Chapter 7
Logan
“What are you wearing?”
I peer down at myself before answering the offended party. Both my shirt and tie are from Ted Baker’s fall collection. The charcoal gray slacks are Harry Rosen.
“Why? You don’t like it?”
“You look like my principal.”
“Ouch.” I happen to know that his principal is pushing sixty and not what you’d call a style icon. You can always count on a nine-year-old for unflinching honest opinions. “Does it really look that bad?”
“Yes,” my nephew answers at the same instant his younger sister says “No.” Neither of them take their eyes off of the cartoon they’re watching. Travis sits hunched over the bowl of cereal he’s balancing on his lap while Anna lies on her stomach, cuddling a decorative pillow like it’s her favorite stuffed animal.
It’s been a busy day since their mom dropped them off at my condo on her way to work. Even though they’re only two years apart in age, they almost never want to do the same thing at the same time. As a result, I’ve taken to letting them each pick an activity on our days together. We spent the entire morning at the New England Aquarium at Anna’s request. That girl loves animals more than life itself and it broke my heart to tell her she couldn’t have a sea otter as a pet.
“So why are you dressed like school?” Travis asks. A piece of cereal falls from his mouth right back into the bowl, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He finished lunch an hour ago, but he always needs something sweet to feel satisfied. Just like his dad.
“I have to do some work after I drop you two off at your grandparents.” Maybe I am dressed too formally.
“I think you look nice,” Anna says, smiling up at me sleepily. Her blonde bangs are in her eyes, like usual. “Like you’re going to a wedding.”
“More like a funeral,” her brother mutters. I shoot him a look to let him know I caught that and he averts his eyes, looking down at his cereal. He knows better than to mention funerals around his sister. Thankfully, Anna doesn’t seem to have heard him. “You work all the time on weekends, but never in clothes like that.”
He’s not wrong on either count. I do work on weekends, probably more than I should. It’s a fast-paced industry, and it’s not enough for me to simply keep up; I need to stay ahead of the competition. There always seems to be a new manuscript to read or emails to answer. My typical weekend uniform is my most worn-out pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Especially when I’m working from home. But I’m not working from home today.
No, today I will be meeting with none other than Rilla Pine. And, for once, not at my insistence. It felt great when she texted earlier asking to meet up and work on the manuscript. I’ve been feeling optimistic about our working relationship since we met on Monday. Since then, she’s not only sent me updates, but responded to my suggestions. It’s the first real indication that we’re finally starting to get on the same page. Or at least on the same bookshelf.
I grab my phone from the coffee table and check my messages again to confirm it wasn’t just a beautiful fever dream.
Rilla:Hey Logan. Not sure how to proceed with some of these revisions. Would appreciate your insight. If you have time.
A second message followed immediately after.
Rilla:Or whatever.
I wrote back immediately, telling her I was available this evening. I’d hoped it didn’t sound too desperate and I’d held my breath as the three little dots appeared on the screen. She told me to come by anytime after six-thirty, then sent her address.
I’d been making lunch for the kids when I got it and actually fist-pumped like I’d just won Wimbledon. I regretted it immediately, as Travis saw the whole thing. He teased me mercilessly and I know he’s never going to let me live that one down.
But that’s fine. I can endure the relentless bullying of a fourth grader if it means I’m one step closer to that promotion.
My promotion.
If you can’t be the best at something, it’s not worth your time.
How many times have I heard that over the years? My father is known for a lot of things, but inspirational speeches are not one of them.
The problem with that platitude is that I’ve never been the best at anything. I did well in school, but was never at the top of my class. I was naturally athletic, but never had the drive or talent to play any sport after high school. I was good at everything, just never great at any one thing.
I’d started University with the classic pre-med course load, resigned to my fate of becoming a doctor like every other male in my bloodline. I’d needed three English courses to complete my degree requirements, which is how I wound up in Professor Davenport’s Literary Classics course during my first term.
He was a brilliant lecturer, able to take a two-hundred-year-old novel and make it feel like it was a living, breathing organism. Picture Robin Williams in Dead Poet’s Society, only he doesn’t get fired in the end. He could take a famous quote you’d heard a thousand times before and make you see it in a completely different light.
I’d always been an avid reader, but suddenly I had a newfound respect for what I was reading and all the work that went into it. I wasn’t just reading stories anymore, I was asking questions, exploring themes and styles, and peeling back the many layers that went into the characters themselves.
I’d managed to do adequately in all my science courses by Christmas, but his course was the only one that really interested me. Unwilling to give up the only bright spot in my academic life, I rearranged my schedule to take another of his courses the next term. He spotted my obvious enthusiasm and invited me to collaborate on the school newsletter. By the end of Winter Term, I was determined to change my major.
When my father found out, he hit the ceiling. I mean that literally. He’s almost as tall as me and he physically punched the ivory painted drywall above his head in a rare display of emotion. He ranted and raved. I took his angry outburst in stride; I was used to being a disappointment in his eyes by that point. When he’d finally yelled himself hoarse and threatened me with every consequence he could conjure, I used the only weapon with which I’d been left: Logic.
I showed him the downright average grades I’d gotten in my medical school prerequisite courses. I told him that even if I managed to get into a post graduate school, it wouldn’t be the one he wanted. I would be a mediocre doctor at best and how would that reflect on him and his legacy? He relented. It was the first time I’d fought him and won.
It was the biggest win of my life. By declaring a new major and refocusing my studies, I was following my own path for the first time. After I earned my degree in English Literature, I spent a year with a digital journalism company before making the move to Thompson And Daye. By becoming an editor I was able to combine my love of reading with my ability to problem-solve.
Manuscripts are like precious stones; no two are exactly the same. I scan them for flaws and inconsistencies and attempt to fix what needs fixing until they’re perfect, or close to it.
Aside from the increase in salary and a tidy bonus, the promotion will mean I will have my pick of clients. These things won’t mean anything to my father who has never forgiven me for not following in his footsteps. But maybe he’ll be impressed with my corner office and private bathroom? When the family name is as recognized and respected in the industry as any other? Maybe he’ll resent me a bit less.
“Uncle Logan?” Anne’s voice drifts out from the living room. It sounds scratchier than normal. “Can I have some juice, please?”
I stick my head around the corner, raising an eyebrow at her. “Something wrong with your legs, Analyzer?” She doesn’t answer me, just smiles softly before looking back at the antics of SpongeBob and Patrick.
I decide to indulge her. After all, she’s headed to her grandparents’ tonight and they certainly won’t. I open the fridge and peruse the three different types of juice I have on hand. There are also yogurt drinks, puddings, and cheese strings. All things I don’t even eat. And it doesn’t stop at the fridge. If you open up my cupboards and pantry, you’ll find fruit snacks, popcorn, and a half dozen boxes of cereal, all with different cartoon mascots illustrated on them.
It looks like the kitchen of a family of five, not a thirty-two-year-old childless bachelor.
I grab the orange juice because I know that’s Anna’s favorite. As I’m closing the door to the fridge, I notice I’ve still got last year’s school pictures displayed. Both kids wear broad grins. Anna is missing one of her front teeth, but it’s since grown in.
A lot has changed in the last fifteen months.
I’ve asked Shannon a few times for this year’s photos, but she says she keeps forgetting, which is understandable. She’s got a lot going on. I highly doubt updating my refrigerator art is high on my sister-in-law’s priority list.
I pour the orange juice in a mug. The little handle will make it easier for Anna to hold on to. As I return to the living room, I spot the cereal stain on Travis’ light-green t-shirt.
“Make sure you change your shirt before we leave for Grandma’s, okay, Travis?” The stain is small, but it won’t escape my mother’s judgmental eyes.
“Sure thing,” he drawls. “Want me to wear a tie, too?”
Smartass.
I ignore him, sitting on the couch next to Anna. “You’re going to have to sit up to drink this.” I watch Anna sluggishly prop herself up on one elbow and then struggle into a sitting position.
“Are you feeling okay, Anna?” I extend the cup for her to take.
“Just tired,” she rasps.
“How late did you stay up last–”
Anna pushes the cup away from me, leans forward, and throws up all over my chest.