24. Logan

24

LOGAN

The message makes no sense.

One word.

One terrible word.

Bryn: Liar.

Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, grab my reading glasses, and read her text again. It’s the first of many.

I scroll down, trying to understand what she’s getting at.

Bryn: I know I only had a few drinks last night.

Bryn: But the evidence on my phone points to only one thing.

Bryn: You have a foot fetish.

Bryn: Or possibly I do. Because last night . . . I sent you THREE PICS OF MY FEET.

Bryn: Can we pretend that didn’t happen?

I sink back into the pillows, laughing out loud, my chest warm, a smile spreading across my face, and it’s barely eight. Queen Of Tofu pads across the bed, curling up next to my head.

Logan: Nope. I have the pics. And it definitely happened.

Bryn: *groans*

Logan: But feel free to even things out by sending pics of other body parts.

Logan: Also, I did NOT just say that. I’m trying to behave.

Logan: Ignore that. Ignore that wholly inappropriate request.

Bryn: Ha! I can’t ignore it. I have the evidence. Also, here you go.

An image lands on my screen. Of her ear. The edge of it, a few locks of her chestnut strands curling over it. And fuck me, but it makes me smile. And I’m not grinning because I can recall how her hair felt in my hands. I am grinning because it’s such a random, unexpected shot.

Logan: I can honestly say that’s the first ear shot I’ve ever received.

Bryn: Well. Where’s mine? *waiting*

I do something I never thought I’d do. I snap a picture of my ear. And I send it to the woman I’m definitely falling for.

Bryn: Do you have glasses???? I see one of the arms, I think.

Logan: Um. Yeah. Reading glasses.

Bryn: I NEED A PICTURE. OF YOUR FACE. IN GLASSES.

Logan: Right now?

Bryn: No, tomorrow.

Bryn: Yes, right now.

I do as the woman asks, my chest flipping in a funny way. But as I snap a photo of myself, this feeling becomes clear. It’s warm and bubbly, like that first sip of champagne. It’s . . . infatuation. And hell, do I ever like it. It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.

All at once, I’m a man who’s been in the dark for years, and the light’s suddenly turned on. I want to see everything I’ve missed. Every possibility.

Bryn: I’m not even sure where to start, Mr. Smolder. But that is the most smoldering shot ever.

Logan: Yeah, right. I just woke up, my hair is a mess, and there is a cat on my head.

Bryn: Exactly. Your hair is sticking up in twenty-five directions, you’re wearing a cat, and you have Clark Kent glasses. Shut the front door.

Logan: The glasses are simply because I’m more farsighted than any thirty-two-year-old should be.

Bryn: The glasses are sexy. That’s all. Plain and simple.

Logan: So it wasn’t just the wine last night that had you sending me all those texts?

Bryn: Hush. I can hold my wine, thank you very much. It was not the wine talking then or now. You are endearing. Especially in those glasses.

My heart speeds up, slamming against my chest. Dangerously. But deliciously too. It’s like another light goes on, illuminating even more. I want all this light she’s bringing to me. This spark. This possibility.

Logan: Honestly, when I saw your first message this morning, I thought you were serious. That I was a liar. And I was scrambling to figure out what I could have lied about. Because I don’t want to be that guy. And I hate lies.

Bryn: Me too.

Logan: I know people say this, but I mean it. Honesty is the most important thing to me. I didn’t have it with Stacey. And I want to practice it. (Hence why I said what I said to you at Dr. Insomnia’s.)

Bryn: I’m with you, Logan. So, let me start by saying this—your face makes me happy. Your glasses are sexy and make you look real. And you are the easiest guy to talk to because nothing feels like a line. You sort of move fluidly between being smolderingly sexy and painfully blunt. And it’s wonderful.

Logan: Painfully blunt doesn’t sound wonderful.

Bryn: It is. I assure you, I like blunt. It’s such a welcome change.

Logan: Was your ex manipulative?

Bryn: He was . . . delightful and not delightful at the same time. Delightful and wonderful when I got to know him. But once we were together, he was wildly jealous.

Logan: In what way?

Bryn: He hated my job. He hated that I loved it. That it took me away from him. He didn’t like anything that took me away from him. He was one of those people who wants to consume you. And when my mother died and I didn’t have as much time for him, that’s when he had the affair.

Logan: Holy shit. Are you serious?

Bryn: I wish I weren’t. Actually, that’s not true. I’m glad I’m not with him. I’m thrilled. I’m so happy without him. But it hurt like hell to grieve that loss at the same time as a broken heart.

Logan: A double whammy. That’s terrible.

Bryn: It was. Death, and the death of a relationship.

Logan: You deserve so much better.

Bryn: Thank you. Do you wish things were different?

Logan: I feel the same as you. I’m happy now, but I also know what it cost to get here. The doubt, the anger, the unhappiness. I was angry for a long time, like a storm cloud followed me around. I channeled it in ridiculous ways, like playing paintball aggressively. Like trying to beat the team of the guy who cheated with my ex. It was silly.

Bryn: It actually sounds kind of healthy. Maybe it was productive in its own way?

Logan: Maybe . . . or maybe it was how I dealt with the whole “was it my fault” question that plagued me.

Bryn: That’s the worst part of being cheated on. Those dark days when you wonder what you did wrong.

Logan: And the answer is nothing. It’s not your fault, and you didn’t do anything to deserve it. But you can’t get there till you go through it.

Bryn: Teagan said that to me when I lost my mom—you can’t get to the other side until you go through it. I think it applies just the same. She’s been through some hard stuff in life.

Logan: I believe that too. You don’t want the bad stuff, but it’s life. It happens, and you just have to learn from it. Learn what you want in life and learn what you don’t.

Bryn: What do you want?

A few months ago, I might not have known the answer. As I study her question, the answer is as bright and clear as my world this morning.

Logan: Honesty. Trust. Great sex. And laughter.

I pause as I stare at the last message before I hit send. Six words. A band name. A terrible band name, but a truthful wish list.

What do I want now? This list says it all. Sending it is like putting my heart on the line. But this conversation feels as if it’s the truest one I’ve ever had with a woman. It feels like everything I didn’t know I wanted two weeks ago.

Everything I want desperately now.

And it’s all wrapped up in her.

I hit send, and I wait to see how she responds.

She doesn’t make me wait long.

Bryn: Can I call you?

Logan: Of course.

Bryn: Is FaceTime okay? I mean, I did just see your face.

Logan: Go for it.

Seconds later, the phone rings. When I answer, my heart thumps. What the hell is happening to me? I’m reacting like she’s my girlfriend and I haven’t seen her in a month, because I’m ridiculously stoked to see her in her workout clothes. She wears a rose-colored sports bra, and her brown hair is pulled high in a ponytail.

“Like my hula-hoop outfit?” she asks, gesturing to her workout clothes.

“Love it. When is your class?”

“A couple hours. But I was up and showered, so I figured I’d read, or maybe visit a museum or something before I went to the class.”

That wasn’t entirely what I was hoping she wanted to do today. And that wasn’t why I thought she was calling either. But I tell myself to be patient. “That sounds fun,” I say, giving her the space she seems to still need. She hasn’t said anything since I asked if she wanted to disclose and date—so romantic. I bet this is her way of calling to let me down easy.

And I should return to the only role I should play.

Be the boss. See her occasionally at The Dating Pool.

She’s only my employee. She’s not my lover. She’s not my girlfriend. I’m letting my stupid, dormant, hungry heart make assumptions.

“So, Amy, the one who teaches hula hoop—I texted her last night to see if she knew about hula hooping for seven-year-olds. Turns out Amy is doing classes for kids at the Y. So, if Amelia ever wants to go, I highly recommend it. It includes hula hooping and jump rope tricks.”

“Amelia would love that,” I say. I love, too, that Bryn looked into the class. But I don’t want to talk about my kid. I want to talk about whether there’s an us. I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for her answer.

She draws a deep breath then licks her lips. “But that’s not why I called.”

I sit up straighter, my muscles tense. “Why did you call?”

“Those things you said just now?”

I nod, my fists clenched. “Yeah.”

“I’m kind of terrified of what it might mean. I’ve tried to be a certain person at work for all these years. Someone who follows the rules, who respects them, who’s fun and fair.”

I nod in understanding, bracing myself for the inevitable. Her reputation matters. She’s spent years building it. One wrong move and it could come tumbling down. “I understand, Bryn.”

She shrugs a little helplessly, but a little happily too. “But I want those same things, Logan. And I think I want them with you.”

I can’t stop grinning. I can’t stop feeling . My heart thumps like a herd of horses in my chest. It’s crazy, utterly crazy, to feel this way this soon.

But the evidence says maybe it’s not insane. Because I’m happy again. The sun came out, and it’s shining down on me.

“Come over,” I say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. I want to see you so damn badly. Give me twenty minutes to shower. If you haven’t eaten, I can make you breakfast.”

Her grin is magnetic. “You cook too?”

“Yes, I do. Am I more endearing?”

“I didn’t think it was possible, but yes, yes, you are.” With her free hand, she shoos me. “Go, shower. Send me your address. I’ll be there soon.”

I say goodbye and send it to her. The smile on my face feels a mile wide.

In the bathroom, I crank up the music, get in the shower, and do something I haven’t done in ages—I sing along. It’s “Hooked on a Feeling.” And surely that’s the reason. You can’t not sing along to this tune. I grab the shampoo bottle and belt out the chorus.

Grateful I don’t have roommates to catch me in the act of butchering such an epic tune, I croon my heart out.

I sing to the entire Upper East Side.

To all of Manhattan.

To the city.

And most of all, to myself. Because this feels so fucking good.

When I turn off the shower, Queen LT is sitting on the floor, licking a paw, taking her own bath.

“You did not see a thing. You didn’t hear a thing. Tell no one what I did.”

She simply keeps licking. Maybe she’s smiling.

After I brush my teeth, I tug on jeans and a T-shirt and run a towel over my wet hair one more time. Then I hang it up, head to the kitchen, and start some coffee.

A few minutes later, a text lands, telling me she’s here.

I turn off the coffee. I don’t need it. I’m already buzzed.