Chapter 8
Emma
Logan brews excellent coffee and makes French toast for breakfast while I take a shower. It’s like he knows exactly what to do, injecting some much needed ease into my morning. Usually, it’s so hectic, I have to eat in a hurry and leave a huge mess behind, but with him here, everything is so much more relaxed.
He leaves after we eat and clean up, kissing me goodbye. As I watch him enter his home across the street, I can’t help but love that he’s my neighbor. This will make relationship logistics so much easier.
Not that we are in a relationship. I don’t know what we are, and we haven’t talked about it, but I hope with all my heart he’ll want to be with me. I’ve never felt like this about a man.
Like… Like we’re soulmates.
At work, time passes all too slowly. People are busy with holiday preparations and hardly anyone visits the library. When I get a text, I almost fall off my chair in my haste to get my phone.
But it’s not Logan. My excitement falls away, replaced by tension.
Marc: I’m sorry about yesterday. I acted that way because I miss you, but I know I was out of line. Can I come over later today? I want to make up for my behavior.
I sigh, drumming my fingers on my desk. All I want is to go home and spend the rest of the day and night with Logan. But Marc has good intentions and wants to make things better, and I do want us to stay friends. He’s a good guy, just not one for me.
Emma: Thank you. You can drop in, but not for long. I’m seeing someone later today.
Marc: Who? That Logan guy? He’s your neighbor, right?
Emma: Yes. We’re kind of seeing each other.
Marc: I see. Hey, can you remind me his full name? I think I know him from somewhere but I can’t remember exactly.
Emma: It’s Logan Hayes. See you at five?
Marc: Can’t wait.
Mrs. Whitpole comes in to return a few historical romances, and I process her returns while she roams the stacks, searching for new reads. I think about Logan and the fragile, precious bond between us. He is strong and smart, but then, he seems vulnerable, too. Maybe it’s silly and too cautious of me, but I send him a text.
Emma: Hey! Just letting you know Marc will drop by at five, but he’s not staying. Are we still on for six? We can get pizza or something.
Logan: Of course. I’ll make dinner. Don’t worry about anything.
I still drop by Mr. Brown’s bakery to get his famous puff pastries on my way home from work. He bakes them into star shapes for Christmas, and they are legendary. Then I notice a new batch of beautifully decorated gingerbread cookies and remember I promised Logan gingerbread. I grab a bit of every kind, some of them glittering with golden and silver sprinkles, the others heavy with nuts and raisins embedded in a thick layer of dark chocolate.
The hefty bag smells divine of cinnamon, ginger, and honey. I’ve felt Christmas in the air for some time thanks to all the gifts my mysterious helper left me, but now, it finally registers fully. It’s Christmas in three days.
And even though I won’t visit my family, I’m not sad. Because now, I have someone truly special to spend the holidays with.
Then I remember I don’t have a gift for Logan, and panic shatters my great mood into bits.
As I drive home, I remember another thing I was supposed to get done today—get my new rescue cat to the clinic to check for a microchip. I groan and curse my distractedness. I usually prioritize the pets, but with everything that’s been going on, I dropped the ball.
I’ve always been scatterbrained, forgetting about important things or leaving tasks half-finished because something else caught my eye. It used to drive my mother—and Marc, when we moved in together—crazy.
I’ve been doing okay on my own, or maybe I’m lying to myself.
Truth is, ever since the mystery helper appeared in my life, I’ve become calmer and happier. I no longer stumble over forgotten, half-finished knitting projects in the living room or run out of toilet paper on the regular. It’s so much easier when someone takes care of all the things I’m usually too distracted to remember.
I frown, pulling into my driveway that’s almost perfectly free of snow. When was the last time I bought toilet paper, though? It seems… months ago. And yet, my supply is never-ending.
Also, I didn’t have to shovel snow from my driveway a single time this year. I used to loathe it and only did it when the snow piled up too high to drive. But this winter, both my pavement and driveway are clear every day. Probably salted, too.
I haven’t slipped even once in front of my house. That’s another small miracle.
When I get out of the car, my heart beats faster when I see lights twinkling through the windows. It’s already dark, and the terror from last night squeezes my ribs, but then I notice how colorful the lights are, blinking merrily. They are Christmas lights. Someone decorated my home.
I swallow with difficulty. I want to be delighted by this new outburst of magic in my life, but I also feel like I should confront some hard truths that I was maybe avoiding in the past.
And the truth is: this isn’t the work of a grateful homeless person I let stay over for a few nights in the past. Whatever is going on has required continuous, dedicated effort over a long period of time.
Because as I look back, it becomes clear this has been going on for months. Someone has consistently been in my house every weekday after I left for work, cleaning my place, getting me groceries and gifts, and who knows what else. As I consider the time and money that must have gone into this, my head whirls with confusion.
Who can afford to do something like this and cares about me enough to do it, day after day, for months? No one I know, that’s certain.
I’m still standing by my car, watching the house with unease. When my phone pings, I jerk and almost drop the bags in my hands. Breathing too fast, I fish out my phone.
Lisa Hernandez: Thank you so much for finding my Aurora! Doctor Allen let us know you were the one who found her on Saturday. She’s already back home, and my daughter is so happy! You gave us a true gift. Thank you again, and Merry Christmas!
I start replying that she’s got the wrong person when a picture pops up. A smiling eight year old girl is holding the cat I brought home a few days ago.
Dizziness swirls behind my temples, and I lean back against the car, breathing fast. Hot and cold chills crawl down my back. Someone was in my house today. They decorated it, and then took the cat to the clinic, as if they knew my plans. I frantically think about who would know about the cat.
Did I tell Marc and my friends over drinks? No, we never got round to it. Then who? Logan? Someone at work?
But no, I’m pretty sure I didn’t even mention the cat, and certainly not my plan to bring her to the clinic. Whoever did this must know me well enough to deduce what my plan was. When they realized I wouldn’t be able to do it myself, they did it for me.
The air puffs white in front of me as I release a long, shaky exhale. My fear settles, replaced mostly by curiosity. Who is this person and why are they helping me?
Because what they did was help. The cat was happily reunited with her family, and I have one less errand to run and a whole load of guilt off my shoulders. I can enjoy my evening with Logan freely now—after I deal with Marc.
I consider calling Doctor Allen to see who brought in the cat, but it’s almost five and the clinic is closing for the day. I don’t have his personal number, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.
When I enter my home, I gasp with awe. There are thousands of lights everywhere, and they change colors in a soft, mellow rhythm, fluidly going from gold to blue, then pink. I put my bags on the floor and go in, gaping at the glorious Christmas tree taking up most of my living room.
It smells divine, of forest and cold, and it glitters with hundreds of baubles and ornaments that reflect the lights. And the colors! I press my hand to my heart, realizing the ornaments are blue and silver, my two favorite colors. Tears spring to my eyes. I love this tree.
I desperately want to find out who did this for me so I can hug them with all my gratitude.
When my doorbell rings, my heart picks up with excitement. Maybe my secret helper will finally reveal themselves. But when I rush to the door, tripping over the pastry bags I left in the hall, it’s only Marc. He cranes his neck around me, a look of disbelief on his face.
“You actually decorated? Wow, Emma. It’s like you’re a new person or something! Well done!”
My face flames, and I clear my throat. In our time apart, I forgot most of the fights we had about my messy habits and his unpleasant jabs at my forgetfulness, but his mocking tone reminds me of how it was.
I always do this. Whenever someone pisses me off or is unkind to me, whenever an ex behaves in shitty ways, I promptly forget as soon as they are out of my life. It’s like I’m incapable of remembering the shitty things people do. Just like I forget to buy toilet paper.
Though I’ve never forgotten to feed my pets and clean their cages. That has to count for something.
“Well, come in,” I say, clumsily picking up the bags. “And I’ll make some tea. I barely got here myself.”
“Ah, that’s my Emma,” he says with a grin. “Always running late.”
I clench my jaw and head for the kitchen, where I discard my jacket on the nearest chair. I leave the pastries in their bags, deciding Marc doesn’t deserve to get any. I make tea, and when it’s ready, I join him in my living room.
He’s looking over a book I got from my mystery helper. I forgot to buy it after it released, but somehow, they knew I wanted it. Maybe they follow me on Pinterest. My book boards are public.
“I thought you were meaning to read more actual literature,” Marc says with a frown, tapping the cute illustrated cover that’s clearly not one of the classics he so adores. “You said so the last time we talked.”
Well, that’s enough. I snatch the book out of his hand, and he gives me a bewildered look.
“You said you wanted to apologize, but all you’ve done since you came in is insult me. If this is what you came here to do, I don’t think I have time for you, after all.”
He blinks a few times, finally sitting back heavily. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was just teasing,” he says, giving me a contrite smile.
God, how I hate that smile. He always apologizes like this, always with an excuse. I just missed you. I just wanted to help. I was just teasing.
I swallow my angry rant, taking a deep breath in the name of peace. We share a lot of friends here, and I don’t want to fight with him. It’s not worth it. Marc will be gone in a few days.
“I’m meeting someone at six,” I remind him so he gets on with it.
Marc nods, leaning forward. “Emma, I’m sorry. I care about you, which is why I wanted to come and tell you in person. There is something you should know about your new boyfriend.”
First of all, he’s not my boyfriend, but I don’t even mention it. Cold, white fury floods the pit of my stomach. How dare he?
“This is none of your business,” I hiss. “Leave Logan alone.”
Marc folds his arms on his chest. He’s angry, too.
“No, I can’t leave him alone. Emma, you’re too trusting for your own good. I never said anything about that beggar you brought home when we lived together, because I saw how important she was to you, but that woman could have easily taken advantage.”
“She didn’t,” I say through clenched teeth. “Linda is a good person.”
“But he isn’t. I talked to his brother, Emma. He told me everything about your precious Logan.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
I stand abruptly, my knee knocking into the coffee table. It rocks, spilling some tea. Marc sighs and looks at me with exasperation.
“Your neighbor is a monster. He and a few other soldiers were held in captivity and tortured for information. Except, the others were tortured, he wasn’t. The Al-Qaeda made him watch as they slowly killed his fellow soldiers and waited for him to break. But he didn’t, Emma. He was happy looking at all the gore and death and didn’t even try to stop it.”
I stare at Marc, my mouth hanging open. God. It makes so much sense now—why Logan can’t speak. It must have taken so much courage and strength to stay silent when he knew it was in his power to save his friends—if he only betrayed his country.
“A monster?” I repeat softly, too shocked to be angry yet. “He’s a hero.”
Marc laughs with derision. “See? This is exactly what’s wrong with you. Someone should protect you from yourself, Emma. You’re an idiot if you think that man is anything else but a psychopath.”
I shake my head, bewildered that Marc can even think that. His logic doesn’t make sense, and I won’t even try to understand him.
“You need to leave,” I say shakily, pointing at the door. “Now.”
He rolls his eyes but gets up, giving me a nasty smirk. “Fine. Just don’t come crying to me after it turns out I was right all along.”
“Just go already. I never want to see you again.”
He shrugs and puts on his jacket without another word. When he opens the door, Logan is already outside, half an hour early, a large dish in his hands. He doesn’t acknowledge Marc apart from giving him a cold, piercing look.