Chapter 9 #2
“Actually,” I interject before Logan can answer, “Logan doesn’t want anyone to know he’s here.” I should have made it a rule in our contract that he’s not allowed to step foot in this house.
Chrissy tilts her head curiously. “Why not?”
“Just came back for a little peace and quiet,” Logan says, accepting the bowl of spaghetti Mom slides toward him. “Needed some time away from . . . everything.”
He says that’s the reason, but I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to it than that. People don’t normally hide out in small towns unless they’re running from something big.
Stephanie’s eyes grow even wider. “Could I get your autograph at least? I have all your albums—well, digital copies.”
“Sure thing,” Logan replies.
“I don’t have a picture for you to sign,” she continues, “but you can sign my blouse!” Before anyone can process what’s happening, she’s actually tugging at the hem of her shirt, preparing to pull it over her head.
I jump from my seat, ready to intervene in this madness, but Chrissy moves faster, grabbing Stephanie by the shoulders and firmly guiding her back into her chair.
“I’m sure we can find a piece of paper of our dear troublemaker to sign,” I say, trying to restore sanity to the table.
Stephanie’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “Why do you call him that?”
“Care to explain?” I tilt my head at Logan. “We’re all very curious,” I add, unable to keep the sweetly venomous edge from my voice.
Logan clears his throat and shifts in his chair. “I caused a little trouble when I was younger,” he admits, suddenly fascinated by the pattern on his napkin.
“That’s an understatement of the year.” The memory of my glue-matted hair and ruined polka dot dress rises unbidden.
“So the rumors about you are true.” Theo speaks for the first time, his voice carrying a weight of judgment that could sink a battleship.
Logan pivots to face him. “Don’t believe everything they say about me.” Something glints behind his eyes for a heartbeat—a shadow of genuine hurt that vanishes so quickly I might have imagined it.
“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Stephanie jumps in defensively. “Logan’s songs are the best. ‘Star Crossed Lovers’ got me through some tough times last year.
“Thanks.” Logan throws her a wink. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
Stephanie squirms in her chair, covering her blushing face with both hands like she might spontaneously combust.
“I wouldn’t know,” Theo says coolly. “I’m not a fan.” His disapproval radiates across the table like a cold front.
Chrissy elbows him sharply in the ribs—a clear signal to behave—and he winces, falling silent.
“I’m sorry we don’t have more,” Mom says, gesturing to the bowl in front of Logan. “We weren’t expecting another guest.”
“This is great, Mrs. Lang,” he says, practically beaming. “I haven’t had spaghetti like this in . . . well, it’s been a while.”
We all start to eat. The way he digs in with such enthusiasm suggests he hasn’t had a proper home-cooked meal in months, maybe years, savoring every bite with appreciative little sounds. There’s something unexpectedly sad about it.
He glances up and catches my eye. “You’ve got something right there.”
“Huh?”
Before I can react, he reaches across the table and swipes his thumb across the corner of my mouth.
It’s just a drop of sauce, barely anything, but the touch is so unexpectedly gentle, so intimate, that my lungs forget their primary function.
For a full five seconds, breathing seems like an advanced skill I never actually mastered.
Stephanie and Chrissy break into a chorus of teasing “oohs,” followed by shy, knowing laughter.
I stare down into my bowl, blinking rapidly, hoping neither of them notices how hot my face feels. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since someone touched me with such tenderness.
It shouldn’t mean anything. It’s just a thumb—and yet, here I am, emotionally compromised.
“So,” Mom says, steering the conversation forward like nothing just happened, “how is your career going, Logan?”
“Pretty good,” he says, although his tone lacks conviction. “Needed a change of scenery to work on new material. City life was getting a little loud.”
A change in scenery. That’s one way to spin it.
“And what are your intentions with my daughter?”
“Mom!” I shoot her a mortified look, but she’s all innocence and playing dumb, sipping her coffee like it’s entirely normal to interrogate a celebrity at the lunch table.
Logan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Well—“
I stomp on his foot under the table, applying enough pressure to make him think twice before opening his mouth again.
He clears his throat. “We’re just catching up while I’m in town.”
Mom gives us both a long, suspicious look before returning to her spaghetti. “If you say so.”
“I think you’ve eaten enough,” I announce, standing abruptly to snatch his bowl away despite his incomprehensible, mouth-full protests. I go to wash it in the kitchen sink.
Stephanie takes this opportunity to present Logan with a Sharpie marker and sign the front of her blouse. At least the article of clothing is on.
After washing Logan’s bowl, I grab his hand and pull him toward the door with the determination of someone removing a toddler from a toy store.
“What gives?” Logan stumbles after me, looking genuinely bewildered.
“You gotta go before my mom reads into this too much,” I mutter, marching forward with purpose.
Logan twists to look over his shoulder. “Thanks for your hospitality, Mrs. Lang!”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Mom calls from the kitchen, her voice warm with invitation. But I know better—she’s suspecting something is amiss.
“Did you hear that?” Logan grins triumphantly, but I don’t dignify him with a response, simply pushing him through the doorway and closing it behind him.
I lean back against the door, exhaling deeply in relief of getting through all that.
When I open my eyes, I see Chrissy, Stephanie, and Theo all peeking at me from the kitchen entrance, Chrissy giving me an enthusiastic thumbs up that makes me want to disappear into the door like that Homer Simpson meme.
After a moment, Chrissy herds her friends upstairs to work on their school project, their whispered excitement fading as the bedroom door closes.
Mom turns to me, arms crossed in that universal maternal stance that means a serious conversation is imminent. “Maisie—“
“I know what you’re going to say,” I cut in, desperate to avoid whatever assumptions she’s forming. “But there’s nothing there.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, her expression softening with concern. “He seems . . . nice. But honey, people are talking about him. The news, the gossip—he’s got a reputation.”
“He’s not that bad,” I say, surprised by my own defensiveness. “We’re just hanging out.”
Mom’s brow furrows with worry I’ve seen too often since Andy. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again. He’s . . . a celebrity”
“I can take care of myself.” Though after today, I’m not too sure of that.
“Just be careful.”
“There’s nothing to be careful about, Mom. I got it handled.”