36. Plated & Rescued
Plated & Rescued
L ogan?” I call as we approach, but he doesn’t react.
The sight in front of us is almost surreal.
Logan—dressed in a tuxedo—is hunched over the soil, hands digging furiously into the dirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and mud streaked across his arms. His hair is a mess, damp with sweat, and his tie hangs loosely around his neck like he gave up on it halfway through.
He’s completely engrossed in whatever the hell he’s doing, muttering under his breath as he sprinkles fertilizer over the base of a massive pumpkin vine.
Amelie reaches my side, her forehead creased in confusion. “What am I looking at?”
“Logan?” I call again, louder this time.
He flinches like he didn’t even realize we were standing here. His head snaps up, eyes slightly wild as he takes us in. “Amelie? What are you doing here?” His gaze flicks to me. “Aaron?”
I hesitate, exchanging another uneasy glance with Amelie. “Are you . . . okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He brushes dirt off his hands, not that it helps. “Why?”
Amelie approaches cautiously. “What . . . what exactly are you doing, buddy?”
Logan narrows his eyes, probably catching the wary note in her voice. “I forgot to fertilize the pumpkins. Primrose likes to take a picture sitting on top of the biggest one, and she couldn’t even fit a foot on the ones from last fall.” He turns back to the soil, resuming his manic digging.
I blink at him. “Does she...want that more than she wants to get married?”
Logan freezes for half a second, then shoots me a glare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Amelie places her hands on her hips. “Logan, you’re supposed to get married. Remember?”
“Oh.” He shakes his head like we’re the ones acting strange. “That’s in two hours.”
“Yes, fair,” she hedges. “But you’re covered in mud. And wouldn’t you like to, I don’t know, drink a beer with your brother? Relax a little before the big moment?”
“Nah, I really need to finish up here.”
He keeps working, completely unbothered, and my stomach tightens further. This isn’t normal. Logan isn’t the kind of guy who runs. He’s been working on his anxiety, on his emotional wellbeing.
I take a small step forward. “Logan, you and Primrose are made for each other.”
“You also have two newborns together,” Amelie snaps.
He tosses a handful of dirt to the side. “What are you two on about?”
“We gotta go back,” I insist. “You need to take a shower and calm down from whatever spiral you’re on right now because you’re getting married today.”
His shoulders tense. Then, suddenly, he throws the too-small gardening tool he was using onto the ground and spins to face me, his face red with frustration.
“I know I’m getting married today. Look at me. ” He throws out his arms, motioning to himself. “I’m wearing a fucking tuxedo.”
I watch him, my brain scrambling for something that will snap him out of whatever this is. “Is that the problem? The tuxedo? Because I’m sure Primrose would let you change. Just don’t wear the boots.”
His jaw clenches as he rolls his eyes, moving to pick up the tool again.
“Okay, keep the fucking boots, Logan. Just?—”
“I need to fertilize these pumpkins, and I need to do it today,” he grits out, turning away from me. “So instead of wasting my time, go back to the house, and I’ll see you soon.”
“Why?” I push, stepping forward. “Why do you need to tend to the fucking vegetables today?”
“Because!” he wails.
I go still.
That wasn’t just frustration. That was grief bleeding through the cracks.
“Because Mom really wants to make pumpkin pie next fall, and she—she?—”
Oh.
A sharp pain stabs through my ribs.
I think I know the problem.
“She couldn’t get in the car this morning,” Logan whispers, his back still to me.
“She just...stopped. Like her body forgot how to move. She kept trying. Told me to give her a second. But it was like—like she wasn’t there anymore, just stuck.
And her face...she knew. She knew what it meant. ”
“It’s a...” I roll my wrist, recalling some of the stuff I read online. “A freezing episode.”
When he finally turns, his face is twisted in agony, tears cutting wet paths down his dirt-smudged cheeks.
Amelie’s breath catches beside me. I see the exact moment it hits, the moment she understands Mom is sick. She brings a hand to her lips like she’s trying to physically hold back the emotion. I breathe out too, fighting the same battle.
“Logan . . .” I mumble.
“I don’t know how many years of her pumpkin pies we’ll get, okay?
” His voice is hoarse, almost pleading. “So I need to make sure these pumpkins are perfect.” His hands tremble as he picks up the bag of fertilizer, scattering it into the soil like it’s the most important thing he’ll ever do.
The granules hit the dirt, lost among the earth, and he keeps going as if enough effort will hold back the inevitable.
“I need to do this.” His voice shatters on the last word, and he rakes a hand through his hair, smearing dirt into the strands. “I have to.”
I step forward, my chest aching as I rip the tool from his hands and throw it to the ground. Before he can react, I pull him in, wrapping my arms tightly around his shaking frame.
He stays rigid for half a second, like he’s fighting to hold himself together. But then the first sob shudders through him, then another. And another.
His body collapses against mine and I tighten my hold, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other fisting his shirt. His tears soak into my shoulder, his breath coming in gasping, uneven bursts.
I close my eyes, pressing my chin to the top of his head. “That’s enough,” I say, sniffling. I pat his back twice, the way Darren used to do when we were kids. “Come on, enough.”
It takes a minute, but he eventually straightens, wiping his face roughly with the back of his hand. His eyes are red, his face blotchy, but the manic edge to his expression is gone.
“You know Mom would kick your ass if she saw you now, right?” I say, forcing a smirk, trying to lighten the air. “Crying over this on your wedding day instead of reveling in the fact that you’re about to marry the love of your life?”
A tired, barely-there chuckle escapes him. “Yeah.”
“Fuck the pumpkins—today,” I add quickly when he shoots me a warning glare. “Tomorrow, I’ll come fertilize them with you. Six a.m. It’s a date.”
“I start at five.”
“Fine. Five a.m.”
When he nods, Amelie brushes past him without a word and walks straight up to me. Before I can react, she throws her arms around my neck, nearly knocking the breath out of me.
“Oof.” I stumble back a step but hug her back.
“I’m so . . . so sorry, Aaron,” she says against my shoulder.
I close my eyes, my throat burning as I bury my face in her hair.
I can’t cry. I can’t cry.
“I really wanted to tell you,” I explain, “but Mom insisted she didn’t want anyone to know, and?—”
“Shh.” She sniffles and leans back, her gaze searching mine for something—maybe the fact that we’re okay. Whatever it is, she finds it, because her expression shifts, her lips twitching into something determined.
“We need to go get her,” she says.
“What?”
“We need to get her out of the house. Right now.”
It takes a second to register who she means. “Charlotte? How? I doubt her mom will let her go anywhere.”
“It’s a good thing I don’t care what Beatrice has to say, then.”
Logan joins my side, sniffling. “What’s happening?”
Amelie, already by the car, answers in my place. “We’re going on a rescue mission.”
“What’s the plan?” I ask as Amelie and I step into the elevator. The usher almost didn’t let us in, but Amelie really has a way with words. Or the usher has a thing for brunettes.
“No plan,” she says, arms crossed as she watches the buttons light up as we rise. “We go in, we give Charlotte a choice. That’s all we can do.”
“Yes, but Beatrice?—”
“I’ll handle her.”
I check the time. The wedding is in one hour, and we’ll need half of that to get back. Logan understood the situation, but I can’t miss the wedding. I’m the fucking best man.
But I also can’t leave this place without Charlotte. We’re going to get her out.
“That’s the door,” I say as we come out of the elevator.
“Ready?” she asks.
No. Terrified, actually. “Yes.”
She knocks, and the moments that pass before the door opens are the longest of my life. But then Charlotte is there, her vaguely bored expression turning into surprise as she takes us in. “Aaron? What...”
“Hi, Charlotte,” Amelie says, stepping forward.
“H-hello.” Charlotte looks behind her back, then at us again. “What are you doing here? Beatrice?—”
“I’m not afraid of Beatrice.” Amelie reassures her. “We’re here because we’d like for you to come to the wedding with us.”
Charlotte meets my gaze, her brows drawing together as if asking for an explanation, so I step to her, taking her hands in mine. “You okay, baby?”
“Y-yes, just . . .”
“Confused?”
“A little, yes.”
“Understandable.” I cup the back of her head, fingers skimming through her hair.
“Amelie and I talked, and...and we want to give you the support you need, the chance you deserve. If you really want to be here, I’ll support you, of course.
But if it’s not...we’re here to give you a choice. An alternative.”
“Charlotte?” Beatrice’s voice rings from inside the house. “Who’s at the door?”
Here we go.
Beatrice comes out of the living room, her chin jerking back as she sees me, then Amelie.
“Oh—Amelie?” she says, bringing a hand to her chest.
Amelie’s unwavering gaze is set on hers, but she crosses her arms, like she’s bracing herself against her mother. “Mom.”
“I, oh . . . I don’t know what to say. You’re back.”
“Yes, I’m back. You showed up here and hired my husband’s services under a different name, all because you wanted to see me. You waited for me to be back from Mayfield. Well, here I am.” She raises her chin. “What is it that you want?”