Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Georgie
My hot chocolate is hot in name only.
I don’t notice at first, because Logan and I have been talking nonstop, as we have each of the last few days since he showed up the other night.
Somewhere in the last two minutes, he shifted from the back-and-forth discussion we’ve been having to …
snowballing. But I just took a sip of my drink while he took a breath, and now it hits me that I’m drinking room temperature cocoa.
I glance at the mug like it bit me and set it down to give Logan my full attention.
We’ve been talking about “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” one of my favorite poems ever.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Logan’s take is … interesting.
“So are you saying you think he’s an unreliable narrator?” I ask.
“No, I’m saying maybe his promises aren’t the point we think they are. Maybe they’re misdirection, a way to distract us from his obvious trespassing.”
I normally try to respect people’s opinions—Logan’s, especially—but he’s taking this a weird direction. “Huh. I hadn’t thought of that. I guess he is admitting that he’s somewhere he isn’t supposed to be.”
“Exactly! He’s admitting that the darkness calls to him, and while I do think it’s about death, not in the way people typically interpret it. Think about it. What’s he doing in these woods, anyway?”
“You don’t think he’s going for a ride—?”
“Wet work.”
I stop completely. Like, totally still. I really thought I was getting to know Logan, and now he … he …
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand,” I say apologetically. Also warily. “When you say wet work, are you … do you think he’s … an assassin?”
Logan shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes—
“You’re messing with me!” I sink down into the seat, covering my face and laughing into my hands. “You had me so freaked out!”
Logan is laughing. “How did you sit there and listen to me? I would have faked a stomach bug and been out of here so fast.”
“I was about to get up and ask Alma for a refill. Does that count?”
“I don’t believe you.”
I screw up my nose. “You’re right. I would have been too afraid to even move if you actually thought Robert Frost wrote ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ about an assassin who took a wrong turn.”
Logan is laughing wickedly as he leans back in the booth and looks out the window.
I give myself a single moment to notice how handsome he is, and I’m not only talking about his strong jaw, intense blue eyes, or wavy blond hair.
He has such a soulful look that whatever he turns his gaze to seems more important, more interesting.
“What do you think it’s really about?” I ask. “‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep—’”
“‘And miles to go before I sleep,’” Logan finishes. He looks back at me. “I think he’s lived a life of duty and has guilted himself out of even the smallest rest.”
He looks serious. Most people seem to think it’s about death, but the duty versus desire argument is compelling.
“What do you think?” he asks.
I look outside, where the sweet alyssum stirs in the light breeze. “I think it’s like what your dad said—you have to be where you’re supposed to be when you’re supposed to be there. He loves the woods, finds them captivating and beautiful, but this isn’t where he’s supposed to be. Not yet.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “Do you think he’s the one who determined what his obligations are? Did he make these promises, or did he inherit them?”
I look at my cold hot chocolate.
Why does Logan always seem to have a way of asking questions two layers deeper than I want a discussion to get?
“Some promises are worth keeping,” I say softly.
His eyes soften around the corners. “That’s true. But aren’t they worth evaluating, too? I think sometimes we can get in our heads so much, we treat offhand comments like they’re deathbed vows.”
“We?”
“Not you and me,” he says, red creeping up his neck. “The collective we.”
“You speak in the plural a lot,” I say, gripping my cold mug. “It’s sweet.”
“It’s codependent,” he says. “I would blame being a triplet, but I guarantee you Liesel and Lucas aren’t sitting around talking to people in the plural like this.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say. “But you’ve been a we your whole life. That has to be a shock to the system to recalibrate your life as an I.”
“I’m holding on too tight,” he says, looking back outside again. “It’s a thing I do instead of healthy things like accepting reality or moving forward with my life.”
I don’t respond, giving him time to get his thoughts together. I learned at the beginning of the week that Logan likes to process out loud, at least with me. In fact, I hope it’s only with me.
Though I should know better than to hope.
He’s finished talking, and I think through my response before saying anything.
“I think loss is polarizing. Most times, we either hold on too tight to everything because we don’t want to lose anything else, or we become numb to everything so we don’t have to care.”
“Which are you?” he asks.
“I’m what’s behind door number three,” I say, smiling. “I hold on too tight to some things, become numb to others, and radically accept everything else, which is probably code for ‘resign myself,’ but it doesn’t sound as cool.”
Logan sniffs a laugh. “I could use some of that.”
“No,” I say. “Resignation is where dreams go to die. You have to let yourself dream.”
“So do you,” he says, stretching his arm out … and abruptly pulling it back.
My hand burns where he almost touched it.
“I should get going,” I say, all too aware that I snoozed my mental alarm nine minutes ago to talk to Logan for longer.
“I’ll walk you out,” he says, grabbing his duffel bag and book. “And, hey, would you want to come to the game tonight? No pressure, or anything.”
“Me?”
“And Lulabelle,” he adds. “I could leave tickets for you at the ticket office.”
His invitation heats me like my cocoa couldn’t.
I look at him for a moment. Have I mentioned Lulabelle over the last few days? Or does he actually remember her name from when we met during Spring Training?
“It’s her birthday Sunday, so that would be the best present I could give her.” I sound too excited, but I’m not good at faking emotion. I’m usually better at hiding it, though. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “We might lose.”
“That’s fine. I’m a big enough fan to handle it, either way.”
He gives me a crooked grin that makes my heart flip. “Thanks. Okay, see you tonight, Georgie.”
We’re almost to the door when it opens.
And in comes Marlowe.
My stepmother is in red stilettos and a tailored charcoal business suit that’s too crisp and orderly for the emotional chaos Logan has stirred up in me. Her arrival is like pressing a hot iron on a wrinkle without straightening it first.
This isn’t going to come out smooth.
I try to sneak with Logan out the other door, but a chill runs up my back, telling me her eyes have found me.
“Georgiana,” she says across the room.
Logan’s hand was on the door, about to open it and let us both out, but it’s two seconds too late. I turn around. “Hi, Marlowe.”
Logan is behind me with his duffel bag, and I’m standing in between them like a human shield, although it’s not like she’ll flip out because I’m standing in a coffee shop in Mullet Ridge when I’m very much supposed to be running a coffee truck in Sugar Maple.
She’s not an evil stepmother, or anything. Just one I have a way of inconveniencing or disappointing no matter what I do.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking me over, her eyes lingering around my waist, where my apron belongs.
I open my mouth, hoping for some truth to spill out that will hide the bigger truth that I took a break to talk books with the cute guy I have a crush on.
Nothing.
“Is everything okay?” Logan asks in my ear.
“Yes. Have a good practice,” I say, turning my head toward him and willing him to not ask questions and go already.
He does neither.
His eyes narrow. “You’re not coming?”
The sound of Marlowe tapping her heels is like the ticking countdown of a bomb.
“Georgie,” Alma calls from across the room. “One thing before you go.”
I look between Alma—bless that woman!—a foot-tapping Marlowe, and Logan, whose concern only makes him more attractive.
“I’ll see you tonight?” he asks quietly.
I nod, barely able to turn enough to say goodbye. “Yes. See you.”
The door chimes, and there’s a quick blast of AC to keep the heat out. And then I turn to Marlowe.
“Who was that?” she asks.
“A regular,” I say. “He works for the baseball team and helped me get tickets for Lulabelle and me to tonight’s game. An early birthday present, if Nicolette’s okay with it.”
Marlowe’s face softens, and I feel hope rise in me. “Lulabelle will love that,” she says, and her approval is like taking a bite after fasting. I’m suddenly aware of how starving I am.
“But you should have checked with Nicolette first. Maybe she and Mark wanted to take Lulabelle to the game. Did you think of that?”
Disappointment weighs on my shoulders, pushing me down. After ten years, you’d think I’d have grown past the need for her to love me.
I have not.
“I don’t have the tickets yet,” I assure her. “I’ll check with Nicolette first. Thank you for the reminder.”
In the back of my mind, I can hear the espresso machine whirring and whining that I should have turned it on ten minutes ago.
“Yes, well. Good,” Marlowe says. She looks back around the shop, straightening her jacket around her hips. “Now what were you doing here? Why aren’t you in Sugar Maple?”
I don’t know if Alma has the best hearing on the planet or if she’s simply watched Marlowe in action for all these years, but she shows up as Marlowe is tapping her foot, waiting for an answer.
“Here’s the oat milk,” Alma says, giving me two cartons I need emotionally, not logistically.
“Thanks, Alma,” I say.
Alma is six inches shorter than Marlowe, but her presence is much larger. Marlowe is a businesswoman, and she goes through life calculating risks and rewards. Engaging with Alma is all risk for my Type A stepmother.
“What do you need?” Alma asks Marlowe.
“I came to check on inventory,” Marlowe says. “And it’s a good thing I did. Clearly we’re not keeping the truck appropriately stocked.”
“The truck is stocked. Mija, go,” Alma says, waving me away. Marlowe’s nostrils flare, but she doesn’t argue that she should have been the one to dismiss me.
“Okay. See you guys!”
I rush out the door and into the muggy morning before anyone else can stop me.
“Hey—”
Logan’s voice stops me.
I whip around, holding the oat milk guiltily, which is dumb, because it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong holding it.
“Hey! What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I left my book in the booth,” he says, though I know he didn’t. I watched him stuff it in his bag.
“I think it’s in the drink pouch thingy,” I say, pointing at his duffel bag, where his collection of Frost poems is sticking out of the mesh side pocket.
“Oh,” he says, turning around to see it. “My bad.”
I smile, adjusting the oat milk in my arms. “So … tonight?”
“Yeah, I thought it might be easier for me to text you the tickets instead of leaving them for you at the booth. The Outlaws are our biggest rivals, so the game could be packed. Can I, uh, get your number?”
He wants my number?
I grab both cartons in one arm and pull my phone out of my back pocket, the sun blistering through the clouds. We bump our phones together to swap numbers, and our knuckles touch.
I say a silent prayer that our phones don’t upload too fast so we can keep touching—
“Done,” he says, looking up at me, his bright blue eyes making my breath catch. We’re close enough that I can see how long his lashes are, both the top and the bottom ones.
“You have nice eyelashes,” I say. Then I throw my hand over my mouth, except I’m holding two cartons of oat milk and one slips—
And Logan catches it before it can crash to the ground.
“Nice save,” I say.
“It’s the lashes. They give me super reflexes.”
I take the carton from Logan and roll my lips together. “Well, that was awkward. I’m gonna go.” I spin on my heel, but Logan’s laughing.
“It’s not awkward!” he calls after me. “It was nice. I’ve always wanted to be complimented for more than my quick mind and powerful physique.”
I walk with my head ducked down, my face absolutely burning.
“See you tonight, Georgie!”
I turn around the building, grateful he’s going the opposite way so he doesn’t see me sprint to the coffee truck.
I set the cartons down, fumble for my keys, and hop up to the truck to check the espresso machine.
Cold.
Dang it.
I press my hand to the side of the machine. It’ll be twenty-five minutes at least before it’s back up to temperature. I’ll have to dump the first several pulls so I don’t serve under-extracted espresso and risk turning off loyal customers, and that means Marlowe’s going to see it on my reports.
I think about the way Logan’s face lit up when I blurted out about his eyelashes.
Worth it.