33. No One Needs to Know
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
no one needs to know
LOGAN
BLACKBURN FALLS, ONTARIO
PRESENT DAY
“Logan, honey, could you pass me the ladle beside you— Abigail Autumn King, don’t you dare touch that gravy!”
Sherri nearly sloshes her wine onto the counter as she tries to grab the pot away from her daughter.
“It’s burning!” Abi laughs, giving the gravy a rebellious stir.
Her mom bumps her with her hip, pointing at the kitchen table.
“Stop getting in the way and sit down! When you want to move back in, then you can help out in the kitchen, but for now you’re a guest in this house.”
Roman would be horrified at the level of disorganization, but to me, it feels pretty close to home. Sherri reminds me a lot of my mom, right down to the absolute chaos occurring both on and around the stove. Flecks of gravy spattered like paint, remnants of chopped onion, carrot, and the discarded skins of garlic litter the space.
I’m trying my hardest to clean as I go, in between chopping veggies for the salad, handing her things, and listening to forks and spoons hit the floor with a loud clang.
“Why is Logan helping then?” Abi counters, putting her hands on her hips.
“Because he volunteered. Besides, I still remember the Thanksgiving incident, missy.”
I turn around just in time to catch Abi rolling her eyes as she sinks into her chair.
“That was one Thanksgiving, and technically? It was your fault, mom.”
“What happened?” I ask, dumping some carrot tops into the compost bin.
“I read the temperature in the recipe wrong, and set the oven to celsius instead of Fahrenheit. Mom even checked it and she said?—”
“That’s perfect, dear!” Sherri chimes in, snickering into her wine glass as the two reminisce.
“Let’s just say we hit 9:00 o’clock and the bird was practically charcoal, so we ordered sushi. By our powers combined, we ruined Thanksgiving.”
“We didn’t totally ruin Thanksgiving!” Sherri exclaims as she spoons the gravy into a boat. “We still had the stuffing, candied yams, and green beans! It was just a little less traditional. Don’t forget, that tuna sashimi was to die for.”
Abi fiddles with a fork while her mom takes the pot roast out of the oven.
“We’re almost ready to eat!” Sherri announces. “Logan, how’s— Oh! The salad looks amazing! What’s in it?”
“Arugula I found in the fridge, some candied walnuts from the pantry, goat cheese, cucumber for a little bit of freshness, dried cranberries, and some very thinly sliced carrots and radish.”
Roman first taught me about how to throw a salad together when he found out that, up until we met, I had basically been existing off of coffee, diet coke, and sour patch kids. In my defense, it was my first year teaching a full course load and I was drowning in a sea of last minute essays and exams. In his defence, it was still pretty disgusting.
Sherri pats me on the shoulder.
“Excellent work, sweetheart.”
“Thanks, ma!”
We plate everything, quickly settling into our seats for the first bite of pot roast.
“Holy shit, mom, this gravy is incredible,” Abi mutters, licking some off of her thumb.
“Baba’s recipe is timeless,” Sherri replies, cutting into her meat. “So’s her ring, apparently. I still can’t believe you two found one just like it.”
I can’t help but feel a little proud of myself that I went back to that store.
“So, Logan, Abi’s told me you lecture at universities across the country, and you publish books?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble through a mouth full of food.
“He’s done a Ted Talk too.”
“But you’re so young! When did you graduate high school?”
“Oh, I was 15,” I reply.
“Brilliant,” I catch Sherri whisper to herself. “Abi was out early too, at 16. You must have been made for each other.”
I take a sip of my wine, willing the heat rising up my neck to stay down.
Most of the time, I don’t feel particularly smart— or even that accomplished. Regardless of how many milestones I clear, or things I get published, imposter syndrome haunts me on an hourly basis. There are people in this field who have CVs miles longer than mine, after all.
“Logan’s a methodology wizard. There isn’t a question he can’t answer.”
“And Abi’s a theory Queen, so we work well together.”
“And what does your work revolve around?” Sherri asks.
“Medically assisted death. Stigma, taboo, and everything that goes into it,” I reply.
“Wow, that’s… a weighty topic.”
“Originally I was going to do big longitudinal study with unhoused youth, and then my dad got brain cancer. It changed the entire trajectory of my life.”
It’s gotten much easier to talk about my dad over the years, through the lens of academia. I can distance myself, operationalize concepts and compartmentalize the pain. But for some reason, every time he comes up in casual conversation, my throat tightens.
Grief never leaves us, it just changes form; it mutates. Some days, it’s a butterfly fluttering nearby, lightly reminding me of its presence. Other days, it’s a monster that’s tearing away at me, trying to upend everything I’ve built. So I’ve learned to give it space, to let it breathe, and to acknowledge it without trying to crush it down, because it will always come back twice as strong.
“I wanted to do something positive with all that grief. My dad would have liked that. He wasn’t a big fan of crying. I think it’s the Irish in him.”
Sherri chuckles, nodding.
“My dad was Ukrainian. I get it.”
We clink wine glasses, and I take another long drink as Sherri’s eyes twinkle with mischief, already prepared to shift the mood back in a more positive direction.
“So, how did you two meet?! I want to know all the juicy details?—”
“Nope,” Abi laughs. “You don’t.”
“Okay, I want the romantic details, unless that’s worse?”
Abi lifts a brow as we lock eyes. I know the story we rehearsed. We met at a conference and saw each other from across the room, blah blah blah, love at first sight, happily ever whatever.
But I don’t want to tell that story.
While this whole engagement is fake, the connection that Abi and I have isn’t. For years, I thought the way my heart raced when she walked into a room would fade, and I’d find someone else to have a devastating crush on. Maybe I just haven’t given myself enough time away from her and our hilariously complicated situation, but even with that knowledge, a single fact remains in my mind: Without Abi, my life would be lacking.
“We met at a bar in Toronto.”
Lacking in joy, lacking in passion, and lacking in the little spark she adds to everything she touches.
Abi’s face pales as she realizes the story I’m about to tell, and I wait for her to stop me, but she doesn’t.
“I was in town for a conference and saw her dancing with her friend, Kat I think? Abi had this bright red lipstick on. It was actually the thing that caught my eye first, and I was totally smitten. I had to work up the courage to talk to her because she was so beautiful.”
Sherri reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind Abi’s ear.
“And then you accidentally dumped a drink on me,” she finishes with a playful little smile.
“It was love at first spill,” I chuckle.
Sherri puts her hand over her chest.
“That is so romantic. When was this?”
“About three years ago,” I reply as I take a bite of my pot roast. “This is really good, Sherri.”
“Abi, I can’t believe you hid him from me for this long. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Abi takes a deep breath, but before she can answer, I’m already on the case.
“She got hired at EBU after we met at that bar. There’s a whole thing about professors not being able to date unless they fill out a bunch of paperwork first and disclose their relationship.”
I wish that were actually the case for this department. Unfortunately, our choices would be transfer or termination.
“We didn’t want our relationship to affect her position, so we kept things under wraps until it was safe.”
Abi nods, poking at her food.
“I didn’t want anyone to think that Logan was the reason I got the job.”
“And I wasn’t,” I laugh. “Your daughter’s a brilliant scholar and she’s… my whole world.”
Sherri’s eyes well with tears and she sniffles, grabbing her napkin and dabbing at her face.
“Logan, you’re gonna ruin my makeup.”
“Well, you’ll still look gorgeous— you’re Abi’s sister, right?” I tease with a grin.
Sherri reaches over, swatting me on the arm.
“You’ve got quite the charmer, pumpkin.”
Abi rests her chin on her hand, gazing at me with pure adoration.
“Yeah, I really do.”
After dinner, Sherri busts out the cheesecake and we move to the back patio to watch the sunset, alongside more wine of course.
The evening is full to the brim with tales of teenaged Abi, complete with embarrassing photos. The one where she’s dressed as PeeWee Herman for Halloween is my favourite. Apparently she was bummed because nobody got it; they thought she was a ventriloquist’s dummy. I can relate. One year, I dressed up as Sherlock Holmes and everyone just thought I wasn’t wearing a costume at all. The curse of being stylish, I suppose.
Abi stretches her legs out in front of her. She’s wearing that fucking bikini, and I’ve been doing my best not to ogle her like I’m some creepy cartoon character.
“It’s beautiful out here. I’ve missed these sunsets.”
“I bet you get some gorgeous ones on the west coast though,” Sherri replies, interrupting my extremely sinful thoughts. “Right up against those mountains? That’s gotta look like heaven.”
“Yeah, they’re really stunning on the good days,” Abi agrees. “When I first moved there, I sat out on my balcony watching the sunset every night for weeks. Then the rain hit.”
I did the same thing. New York sunsets are beautiful, but there’s nothing quite like watching the sky turn pink and gold over the bay.
Abi and her mom slip into some more personal conversation, and I take the opportunity to flip out my phone and check my messages. Surprisingly, my out of office notification is keeping most people at bay. But I do see a text from Roman that I missed during dinner.
ROMAN
How’s it going?
I frown and tap out a message.
ME
Fine? Why are you being weird?
ROMAN
I’m not being weird.
ME
In the history of our friendship, you have never randomly texted me “how’s it going?” Are you and my sister eloping? Did you rob a bank?
ROMAN
Wow, you make me sound like a real asshole.
ME
I’m just saying, usually it’s a picture of Mitzy or a question like: “What ever happened to Chumbawamba?”
ROMAN
Okay, fine. I’m here in my capacity as an informant for Imogen.
ME
And what doth Her Majesty request?
ROMAN
She wants to know if you and Abi are in love yet.
ME
We’re just friends.
ROMAN
I know how that goes, pal.
I stare at the screen for a while, not quite sure what to say in my defense.
ROMAN
Imogen says “You’re so in love it’s disgusting. Get over yourself.”
“Well, I’m gonna hit the hay,” Sherri sighs, looking up at the gorgeous blend of deep reds and oranges in the sky. “I’ll be up early. There’s a farmer’s market and if you get there right when they open, they have the freshest strawberries. No pesticides, no chemicals, just delicious.”
“I don’t think that’s true, mom,” Abi chuckles.
“Well, it’s true for me.”
“That’s—”
“That’s postmodernism,” I quip. “Very elevated thinking.”
Abi rolls her eyes, but Sherri just ruffles her hair.
“The fridge is stocked with food, so you two can fend for yourselves until I get home at around 2:00 tomorrow.”
“Damn, that’s quite the farmer’s market,” I chime in.
“Well, I’m also going to Boozy Book Club.” Sherri puffs out her chest. “We always go for brunch and the mimosas are half off on Saturdays.”
“Book club?” I ask. “What kind of book club?”
“Take a wild guess.”
I tilt my head.
“Did you know romance is the best selling book genre?” I ask. “Must be popular for a reason, right?”
“Well, the world needs a little more love in it, don’t you think?” Sherri smiles at us. “Night, you two. Be good!”
“Night, mom!” Abi calls.
“Night, ma!”
She glances over her shoulder and smiles at me one last time before heading back into the house. And then it’s just Abi and me, and the wind rustling through the trees. Neither of us say a word, only drinking in the warmth of the calm and quiet night.
She looks totally relaxed at home, like a weight’s been lifted off of her. There’s a bit of mascara under her eyes from the humidity, and the moonlight illuminates her high cheekbones and makes her whole face glow. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen her look more beautiful than she does right now.
“I think I’m gonna go for a swim.”
Abi sets her drink down and gets to her feet, stopping just long enough to give me a good look at that teenie bikini. The bottoms are shockingly high cut, digging into her hips and ass. I can see the light discoloration of her stretch marks on the sides of her waist as she shimmers in the dying sunlight, the red and white polka dot top doing barely anything to hide her tits. They look like they’re spilling out of it… and I kind of wish they would.
“You wanna swim?” She asks.
I want to prolong this as much as possible, but I really want to see that bathing suit in action.
“In a minute.” I sip my drink. “Let me finish this.”
She saunters toward the end of the diving board, hopping once before springing off the edge in a graceful dive.
“Very nice, very nice. Perfect ten, or whatever it is they give divers.”
She swims back toward me, holding her hands out.
“Pretty please come and swim?”
I get to my feet, strutting toward her and stopping at the edge, wine still in hand. I’ve got one sip left and I decide to really milk it just to amp up the anticipation.
As I lift the glass to my lips I feel her hand on my other wrist, and the next thing I know I’m head over heels, with a loud splash.