheek. His fingers felt like five flames on her cool skin. Before coherent thought returned, he had placed the pack over her temple.
His voice was a rumble, making her belly clench. “I can feel the knot.”
“You can?” She swallowed, because he was very close.
And then he wasn’t. He leaned away, set the ice pack on her sheets, and shifted back down to his chair.
Margo ran her fingers over the chilly plastic.
“So…” Logan drummed his fingers on his knee. “You getting bored yet?”
“Yes.” She nodded, a little too hard. “The only music that doesn’t hurt my head is Bach. Bleh.”
“No fugues for you?”
“It’s boring.”
Logan smiled, and his teeth were very white. “What do you prefer?”
“Stuff with words.” Then she wondered how stupid she sounded.
“Stuff with words,” he echoed softly.
“Yeah.” Margo shifted her weight again, propping her cheek in her palm, though it hurt her neck. “TV hurts my eyes, and they told me not to go to sleep, so…”
He lifted up a hardback picture book from the table beside her, started thumbing through it. “I think this is it.” He held it up, and she recognized her mother’s Bel Air home. “American Palaces—the book.” He winked.
Margo looked down at the puffy peach and white duvet. “It seems like I’ll never go back out to California.”
“Really?”
The word was so soft, and the way he looked at her, so nice, that she blushed again. “Yeah,” she said, embarrassed for being so open. “It’s okay, though. I’ve thought of going to school at Stanford or something.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I think I would like it there.” She chewed her lip, trying to think of why. “It’s just big enough. You could be anyone.”
“So you want to be someone else?”
He had his head in his hand; she could practically envision glasses on the tip of his nose. “Are you trying to psychoanalyze me?”
“If you’ll just lie down flat and close your eyes…”
“You’ll tell me how I feel.”
His brow arched. “Touché…”
Margo grinned. “Actually, I’m a fan of that kind of thing.”
“Shrinks?”
“Psychology,” she said.
“Stanford does that well.”
“I know.”
“You know,” he murmured, “I think Freud said there are no accidents.”
“None at all?” She wondered what that meant for her. First, she’d undressed without locking the door. Then she’d saddled a wild horse and gotten herself thrown off. “Based on that, maybe I should be in therapy.”
He smiled. “Maybe.” She opened her mouth for an indignant retort, but he quickly said, “Kidding. I’m kidding. I don’t think things are really that cohesive.”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged again. “You know…everything connected. For a reason. I say maybe there are accidents. Shit just happens.”
He reached out and grabbed the ice pack, stood slowly over her, and settled it on her bruise. He was silent for a moment, staring down at her, while Margo’s heart beat uncomfortably hard.
“Tell me something: can you walk?”
She nodded.
“Then come with me up to the O. I want to show you something.”
“I don’t know….”
Logan stuck out his hand. “Come on. No one’s up there right now. And you have four more hours until you can fall asleep. This will be better than your iPod. Promise.”
Margo hesitated, then peeled back her covers. His hand was warm and firm, with calluses on palm and fingers. As he led her out the room and down the hall, he exerted the slightest bit of pressure. Follow: an urging. Not an order.
By the time they made it to the sixth floor of the observatory tower, her heart was pumping twice as hard as normal, and she felt it in her head. They stopped at a tall steel door, and Logan pulled a card out of his pocket, swiped.
The room he led her into looked like a geek’s heaven. Dozens of rows of computers were tricked out with all kinds of little gadgets: cameras, printers, digital writing pads, touch pads, speakers. One computer near the room’s opposite end linked up to a movie theater-size screen, connected to dozens of little tubes that fed into the ceiling.
“That’s my desk,” Logan said. “Big screen for the important folks.”
“Big heads, big screens.”
He laughed. “I don’t actually have a desk. No one does.”
She held a hand to her chest. “You mean you have to… share.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
She glanced around the room again, and then up. “Why is the ceiling flat,” she asked, pointing, “instead of round.”
“You’re about to find out.”
Logan steered her toward the back of the room, where a winding staircase disappeared into the ceiling, and she said, “I don’t know if I can handle any stairs.”
“Relax,” he whispered. Then he picked her up.
Seriously. He actually swept her off her feet, and carried her up the stairs like she didn’t weigh a thing. When they reached the top, he set her down gently, holding her waist.
“Got it?” His voice was husky.
“Yeah. I think.”
She felt weak and shaky from the ride, and every nerve in her body had zeroed on her waist, on the spots where his fingers touched her body, too tight to be casual. He let her go, but she was still standing body-heat close to him, so her senses were overwhelmed by his warmth and his scent: wintery with a touch of something sweet, like honey.
She took a little step away, and then her eyes adjusted, and her mouth fell open.
“Wow...”
They stood inside a dome that resembled a giant, circular tic-tac-toe board. Pi
pe-like bars folded into diamonds crisscrossed the ceiling, and a flap near the front of the dome gleamed golden brass, winking in the faint mechanical light of several massive, cannon-like machines that must have been cameras.
“This,” Logan said, sweeping his hand out at them, “is the real observatory. And