17. Expand My Horizon
“Come oooon,”I drawl. “Number seventeen. Expand my horizons.”
“Nope.”
I rest my back on the whithered concrete wall and frown. When he said he wanted to leave his parents’ place, I figured we’d return to the farm. Instead, we got an Uber back to Pinevale, and after a long—and silent—walk through the small town, he sat on the stairs of a church and announced he’d smoke weed.
He won’t let me try, though.
“Come on. Help me check an item off my list.” He watches me as if trying to figure out which one, so I offer, “Push me out of my comfort zone.”
“Do you even know how to?” He taps the joint until the ashes fall off the tip.
“Yes, I smoked a cigarette just a couple of?—”
Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.
“You’re joking, right? That’s how you set Derek’s trash on fire? How does that even happen?”
“It starts with an ill-advised cigarette disposal and a pile of dry leaves.”
“Yes, and it ends in prison.” When I pout, he rolls his eyes and holds the joint out. “Take a breath—not too deep, though. Start slow.”
I nod, awkwardly holding the long joint between my thumb and index finger. Beside me, Logan leans back against the weathered stone wall, the tip of his joint glowing softly in the dim light of the street lamps.
“Are you sure we should be doing this here? We don’t need another reason to be arrested.”
“Nobody will arrest you for smoking a joint, Lady Arson.”
Just like he told me to, I take a breath, and I don’t feel a thing at first. Then my throat starts to burn, and I bend to the side in a coughing fit.
“Yep. Okay. That’s normal.” Logan takes the joint and pats my back as I look down at the concrete steps, trying to breathe through my nose.
“Oh, this is so gross,” I croak before I cough some more. There’s a weird taste in my mouth, and smacking my lips, I grimace. “It’s like I’ve sucked on musk.”
He snorts out a laugh, choking on the smoke just like I did, and even as he tears up, he throws an amused look at me. “It gets better.”
“Does it?” I tilt my head. I don’t feel anything. “My vision isn’t impaired, and my head doesn’t feel light. If this is being high, then it’s pretty disappointing.
“Well, you won’t feel anything with one drag. Plus, it takes time.”
I lunge for the joint again, but he holds it out of reach.
“Give it a minute.”
“Fine,” I sigh out. I think what happened at his parents’ place has more than a little to do with his wanting to smoke a joint tonight, but I’m not stupid enough to bring it up. He would have mentioned it himself if he’d wanted to talk about it, but I wonder if he’s thinking about Josie. I know I am.
From our vantage point on the steps, we have a perfect view of Main Street, lined with charming shops and bustling with activity. People pass by, their voices mingling with the distant hum of traffic as they go about their daily lives. It”s a scene straight out of a postcard.
“Make a decision about Marisol?”
I swallow, bringing my hands together. “Oh, no. Not yet.”
“Seriously, Primrose? That apple stuff you made yesterday was great. Why don’t you send them that recipe?”
“Apple cider caramels,” I mumble. “I don’t know if it’s the right product. I can’t just base my decision on what I like—or what you like, for that matter. I have to consider things like sellability. Marketability. Trends, and?—”
“Primrose.” He fixes me with an intense glare. “You’re overthinking it. Believe in yourself and your product. If you like it, they will too.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they’ll tell you, set you on the right path, and you’ll try again.”
“Or they’ll think I’m an idiot who’s way in over her head, drop me and smash my dream with a metaphorical hammer.”
“Just like the FBI sending helicopters out here over the theft of two piglets and the stupidest arson in history,” he says softly, “you can add that to the list of things that are never going to happen.”
With his shoulder bumping against mine, he mutters, “Drama queen.”
When I bring a hand to my shoulders to release some of the tension entrapped in my muscles, he brings a hand to his manbun. “Is it that important to you? Launching this...candy?”
Watching his free hair fall down his shoulders, I nod. “Yes, it is.”
“Why?”
I pause for a few long moments, looking for the right words. “Because I was denied candy most of my life.”
“How so?”
“My mom and I aren’t close. My dad and I aren’t either, but it’s my mom I have the most troubled relationship with. Honestly, she made most of my childhood unbearable, because she’s never been happy with the way I look.”
Though his jaw ticks, he doesn’t say a word.
“There’s this candy store back in Mayfield, in the mall closest to my parents’ place. But I was never allowed in, of course. With my body type, I couldn’t afford to eat candy, she said.” I smile, though the years of conflict and low self-esteem are heavy on my back. “One day, my mom and I had one of our fights. I was in high school. I jumped on a bus and went to the candy shop. Then I filled a bag with all the candy I could afford, sat by the bridge, and ate it. And the sugar high...” I remember that moment like it was yesterday. “It was incredible. Like getting a piece of my childhood back. All these colors, flavors and consistencies—and the smell. There’s nothing like it.”
When I turn his way, Logan forces his smile to flatten out.
“I pestered the owner until he gave me a part-time job there, thinking I’d learn how to make candy, which, of course, I did not—he just bought it.” He smiles again, small wrinkles forming at the corner of his hooded eyes. “But I worked there for years, and I saw candy bring happiness to everyone. Cute couples bickering over what flavor to buy, kids darting left and right while their parents tried to contain their joy. Candy is a treat you use to celebrate something good or to feel better after something bad. It”s a sweet, fluffy joy.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t say a word. Then he exhales. “I like listening to you speak.”
When my mouth opens wordlessly, he cringes and clears his voice. “Uh, I also hate it when you ask a billion questions.”
Oh my God. He likes to listen to me speak.
“So, hmm...” He uncomfortably glances at my shocked but pleased expression. “That’s when you decided to be a candy maker?”
“Yup. YouTube tutorials.” I widen my eyes and speak slowly. “YouTube is an internet where you watch videos.”
“Funny.”
He seems relieved about the change of topic, so I fish into my bag and take out a lollipop. I need this horrible taste off my mouth. “I decided I’d make candy for people who were told they couldn’t have it, like me, because nobody should miss out on happiness. And one day, my candy will be at that very same shop in Mayfield.”
His eyes dart to my lips, wrapped around the lollipop. “I have no doubt you’re right.”
God, I can’t take it when he’s so sweet. It almost makes up for his shitty attitude ninety-nine percent of the time. But now that I’ve answered his questions, surely he’ll answer mine. “What is exactly the problem between you and your brother?”
“Barbie,” he warns.
“Come on. I told you about my candy, didn’t I?”
He groans, rubbing a hand over his beard, then probably deciding I’d eventually wear him down, he mumbles, “Aaron bailed on me. We were supposed to manage the farm together—he inherited all this money from his dad, and we’d agreed he’d invest part of it in the farm. He went to work for his uncle instead.”
As he re-lights his joint and brings it to his lips, I ask, “Is your mom...”
“It’s his mom too, yes. Aaron’s dad died, and she remarried with my father. They come from money, and all we ever had is...” He sighs. “The farm. By the time he went to work for his pretentious uncle, Aaron and I already weren’t on the best terms, and that just...sunk us.”
“Well, it’s a dick move,” I whisper. And at least part of the reason why the farm is struggling, I’m sure.
“Yes, it was a dick move. The last dick move I tolerated from him.”
My heart twists for him, but offering comfort would probably be met with some bark or grunt, so I ask, “Why weren’t you on the best terms?”
He seems particularly annoyed by this question, his lips thinning as he clenches his teeth. I guess I must be close to the heart of the issue.
“He stole all of my porn magazines.”
Of course.
“And my favorite pages were encrusted shut.”
“So gross. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”
He winks. “I don’t want to tell you, Barbie.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms, and when light gusts of cool wind whistle around us, goosebumps rise on my skin, and I rub my naked arms.
“You know, you should start throwing some real clothes on.”
Eyes wide, I lift my head. “Excuse me?”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying. You’re not in Mayfield anymore. It gets cold here at night, and watching you shiver drives me up the wall. Also, you don”t live alone.”
“And?”
He throws me a side-eye.
“And what, Logan?” I insist. Because it sounds like he’s saying how I dress is inappropriate, and I do not need to be shamed by him over this. “If the sight of my body makes you so uncomfortable, then I suggest you look away.”
His brow furrows. “Uncomfortable might not be the right word.”
“Whatever. I can dress however I like,” I mutter. “And you wouldn’t be complaining if I were skinny.”
His jaw unhinges, his eyes narrowing until they’re slits. “If you...that’s not what I meant.”
“It’s fine.” I grab the joint from his hand, bring it to my lips and inhale, quickly exploding into another coughing fit. His hand cups my shoulder, but I shake it off, holding back my cough as much as possible until it stops.
“Look, I have no idea what I just stepped into, but you’re grossly misunderstanding my words.”
“Forget about it, Logan. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” I smile up at him, though his comment stings so much my throat burns, then take another puff of the joint and cough significantly less.
“No, Primrose, I didn’t.”
Noticing the concern on his face, I pat his arm. “Nobody ever does. Fatphobia is instilled in people—most of the time, they don’t even mean to insult you when they do.”
I feel his gaze on the side of my face, but keep mine in the distance. “Fatphobia?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“Yes. I’ve been told before that I shouldn’t dress as I do. That I can’t pull off a certain top or skirt. I’m constantly given side glances when I’m out shopping or told by shop assistants that I should go somewhere else because I probably won’t find anything in my size.” I huff out a laugh. “You know how many times I’ve been left out of pictures? In my line of work, image is everything, and mine isn’t what people consider...perfect.”
He doesn’t say a word, and for the longest moment, he doesn’t move either. Then, with a sigh, he takes the joint and inhales. “So why do you work with social media?”
“It’s not just social media.”
“Then what?”
With a shrug, I think of all the microaggressions I’ve experienced daily for as long as I can remember. “Well, men don’t call you beautiful, even if you get all dressed up. They call you cute. And when you have a crush, it’s almost sweet because they obviously won’t like you back.”
I swallow, and my saliva is thicker than usual. Maybe my throat is sensitive after coughing. Why can I feel the inside of my throat?
“What else?”
I glance at Logan, and the world wobbles before my eyes. “Uh...Doing anything that might imply I’m trying to be healthier usually calls for ridicule. And if I treat myself to something unhealthy, then I get looks. ‘That explains why you’re fat’ looks.” There’s a sting at my hip, and I realize the step is digging into my skin from how I’m leaning. Straightening, I continue, “And children point at you and laugh. That’s not fun.”
“None of it sounds fun. People judging you before they even know you never is.”
Though the way he says it makes me think he’s relating deeply to my words, I’m suddenly and weirdly aware of the air coming in and out of my nostrils. That can’t be normal.
“Oh my god, it’s the weed!” I gasp. “Logan, I think I’m high!”
His face, initially frowning, splits into a wide grin I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on him. Usually, he smiles only with one side of his mouth. Sometimes, he smirks in an unruly, roguish way that makes him look disgustingly hot. But this is the first time I see his teeth peek through, his cheeks fully pulled up. He’s smiling with everything he has. Smiling with his eyes.
“No shit, Barbie.” He pulls me up again. “You’re like the Leaning Tower of Pisa over here.”
What were we talking about? It was something important. Oh, right.
“I spent most of my life hating the way I looked. But once I started feeling confident, once I fell in love with myself, these things...” I gesture vaguely, then think it’s probably weird, so I tuck my hand under my leg. “They’re not as important now. Now, when someone says something like...”
“Like ‘your clothes make me uncomfortable’?”
I give him a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah, like that. It doesn’t feel as soul-crushing as it did before. It’s just moderately annoying.”
“What’s the worst part?” he asks, his eyes laser-sharp even though he’s smoked much more than me. “What hurts the most?”
Humming, I watch the light from the closest streetlamp dance across the cobblestone streets, casting long shadows against the colorful storefronts.
There are so many things I didn’t mention, like the bias of medical practitioners who are quick to dismiss fat people based on their weight alone. Or the classic You have such a pretty face I’ve gotten a billion times in my life. But the scar that bleeds the most is the one that I thought Derek had healed, so I mumble, “Men keeping you hidden. A secret. How they’ll flirt with you, and they’ll kiss you, but they don’t want anyone to know. It’s happened...” My chuckle is void of any joy. “So many times.”
He presses his lips tight as he stares down at the joint between his fingers. When he looks up again, his eyes are narrowed. “Feeling nauseous?”
“No.”
“Head spinning?”
“No,” I say again, and he holds the joint out for me.
“Then puff puff, Leaning Barbie.”
I bring the joint to my lips and watch the smoke vanish into the night.
“Right. So, hm...” Logan rubs his hands together, avoiding my gaze and rocking back and forth before settling again, like he’s gathering the nerve to say something. “Remember that woman at the mall?”
My mind struggles to focus, but yes, I remember her. And my stomach twists uncomfortably. Why did Kyle have to put ideas in my head? Why did his mom have to make that comment? Even though I tried to ignore them, they poisoned my mind irreversibly, and now I’m about to be, once again, the friend—the one who hopes he’ll notice her while he’s thinking about the skinny, gorgeous woman he doesn’t even know.
“Primrose?”
“Y-yeah, Cassidy. I remember.”
“When we talked about her, you described who you thought was my type.”
“Yes. Thall, tin.” My brows scrunch because something feels wrong, but I’m too tired to know what. My eyes want to close. “Tin? Is that how you say it?”
“Okay, give me the joint.”
Logan grabs it from my hand, then grips the side of my thighs and pulls me closer. I balance myself on his knees as his fingers pinch my chin. “Pay attention to me, Barbie.”
I look into his gray-blue eyes, framed by long dark lashes. I like being this close to him. It’s happened a handful of times, and it’s weirdly comfortable. “Mm-hmm.”
“You described my type. Thin, tall, smile lines—I can’t remember. But that’s not my type, okay? And when I said you’re nearly naked all the time, I meant...”
“Yes?”
“I meant...” His eyes scout mine, left to right, then back again. His throat works hard, and he hesitates for a long moment when he opens his lips. “Short women with thick thighs and a spunky little attitude. I don’t have a type, but if I had one, that’d be it.”
I watch him, trying to process his words.
Does he mean... I’m his type? That he made that comment about the way I dress because...
His eyes drop from my eyes to my lips, and maybe I’m leaning again, because we’re just inches apart now, and his short breaths fan against me.
“Do you understand what I’m saying, Barbie?”
My heart feels like a caged butterfly, wings hitting the metal bars again and again, desperate to break loose. “That...that you’re attracted to me?”
“Yeah,” he softly says on my lips. “That the way you dress is, uh, distracting. You know how often I come into the living room to grab something, only to see you on the couch with no bra and those skimpy little tops, and instantly forget what I was looking for?”
My body shakes with the quick beats of my heart. “Sorry. I’ll dress?—”
“No, Barbie. I think—I think I was trying to...you know,” he says with a vague roll of his wrist.
“Flirt? Is that what you were trying to do?”
“Yes. And I don’t know why I did that, especially since I don’t know how to.” He lets my chin go, but doesn’t move away. “Please, dress however you’d like.”
I nod, and he releases a breath of relief, then throws one last look at my lips before turning away and lighting up the joint again.
“You know, you’re not the bad person you want me to think you are.”
He scoffs. “Don’t mistake lust for kindness, Barbie. I’m not that kind.”
Lust.That’s what he said. He’s lustful over me.
And I think he made sure I’d be too high to remember it tomorrow, but there aren’t enough drugs in this world to make me forget. The awareness tingles through me, all the way to my fingertips.
He’s so handsome, and he’s so good, and he’s a cowboy biker who smiles at me with his eyes.
“Logan?”
“Mm?”
“Do you think tomorrow we could...you know...take your bike?” I ask. My heart flutters, and my stomach shuts down so hard that it feels like someone is strangling it. But he already said he’s attracted to me, so this isn’t a vibe-check. It’s an opportunity for us to end the ride Top Gun–style, and then...and then who knows.
Brows arched and lips parted, his jaw clenches, and my heart stops. “Sorry, Barbie.”He looks away, shoulders tensed. “I don’t ride with anyone.”