11. Pretty Boy
CHAPTER ELEVEN
pretty boy
LOGAN
EMERALD BAY, WASHINGTON
PRESENT DAY
I lean over my desk, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose as I try to decipher my own bullshit. I’ve re-written this sentence four times and it still doesn’t make any sense, even less when I realize everything’s looking blurry. I took my contacts out because I swore I was going to bed.
Three hours ago.
“Okay, let’s try this again.” I sit up straight and massage my temples as I decide to read aloud. I dunno, sometimes it helps. “ ‘Late modernity posits that individuals are responsible for their own thoughts, their actions, and their own destiny. Therefore, it is assumed that individuals have complete and total power to change the conditions within which they live, if they choose to do so … ’ Alright, sure. Sounds fine, but what the fuck am I actually talking about?”
The big grandfather clock in my office ticks menacingly in the background, and it’s only then that I notice the symphony that was pouring from the record player is silent.
No more Beethoven.
I still have at least two pages worth of edits to finish before my deadline and no idea what the fuck I’m reading. I’m starting to think that pulling these all-nighters isn’t helping me the way it used to.
Just as I’m contemplating putting on a pot of coffee, my phone buzzes, rattling against my desk.
ABI CALLING…
I scoop it up immediately. She’s usually in bed with a book by 9:00.
“Abi?”
“Sunshine!” Her voice crackles over the line, and one word’s all it takes to suss out the fact that she’s at least a little drunk. “I need help.”
“What happened?” I get to my feet, already looking for my shoes. “Are you okay?”
“I told Roman and Imogen I’d walk home from—” she hiccups. “But I can’t find my phone!”
Normally I’d probably be a little annoyed that the two of them left someone alone like this, but it’s distressingly likely Abi just snuck out the back to make her way home alone. She can be stubborn after even a couple cocktails, and it sounds like we’re definitely into a few more than that.
“How many drinks have you had?” I ask, slipping my hoodie on.
“I don’t knooooow! It was sad-drinking. There’s no rules with sad-drinking!”
“Sad drinking, why were you sad drinking?” I ask, checking my pockets for my keys.
“Because I’m a big screw up!” She whines. “And I can’t find my phone!”
I can picture her right now, stomping her foot and doing that little pout she does when she’s over tired, annoyed, or too intoxicated for her usual filter.
“Well, I have at least a little bit of good news for you. You found your phone.”
“I did?”
Her voice sounds squeaky, like she’s playing a cartoon mouse in a show.
“Yep!” I laugh. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re using it right now, aren’t you?”
“Wh—” I hear rustling, followed quickly by that boisterous drunken laughter I’m so familiar with. “Oh my God! Logaaaan! This is so embarrassiiiiing!”
“Why don’t I come and pick you up? Drop me your location and I’ll be there quick.”
“Dromywha?”
“You know what? Don’t stress it. Just tell me where you are.”
“No, I can walk! I can do it! I’m sorry I called you, I’m–”
“You’re not walking, and no sorry’s necessary. Where are you?”
“Right outside Duffer’s Donuts,” she sighs. “I feel sick.”
“I’ll take you back to your apartment, and get you all set up to deal with your hangover in the morning.”
“Noooo!” She sobs. “No consequences, only beer!”
“Ten minutes, alright? Do not move from where you are!”
I hang up and slide my slippers on, an adorable pair covered in little bats. Abi got them for me as a Christmas present last year and I wear them all the time. I’ve even brought them to work a few times, just to have something to relax in when I’m trapped in my office. Frankie wasn’t particularly fond of that idea, although to his credit I probably shouldn’t have worn them to class.
The second I’m in the car, I drag out my phone to a text from Abi. It’s a selfie of the underside of her chin, a bit of text laid out underneath it.
SHORTCAKE
This is me not moving.
“Atta girl,” I chuckle , pulling out of the driveway and gingerly dropping the phone into my cup holder.
If she’s hammered like this, it means she probably let her anxiety get the best of her. She’s not a mean drunk, but she is emotional. Most of the time, she passes out before she can cry all of her makeup off and tell everyone she loves them for the hundredth time. I think a part of her is always worried she’s going to lean on substances for comfort just like her dad did, so there’s a level of shame there as well. Kinda explains why she always tries to bail at the end of any night that goes this way.
I take a deep breath and push the thought out of my mind as I pull up to Duffer’s Donuts. Abi’s sitting on the curb, dressed in a gigantic blue hoodie that has to belong to Roman. It’s obviously far too big for her, but besides that I know pretty much everything in her wardrobe at this point.
She turns to rifle through her purse, not quite noticing the car yet, just in time for the wind to kick up and spill tubes of lipstick and pens everywhere. Her head snaps up from her desperate attempt to regain her loot and she smiles, sticking her arms straight up in the air.
“My hero!”
But of course, she also takes the opportunity to break into song: My Hero by the Foo Fighters, except she doesn’t seem to know the words, and based on the impression I think she’s mixed up Scott Stapp and Dave Grohl.
“Hey, drunkie!” I laugh, climbing out of the car. “What was the drink of choice tonight?”
“Margaritas.” She lets out a dorky giggle, swaying from side to side. “I am Margaritaville!”
“Jimmy Buffet would be so proud.”
“His name is James Bouffet ,” she scoffs, over-enunciating every single part. “Get it right, Mr. Know-It-All!”
“I don’t think—” I stop myself. This is absolutely not the time to be arguing about the true identity of hit musician James Bouffet. “The margaritas were good, then?”
“They were…” she closes her eyes, pointing dramatically at the sky with one finger as she sings, “amaziiiiing!”
Then, she’s on her way over, with all the grace of a newborn foal, tripping over the strap of her purse and stumbling right into my arms.
“Whoops! Sorry!” She snorts, looking around. “Wherethefuckis…”
She mimes lifting something up and down a few times, a sad look on her face.
“Purse?”
“Yes!” She pats me on the chest. “You’re the smartest giant I’ve ever met!”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s like a chaotic gremlin when she’s hammered like this.
“Wow, you are drunk , dude!”
Abi scrunches her nose up at me and does a full spin, some sort of wordless rebuttal, but she forgets me again immediately when she spots her bag, flailing her arms in the air.
“Found it!”
I follow behind, helping her gather up the mess she’s made. Pens, hair clips, candy wrappers, and three pairs of wired headphones that are all tangled into one giant rat king of cords. It’s the lipstick that really gets my attention though; she’s got at least fifteen tubes that I can see, and I know for a fact there’s more in her bag.
“How do you have so much of this shit?” I laugh, picking up one of the bullets.
“ Because I like to coordinate them with my outfits , Logan!” She whacks me in the arm. “It’s like you don’t know me at all!”
“You’re right, you’re right. I don’t know you at all, Shortcake.”
She clicks her tongue and makes a little aww sound, leaning up against me as I pass her purse over to her.
“I didn’t mean that,” she sighs. “You’re just a bit of a butt, but you know everything! I want to be mysterious but you know all my secrets! ”
I grin. As much as we hang out, there’s actually a lot I don’t know about her. She keeps her past pretty guarded, and I always figured she’d open up when she was ready. I guess we just never really got there.
“Come on.” I help her to her feet and carry her bag. “Let’s get you home.”
I help her into the car, making sure to put my hand on her head to make sure she doesn’t give herself a concussion before jogging to the driver’s side. Abi’s wasted no time, already mid-way through a fight with her seatbelt by the time my ass hits the seat.
“Hey, chill, this is an old car! You’ve gotta be gentle with her!”
I fixed this one up about two years ago and she runs like a dream, but Abi’s found pretty much the only problem with it: the seatbelt.
“Here, let me.”
I gingerly let it retract before slowly pulling it forward again. securing her in with a soft click. She stares at me in complete bewilderment.
“How’d you do that so good?”
“I’m sober,” I tease.
She snorts, gently whacking me in the arm as I buckle myself in. The second I pull out of the parking lot she’s clearly flagging, and three or four blocks out she’s fast asleep, head against the window and clutching her purse as tight as she can.
I smile, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest in the rearview mirror. The drive is just as quiet on the way back to her apartment as the way out, not a car in sight until I turn down a side street. There are a bunch of cars parked outside of a big house on the corner with a couple of passed out freshmen on the lawn. Them aside, I can identify at least another two people who are having a much worse night than Abigail King.
The thumping bass from the house quickly fades into the background as I take the final toward her little building. It’s a cute place, and it sort of has a New York brownstone feel to it despite being from the completely wrong place and time. I’ve always been pretty fond of it, but Abi hates the building. The water pressure is garbage, it’s too cold in the winter, a furnace in the summer, and worst of all the handles are always breaking off of her cupboard doors. I swear, we’ve replaced them at least five times.
I kill the engine, sitting for a few minutes in silence before I lean over and gently shake her awake.
“We’re here.”
She lifts her head, eyes barely opening as she groans. Her lipstick is smeared across her mouth and she sniffles a couple times before she moves, opening her door and struggling to get out while completely forgetting her seatbelt predicament. Her body jerks forward and back, and back and forward again as she grunts.
“Why am I in car jail?!”
I manage to hold back a snicker until I reach the back of the car, but the challenge becomes significantly harder when I get a full view.
“Logaaaaan!” She bellows from the passenger seat. “Get me out of this prison! This is unconstitutional! I have a Charter of Rights and Freedoms!”
“Do you know what country you’re in?” I ask, opening her door.
“ You’re a country,” she slurs. “Get me out!”
“Alright, calm down.”
I crouch down, reaching over to unbuckle her as she continues to try valiantly to get herself out. When her seatbelt is finally released, she lurches forward right into my arms and we both tumble backward onto the hard pavement. My shoulder hits the ground first and I hiss in pain, hoping for a bruise over a fracture. As if on-cue, Abi’s purse smacks me right beneath my eye.
“Ow! Abi!”
She tries to scramble off me, but then I hear a yelp and she falls back down all over again, nearly knocking the wind out of me.
“‘M’sorry!” She yelps, rolling off me and onto her side.
I grunt, forcing myself to sit up despite the pain, glancing over at her. Her dark hair is a mess of chaotic frizzy waves around her head, her little bat barrette is barely holding on by a thread.
“I’m too druuuunk,” she groans, flopping back onto the ground and nearly falling into a puddle.
“You are, but you’re mostly harmless. That bag’s got a hell of a right hook, though.”
She’s unsteady, clinging to me as I lock the car. I swear, the smell of tequila gets more potent as time passes. It’s like she swam in it.
“You don’t hate me, do you?”
It’s hard not to melt when she looks up at me with those big doe eyes… even if one of them is wandering a little because of the alcohol.
And that’s when I notice she’s missing a shoe.
“I don’t hate you.” I cup her face in my hands. “You’re my favorite person in the world.”
Her cheeks heat up against my palms and she reaches all the way around me, letting herself hang off of me like I’m a set of monkey bars.
“You’re mine.”
Boy, do I wish this was literally any other context. If she asked, I’d go steady with her in a heartbeat, work regulations be-damned. Right now, it’s all I can do to keep my mind from wandering to that place. It tends to get stuck, and I know if I let myself indulge in that fantasy too often I could get lost in it forever.
“Let’s go.”
I walk her up to her apartment— actually, it’s more like dragging her up to her apartment. This building doesn’t have an elevator and getting her up the stairs is tough.
When I unlock the door, Abi immediately rushes toward the rat cage.
“Hi babies!” She coos, sticking her fingers in and giggling as they lick her. “Oh, I missed you! Here, I’m gonna give you some extra yummies to make up for being gone so so so long.”
I grin, grabbing her a big glass of water from the kitchen as she fawns.
I love Wednesday and Lydia. When Abi’s out of town, I look after them with Frankie. She doesn’t really like moving them much, so we take turns swinging by the apartment to make sure they get enough playtime, and obviously all the food they could want. Sometimes we bring my XBox over and play Halo while the rats use us as a makeshift obstacle course. Wednesday’s a little more rambunctious, but Lydia always ends up napping on my shoulder.
“Here.” I pass her the glass of water when I finally manage to get her attention away from her little babies. “Drink.”
She grabs it with both hands, guzzling it down like she’s just run an entire marathon in an hour. Some of the water drips down her chin and onto her tank top; when she’s finished, she presents it to me with a big smile.
“Done! What now?”
“Now, we get you into bed.”
“Oh, I love bed!” She gushes as I gently guide her toward her room.
Abi’s room is honestly the coolest I’ve ever seen from a working adult. She’s got big framed comic book prints, movie posters, and loads of rubber bats hanging from the ceiling that glow under a black light.
I help her pick out a set of comfy pajamas and then head outside while she changes.
“You need to wash up or anything?”
“I’ve got makeup wipes.”
She opens the door dressed in a big silk pajama top with little bats on it, and a pair of matching short shorts that show off the tiny tattoo on her upper thigh. It’s a little heart that she gave herself when she was in grad school. I have very distinct memories of tracing it with my tongue that night in Toronto.
She blinks at me, rubbing her eye with a makeup wipe and smearing mascara halfway down her face. Her hair has gotten even messier and she’s doing a horrible job of wiping off her eyeliner.
I bet she’s long-since forgotten.
“Here, I might be able to help.”
I clean up her cheeks, carefully dabbing under and around her eyes. She lets out a frustrated little growl, and it’s the third time this evening that it’s taken everything in me not to just lean in and kiss her.
“I did something dumb,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“I told Brendan you were my fiancé… and that we’d be going to the reunion. I did it to rub it in his stupid ugly face, but I know it was wrong.”
The fake fiancé thing?
She’s clearly exhausted, slurring her words as her eyes glaze over more and more, but I’m still stuck on that revelation. I thought we were just joking around like we usually do. I didn’t mean to plant something in her head.
“You told him we were engaged?”
“Are you mad?” She asks, her voice equal parts apologetic and gravely.
“Of course I’m not mad, but you definitely need some sleep. Maybe I can give you a call in the morning and we can talk about this? If you still want to when you wake up at least.”
“Okay.”
I help her climb into bed, tucking the blankets around her and bracing an extra pillow behind so she doesn’t roll onto her back in the middle of the night.
“I’d be your fake fiancé,” I murmur. “All you have to do is ask.”