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CHAPTER TWO
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ABI
EMERALD BAY, WASHINGTON
PRESENT DAY
When I first moved to the Pacific Northwest, everyone told me it was beautiful, but with some of the dreariest weather you’d ever seen. Luckily I’ve always loved the soothing sound of the rain.
I’m hunched over, as usual, my laptop resting on a couch cushion while the wind howls just outside my window. Whenever I work, it’s total chaos. Coffee and wine-stained papers are scattered all over the table beside me. The burrito bowl I made for dinner sits mostly uneaten in my lap.
“Wednesday, Lydia! No!”
I snap my fingers and my two pet rats stare up at me, frozen mid-movement but practically begging me for a bite.
I’m allergic to cats despite growing up with them, and no matter how much I love having them around, I can’t go through 24/7 congestion again. For dogs it’s even simpler: the idea of keeping one in my tiny apartment just felt cruel.
Rats were a good compromise. There are so many misconceptions about them, and people really underestimate their intelligence.
Just before Wednesday can make the leap straight into my burrito bowl and start chowing down, I scoop the two up and plop them back in their cage.
“I know you were both counting on getting some of that chicken,” I murmur, locking everything up tight. “But mama’s gotta work on her journal article. That way she can become a big, fancy academic and buy you more treats.”
Last week I got the email no postdoc wants to get, but always knows is coming. Frankie let me know that my contract is up at the end of December, that my fate now lies in the hands of the budget committee. Universities only have so much money to go around, and everyone has to tighten their belts… All while the President makes a hefty salary and approves tuition hikes.
Did that sound bitter?
I’m stuck halfway through the scholarship application that could save my job here in Emerald Bay, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little stressed. If I can get the funding, the school doesn’t have to spend as much money to keep me on; they get to cheap-out on paying their staff, and I get to keep working.
Win win.
Besides, it’s worth $175,000, and that comes with some serious bragging rights for me as an academic. More importantly though, it means that I could get my dream project off the ground.
I’ve been collecting data for a pilot project that will provide a safe place for people to use drugs, including clean needles and testing kits, with the main goal being the reduction of overdose-deaths in the area. While Emerald Bay is quaint and picturesque, there’s a much darker underbelly to it that people don’t really like to talk about.
Just as I’m about to take the second big bite of my late dinner, a rap at the door nearly makes me knock everything over. I look at the clock, 9:00pm on a Thursday?
I didn’t order more food, and I’m pretty sure I’m up to date paying my rent, so it can’t be my landlord. Mom’s all the way back in Ontario, and unless something absolutely insane’s happened, there’s no way she’d be on my doorstep unannounced.
I stand and tuck my hair behind one ear, suddenly hit with a brief moment of shock when I realize it’s a lot shorter than I’m used to. I got it cut this morning, but time just seems to blur together when you’re on a deadline.
There’s that knock again, rattling me even more.
But then I hear the voice.
“Shortcake? Are you home?”
“Logan?”
Shortcake’s a nickname he’s had for me since I started at EBU. I’m 5’10”, but compared to his 6’4”, I guess I am a little short.
I crack the door open, greeted with the sight of his sandy, usually shaggy hair sticking to his head. He’s in a purple dress shirt that’s drenched and clinging to his chest, water dripping from his black skeleton tie.
“What happened? Where’s Theresa?”
His big hazel eyes don’t have their usual sparkle, and all of a sudden I know exactly what he’s going to say.
“She stood me up.” He thrusts a dripping bouquet of pink and white lilies out at me. “So, I suppose now these are for you.”
Even soaked in rainwater, they still have a lovely smell.
“Get in here. We’ll get you warmed up.”
I walk him in, heading toward the kitchen as Logan takes off his shoes and sets them down by the radiator.
“Did she even text you?” I ask, grabbing a vase and filling it up with water.
“Nope,” he sighs, heading straight into my bathroom before emerging with a towel to dry his hair. “I tried to make the best of it and ordered some appetizers, but I felt like everyone could tell, you know? When the server said it was all on the house, I knew I had to get out of there— oh, shit.”
He glances at the giant pile of books and papers I’ve left on the coffee table. My apartment’s pretty open concept, so unfortunately I can’t escape the mess I’ve made no matter where I go.
“I’m sorry. I should have called,” he sighs.
“It’s fine . Besides, I’ve been working through most of the night. I probably need a break.”
I move to the fridge, grabbing a bottle of chardonnay and pouring us two massive glasses before heading back into the living room. Logan takes his, slumping against the sofa and staring into his wine.
“I’m sorry. You seemed to really like her.”
Over the years, I’ve seen him get ready for more than a few first dates. I’ve helped him fix his perpetually crooked ties and watched as he tried in vain to smooth down his unruly curls. He tries so hard, and he really puts himself out there.
It takes courage to do that.
“Yeah, I thought we were cool.” He shrugs. “She left me on read, too.”
“What?! What a bitch,” I snort as I take a sip of my drink.
“Abi!”
“Hey, it’s straight up rude to stand someone up and then not even apologize. So, Theresa can fuck right off.”
Logan’s been one of my closest friends since I got here three years ago. Even though we got off to a bit of an awkward start, I think things have really blossomed between us. He’s one of the first people I come to when I have news— good or bad. We text all day, we love the same movies, the same music…
“I really thought this one was going to work out,” he mumbles.
Logan is more optimistic when it comes to love, willing to try over and over again, whereas I’m much more cynical. The collapse of my previous relationship really did a number on me, and in a lot of ways, it’s been hard to find myself again. He once told me that healing is like a cat: it shows up whenever it wants, but you have to be patient with it.
“I mean, there are plenty of fish?—”
“It’s more like a pond, Abi,” Logan chuckles sadly to himself. “The smallest pond imaginable.”
“Okay, sure, we don’t have the biggest dating pool. But there are good people out there who won’t ditch you. You know there are. Sometimes it just takes a while to find your person.”
This town has a fairly transient population of university students who ebb in during the fall and rush back out once summer hits, but obviously they’re off-limits. When it comes to the locals, it’s slim pickings. Unless you want to date a professor, but a lot of them live in Seattle or even further into Washington.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he sighs.
“So? You gonna soldier on and try again?”
Logan shakes his head.
“I’m gonna delete the dating apps. All of them. Maybe this is the universe’s sign to get me to stop trying so hard.”
“You? Giving up on love?” I ask, pressing a hand to my chest. “I’ll alert the press.”
He rolls his eyes, giving me a gentle shove with his shoulder.
Logan’s been in exactly one meaningful relationship since I’ve known him. Her name was Jennifer. She worked at Black Dog Video, the only rental store in town until it closed late last year. Whenever we’d go in there to rent a movie, the two of them would always flirt, so I made him get her number.
They lasted about three weeks before she moved back to her parent’s house in California. It took him a while to get his spark back. But I was here with booze, and as many horror movies as it took to get him through it.
“More wine!” he shouts, downing his drink before getting to his feet dramatically. “God, I should have taken that champagne from the restaurant.”
He doesn’t make it more than 3 steps toward the kitchen before he stops, a disgruntled groan following the disgusting sound of his wet socks sloshing and slapping against the floor. It’s hard not to laugh, and even harder not to gag.
“Let me get you some fresh clothes.”
I head for the bedroom, rummaging around in my drawers until I find his big Snoopy Christmas sweater and a pair of obnoxiously bright short shorts that he wore to the gym one time. Maybe twice.
“Damn, I left clothes here?”
I look up, finding him standing in the doorway, dripping water into his wine glass.
“You leave something here every time you’re over. Get out of those and I’ll get them cleaned up.”
“You don’t?—”
I put my hands on my hips and give him a faux scowl.
“Don’t argue with me, Logan Michael Flynn.”
“Oof. Middle-named,” he sighs. “I am definitely in trouble.”
I slip past him, patting him on the shoulder as I go.
“I’ll pick a movie for us to watch and get out some blankets and pillows. You can stay over tonight, and before you say anything: It’s not pity, I want to do this.”
He grins, the first real smile I think I’ve seen all night.
“Thanks, Shortcake.”
I nod, heading back into the living room while Logan shuts the bedroom door, grabbing some bedding from the closet and setting it aside for later. I toss his clothes into the wash and grab some snacks. Popcorn, chocolate, and sour keys. All his favorites.
Logan emerges from the bedroom, all smiles as he sticks out his arms and does a little spin.
“You think I could teach in this?”
“Absolutely. How could anyone possibly have a problem with that?”
“Right? I think my sweet thighs would actually be a benefit to pedagogy.” He leans over, slapping them with a big, goofy grin.
There’s that sparkle I missed.
He settles down next to me and I load up The Thing on Netflix. It’s one of his favorites, and I can see it catch his attention immediately. This has always been one of my favorite things to do with him. We trade horror movie trivia, talk about what makes a movie work, and dissect every other shot. He knows so much about the genre from his dad’s work, it’s like getting a PhD all over again.
“Did you know that the sound effects on the autopsy scene of the face splitting Thing were done by soaking paper towel in egg yolk?”
I’ve heard this one, but I pretend I haven’t.
“That’s so cool!”
He’s about to turn back to the screen before doing a double-take, reaching out and plucking something from my hair.
“You party hard, Dr. King.”
He’s holding a piece of popcorn, playfully examining it like it’s evidence of some crime.
“What can I say? I know how to have a good time. Pajamas, popcorn, and the single glass of wine that’ll put me to sleep…”
Logan snickers, leaning up against me. I can be a lot to deal with. Obsessive about my work, introverted, and more than a little awkward at times. I mask a lot of my neuroses when I’m around other people, but I feel so at home when I’m with him. It’s that kind of feeling where you can just be yourself.
People have always drifted past me in life, and I’ve rarely felt like I belonged anywhere. Trying to make genuine connections feels like standing in a crowded room trapped in a glass box. People can press their hands up to it, walk past it, even talk to me through it, but nobody gets in.
Because I don’t know how to let them.
We watch the rest of the movie, gentle conversation floating between us, until at one point I grab my phone off the charger.
“See? The tentacles in the dog cage are whips!” I flash him the IMDB page. “You owe me five bucks.”
“How about a coffee and a croissant on Monday?”
“Ooh, the cheese ones?” I ask, batting my eyelashes at him.
Logan smirks, munching on another piece of popcorn.
“Anything for you.”