Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia
I don’t want to brag or make anyone jealous,
But I can still fit into the earrings I wore in high school.
~ Unknown
Logan spins me out, and I surrender to the movement, floating away from him and then returning when he gently pulls me. I don’t know if it’s all the collaborating we’ve been forced to do lately or the fact that I’m aware of every eye in the room focusing on us right now. Maybe it was the impact of seeing him so vulnerable that night with his brother. Whatever it is, my guard is down. I feel myself allowing Logan to lead me. I’m not resisting. I’m surrendering to the way he guides us through the room. Logan’s a masterful dancer. Of course he is. His precision extends to everything he does.
If this is how he dances, I wonder how he kisses.
Intrusive thought!
No thinking of Logan kissing. That is not ever something I will experience. Of course not. I don’t want to kiss Logan. Not even to see how good he is. Good? No. Logan’s not good at anything. He’s excellent. Often perfect. What would a perfect kiss be like? And why am I thinking of kissing right now?
Logan’s hand finds my lower back again and he tugs me toward him, his eyes finding mine. Holding me everywhere, in his gaze, with his arms, his certainty, his signature intensity, and a tenderness I might be imagining.
Then, like the stroke of midnight in “Cinderella,” our song ends and the next one begins. It’s something upbeat by Bruno Mars. Logan and I stand in the center of the dance floor, my hand still held in his firm, confident grasp, his other hand on my back. I drop my fingers from his shoulder, and they skitter down his chest, falling to my side.
His eyes search mine—for what, I don’t know.
“Well …” I say. “We did that.”
He’s quiet, as usual. Unreadable. He softens his grip on my other hand and releases me. I turn away, my eyes scanning the room until they land on Megan. Before either Logan or I feel the need to say anything else, I stride off the dance floor toward my best friend, leaving Logan and his smooth dance moves behind me.
Megan is up in my face as soon as I flee the dance floor. “Well, that was interesting.”
“Ginny’s speech?” I ask, hoping she’ll avoid the topic of Logan Alexander altogether.
“Hardly. She had to resort to bringing up F.A.R.T.s. She always wanted to be you.”
“It’s not high school anymore.” The words hold depth.
I think of what Logan told me in the elevator at work yesterday.
“We’ve all changed—maybe some of us more than others.”
“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Megan says.
“What?”
“You and Logan. That dance. It looked like the first dance at a wedding far more than a reunion reenactment of a prom dance, one I could tell you were squirming about as soon as you were called up on stage.”
“We didn’t look like newlyweds.”
Megan props her hands on her hips and stares at me. There are perils of maintaining a lifelong best friendship. This is one. Scrutiny. Exposure. The inability to bluff.
“Trust me,” she persists. “The way that man was looking at you—was not neutral.”
Megan and I spent hours, especially in high school, entertaining ourselves by imitating Logan the statue, Logan the Mona Lisa, Logan the soldier at attention, so I know she chose the word neutral specifically. She knows how much his seeming neutrality and unreadability bother me. I like to know where I stand with a person. I like to be able to read their emotions on their face. I think most people do. Logan is an inscrutable mystery. And he’s often hiding a plan to outwit me and leave me in his dust.
At least, he used to be.
Now, I’m not sure what lies under that gorgeous mask of detached indifference.
“All I know is I might need some smelling salts and a cool cloth after watching you two.”
“Stop it already,” I scold Megan.
Why my face feels flushed is a conundrum. I don’t get flushed over Logan Alexander—not unless it’s flushed with agitation over his pompous, overbearing, overachieving interference in my life. I don’t swoon when I think about the way he held my hand or how he looked into my eyes or the small smiles he shared with me alone on that dance floor.
If anything, Logan rose to the occasion, as he always does. And he was so good at his performance that he convinced Megan, and he even convinced me— almost . But not really.
Besides, do I want to be convinced that Logan and I looked like a couple on their wedding night? Not when I follow that line of thought to its natural end. We aren’t … and we won’t be. So there’s only more heartache and frustration down that road, as always seems to be the case with that infuriating, beautiful, intriguing, aggravating man.
Laney Bridgers walks up to Megan and me.
“What a dance, Olivia.”
“Thank you.”
“So, you and Logan?”
“Work together.”
“Ah.”
Alexis Jensen joins us. “Can you believe Logan?”
“What?” Megan asks, her voice full of premature excitement.
“He donated to help us rent this site for the reunion. He’s amazing.”
Laney nods. “He really is. My neighbor is a therapist at some group homes for people with disabilities. Logan helped pay for all the residents to go to Disneyland. They held a fundraiser for the trip last year. She and I were in our front yards gardening one Saturday, and she was telling me about the trip and how they couldn’t have done it without their sponsors. She started listing off corporations and then said, ‘... and a few private donors. You might know one. I think he went to high school at Sweethaven.’ I was stunned when she mentioned Logan. As far as I know, he doesn’t know anyone living in those group homes. I’m pretty certain he doesn’t have anyone developmentally disabled in his family or his extended circle. A personal relationship is usually what motivates a person to donate to a specific cause. Not Logan. He simply gives, and he does so in such a stealthy way. I’m surprised his name was even made public.”
I know my jaw is on the ground. I make eye contact with Megan. A thousand words pass between us without either of us opening our mouths.
Logan?
My Logan?
What is the hitch here?
What’s in it for him?
He wasn’t even mentioned as a donor or sponsor for this event.
He could take credit. And he didn’t.
A seismic shift tilts and cracks the foundation of everything I’ve ever believed about him. I’m disoriented. Nearly dizzy. If Logan is capable of this kind of goodness with no personal gain, is he really the man who purposely undermined me at every turn? The two pieces don’t fit in the same puzzle. I’m stymied—almost numb from the cognitive dissonance.
Which man is he?
If he’s the man I’ve assumed him to be all along, I know how to function around him. We engage in battles. I keep my guard up. I never let him see me sweat.
But if Logan is this other man, the generous philanthropist, thoughtful, reserved, and possibly even humble, I don’t know how I’ll survive. How will I resist him? Do I even want to? And if I don’t, what might he do to my heart?
The big question remaining is this: Can I trust Logan Alexander?
Logan and I dance around one another the rest of the night. We don’t dance with one another again—of course we don’t. My eyes drift toward him of their own will. Sometimes he’s looking at me, at other times he’s engaged in conversation. And by engaged, I mean he’s standing in a group, barely enduring the social connections going on around him. But I watch him and try to discern which version is the real Logan.
The next day, Megan, Lynette, and I meet at the park while Cassidy plays with a friend on the playground. Megan’s dead set on discussing Logan and the dance I shared with him. Lynette is fully invested, like a housewife keeping up with her daily soap operas.
I’ve got a bigger agenda—something not related to Logan Alexander at all.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, interrupting Megan’s regaling of the way Logan spun me out and pulled me back toward himself at the end of our dance.
“What?” Lynette asks.
“About your rent.”
“What about it? I have no rent … not for three months. I’m socking away all I can so I can pull from my reserves when I finally have to start paying again.”
“Aren’t you curious as to who paid for it?” I ask.
“Of course I am. But I can’t figure it out, so I decided it might as well have been an angel from heaven. I’m not looking a gift horse in the mouth. If they wanted me to know who they were, they would tell me. Maybe they want to remain anonymous.”
“True …” I almost agree. “But I still would feel better knowing who it is.”
“Why?” Megan asks.
“Because then we’ll know if their motives are pure.”
“What other kinds of motives could they have besides pure ones?” Megan asks.
“I don’t know. It’s just so out of the blue. And huge. I want to know who this is so I can rest.”
“What do you suggest?” Lynette asks, half-heartedly.
“I think we need to call your landlord. Ask some questions. Tell him it wasn’t your boyfriend since you don’t have one.”
“I don’t want to bug Joe,” Lynette says.
“Mommy!” Cassidy calls from the swings. “Watch me go high!”
“I’m watching, sweetie!” Lynette yells back from our spot on the bench.
“I’m not talking about bugging him,” I say. “It can’t hurt to ask a few questions, right? The worst thing that could happen is he’ll tell us he doesn’t want to disclose anything.”
“Or he could get mad,” Lynette says.
“The guy just got three months’ rent in advance. I doubt he’s going to be mad,” Megan points out. “Liv’s got me curious now too.”
“Okay. Let’s call him,” Lynette says.
“Did you see that, Mommy?” Cassidy calls over to us after launching herself off the swing and landing on both feet.
“I did! You’re awesome!”
“I think I saw your invisible wings!” I shout to Cassidy.
“You can’t see them, silly! They’re invisible.”
She skips over to her friend, and they go up the stairs, headed for the twin slides.
“Okay. Here goes,” Lynette says.
She pushes Joe’s contact and puts the call on speaker.
He answers in a south Boston accent, “Joe here.”
“Hi, Joe? It’s Lynette. I was calling about my advance rent payment.”
“It’s already been cashed and deposited. I can’t give you a refund.”
“Oh! No. No. That’s not what I want—at all. I’m trying to find out who paid my rent. You see, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend?” His Southie accent swells in disbelief.
“No. And I’m sure whoever this good Samaritan is was doing something to bless me. I’m just curious.” She pauses, looking at Megan and then me. “I want to thank them.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Of course you do. Naturally. Well, I can tell ya this. Two men came in. The one I thought was your boyfriend, and his friend. The guy who’s not your boyfriend was the one to call me a few days before. I recognized his voice. He said he needed the address to the rental office and such. At first I thought they was tryin’ to rent a place from me. But then they showed up to pay for your place.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, now. That one who called me before comin’ in, he’s got dark, wavy, or you might say curly, hair, about average height. He’s the guy I thought was your boyfriend. The other fella was taller. Dressed like he pays the cleaners to press everything, even his socks and his undies, if you know the type. He was taller, lean and muscular but not built like a bodyguard or anything.”
Lynette looks over at me.
“The shorter one was talkative. I’d even call him chatty. The other guy—the suit—he was more of a keep-it-to-himself type.”
Lynette’s eyes grow wide. I take a lesson from Logan and keep my face neutral. There are lots of stoic people in the world with chatty, curly-haired friends … taller, lean men who aren’t bulky like a bodyguard. That could be anyone.
“Come to think of it, Mister Chatty was talkin’ ’bout you bein’ a teacher. Said they ought to pay teachers what they’re worth. I agreed with him, of course.”
“Which one gave him the money?” I ask, only mouthing the words and nearly holding my breath for the moment of truth. Not because it definitely was Gil and Logan … but in case it was. It can’t have been. Can it?
Lynette asks Joe my question.
Joe says, “Ah, yeah. The chatty guy. He was the one giving me the dough. Cash, mind you. All cash. People don’t use cash much nowadays. They usually pay online or try and use some app or such. These guys pulled out cash. Well, Mister Chatty did.”
Oh. Gil was the one. Okay, then. Still, why was Logan with him? It’s not like Gil needed a chaperone. Joe himself said Logan’s not built like a bodyguard. He is built, though. Our dance confirmed what my eyes had already told me.
“Thank you. Anything else?” Lynette asks her landlord.
“Not that I can think of. All’s I know is in all my years of bein’ a landlord, I never seen such generosity. Not even close.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
“Nah. Thank you. You’re a good tenant, Lynette. And hey, if you ever need a break on your rent, you come talk it out with me. I had a single mom growin’ up. Life’s not easy on dem women raisin’ kids alone. So, I got a soft spot in my heart for gals like you. I won’t see you living on the street. Not on my watch.”
Lynette’s eyes get a little misty. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
“Okay, then.”
Lynette says goodbye to Joe.
“Oh. My. Gosh!” Megan nearly shouts. “It’s them! Gil and Logan! It has to be!”
“Seems like it,” I concede.
“Gil was the one who paid,” Lynette says. “He obviously overheard us talking by the pool at The Serendipity that day. He knows I’m struggling. He even said something about me letting him and Maisy know if I ever need any help. Maybe the parents pitched in and donated through some crowdfunding effort. I don’t think Gil and Maisy would be able to do this on their own.”
“Right?” Megan says. “Probably it was all the parents.” Then she looks at me. “Happy, Olivia? Lynette’s students’ parents chipped in. Gil did a drop-off of the collection. Logan came along for support.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
Everything adds up—except why Logan would have been along for the ride when Gil gave the money to Joe.