12. Boygenius
CHAPTER TWELVE
boygenius
LOGAN
EMERALD BAY, WASHINGTON
LATER THAT NIGHT
I turn the engine over and start the short trip back to my place. When I pull into the driveway, I sit and stare at the house. I love this house, but it gets lonely sometimes. Growing up with siblings in a big Irish family, people were always coming and going. Dinner parties, Sunday brunch, birthdays, and at least half the neighborhood would show up when my mom had afternoon tea.
Don’t get me wrong, I like my solitude, but there are some nights I go to sleep with an ache realizing I don’t have someone to brush my teeth with.
When I get inside, instead of heading back to my laptop to finish up those edits, I find myself in the kitchen, taking out a couple of mixing bowls along with some heavy cream, vanilla, pumpkin puree, pumpkin pie spice, cinnamon sticks, and maple syrup.
Abi adores this pumpkin creamer at Déjà Brew. She goes nuts for it the second fall hits. In fact, she’s said she would start a riot for the last drop of it. Apparently it’s that good. The only problem is, this creamer is seasonal. Thankfully, before the old manager Ashley ran off with that chem professor, I think his name was Chuck? She let me in on the secret recipe. It’s just a splash of vanilla.
That’s it.
Which is great, because I figure Abi’s gonna need a hefty dose of one of her favorite things to help ease her hangover tomorrow.
I start by grabbing a whisk, dumping the ingredients in a big bowl, and putting on some music so I don’t feel so crushed by the silence that’s been permeating the house since Iggy moved in with Roman. He’s the person who really taught me how to cook, long before my sister and him got together, but I’ve gotten even more into it lately, and I think I’ve improved a lot. I was always curious, but never thought I had the skill until I finally took the dive and really applied myself. I’m still not anywhere near his level, but I’ve got a knack for transforming the recipes he provides into my own unique thing.
Admittedly, sometimes it’s by burning them, but that’s besides the point.
When my sister got diagnosed with ADHD during her bachelor’s degree, I thought about getting myself checked out. Imogen and I are alike in a lot of ways. We tend to latch on to certain hyperfixations, and we both often find ourselves so focused on a single thing that everything disappears around us. Normally that would be fine, and sometimes even useful, but it gets a lot more difficult when you forget to do basic things like eat, drink water, or even take a piss until suddenly your body’s on high-alert.
Hell, back when I was in high school I was late or nearly late all the time. I just didn’t understand how people had so much time in the mornings. How the hell did they get everything done and still make it to class? Of course, the answer was just that they weren’t getting hung up on every other thing they laid their eyes on.
My tenth grade report card concluded, and I quote, ‘Logan is a pleasure to have in class. However, at times he refuses to apply himself, and his antics sometimes distract his classmates,’ which… not so bad, right?
I got off easy.
Imogen was slower to start, more distracted, zoned out a lot— even mid conversation. Ultimately her diagnosis was a blessing, and a good first step toward treatment.
But by the time she got her assessment, I was afraid that the doctors wouldn’t take me seriously. After all, I had never really had trouble in school— not the way she did. I never failed a class, I jumped straight into a PhD after my Bachelor’s degree and things got a little easier as I got older. I had a great job, I was writing books, teaching courses I loved, and guest lecturing at universities. More than anything, it had just been too long. Besides, I had adapted, so clearly it wasn’t a big deal.
The intense bouts of anger for no reason, the disorganization, the time blindness, and the difficulty fitting in socially was all chalked up to my ‘genius,’ even by me after a while.
And that was a problem: knowing I was different made it so hard to connect with people. I felt like I constantly had to soften my rougher edges, the parts of me that were acceptable at home but weird in public. That’s one of the reasons I got rushed into post-secondary. Academia opened up my entire world— socially, emotionally, and psychologically.
I finally found people who got it.
The heat from the stove drags me back into the kitchen, my mind briefly struggling to make the jump, as usual.
I shake my head, grabbing a pot.
I didn’t even realize I’d turned it on.
“Jesus, Flynn. Try not to burn the goddamn house down, will ya?”
I pour the creamy mixture into the pot and let it warm up on medium, stirring it a bit every half minute or so to make sure it doesn’t get too thick. The last thing Abi needs is lumps in her coffee. Once it’s finished, I let it cool for a few minutes before giving it a try.
It tastes like… pumpkin? Which makes sense I guess. It’s a little sweet, but not too bad, and after a moment or two the vanilla really does come in with a bit of a bite. It’s almost as good as the stuff from Déjà Brew, at least as far as my uncultured tongue can tell.
“Not bad, Flynn.” I nod to myself as I pour the rest into a thermos. “Not bad at all.”
I head down the hall, stripping off my clothes and tossing them into the hamper before changing into a pair of sweatpants and rifling through my closet to pick out my outfit for tomorrow. My bedroom, like every other place in the house, is filled with horror memorabilia. Posters, figurines— I even have an original slate from the Evil Dead movie. It’s signed and everything. I paid way too much money for it, but it was worth every penny. This, of course, leaves a little less space for the more… practical things one might expect in a bedroom.
Basically, my organization leaves a bit to be desired.
After a while sifting through different drawers and closet space, my eyes finally land on a shirt, specifically the one I wore the night Abi and I first met.
I still blush thinking back on it. The way she moaned beneath me, the softness of her skin, but it’s impossible to forget the way she rode me with such reckless abandon.
It was like she was trying to forget.
I knew I was a rebound that night, a balm for her pain. Even if she didn’t say anything, it would have been obvious.
I didn’t care.
Abi and I had this intense connection, one that bled from that ‘one night,’ long into the next morning. She was bright and witty, and so quick on her feet. She laughed at my shitty jokes, but it never felt like she was laughing at me. She got them.
Maybe we were just two people aching for someone to understand us, and maybe it wasn't anything more than that, but I was head over heels after that night, and it was everything I could do to let her go. If I couldn’t have Abi as a girlfriend, I still wanted her in my life.
And then she was back, back in my life, and exactly what I wanted, what we both said we wanted, happened. We became friends. The very best of friends.
And it was perfect. Exactly the way it should have been.
But whenever the subject of settling down came up, I got cagey.
Because the only person I ever felt truly comfortable with, the one that no one else can measure up to, is the one the two of us agreed I just can’t have.
Because we figured it all out.
Because we’re such good friends.
I let out a deep breath, fiddling with my dad’s watch hanging slightly loose on my wrist as I think back on his words.
Promise me you’ll fall in love.
Promise me that.
Because at the end of the day, when you add everything up, there’s nothing else that matters.
“I’m trying, dad.”
I tighten the band, re-adjusting it for what has to be the hundredth time.
“I’m trying.”