Chapter 21 Audrey
Audrey
The buzzer jolts me out of my sugar coma.
With only thirty-eight days left on the FDA clock, I should be panicking about the clinical protocols. Instead, I’m contemplating whether eating a second slice of ice cream cake counts as breakfast this time, or if the first slice was breakfast and this one would just be a snack.
The buzzer sounds again.
“Delivery for Audrey Greene?”
I’m not expecting anything, but I buzz them up anyway, curiosity winning out over caution. When I open the door, a delivery driver is holding a massive bouquet of sunflowers and a pink bakery box that smells like heaven.
“Sign here?”
I scrawl something illegible on his tablet and carry the haul inside, already searching for a card. I find it tucked among the sunflowers—bright yellow paper with familiar handwriting.
Happy Unbirthday, you hermit. We know you’ve been ‘busy’ (we see you, girl) but we miss your face. None of this delivery counts as a birthday gift—we know you hate that. So the flowers are just because. And the cinnamon scrolls are a bribe so you’ll actually call us with a life update.
Love, S & L
I laugh out loud, the sound startling in my quiet apartment.
I’ve been a terrible friend lately—I know I have.
Between the FDA deadline consuming every waking hour and Logan consuming most of the others, I’ve let everything else slide.
Texts go unanswered for days. Plans get rescheduled, then rescheduled again, then quietly forgotten.
But Serena and Layla haven’t forgotten me. They never do.
I open the bakery box and find six of the most gorgeous cinnamon scrolls I’ve ever seen—the fancy kind from that place in Lincoln Park, all gooey and frosted and probably worth more per ounce than gold.
I take a picture, send it to the group chat with a string of heart emojis, and then hit the video call button before Layla decides to send an extraction team.
She answers on the second ring, her face filling my screen. She’s clearly at home still, standing in her massive custom wardrobe with all of her clothes color-coded behind her.
“Merry Unbirthday, Audrey!” Layla singsongs, while Serena connects and says, “The hermit has emerged from her burrow!”
“I’m not a hermit,” I protest, settling onto my couch with the bakery box balanced on my knees. “I’ve just been—”
“Busy banging your boy. Yes. We know.” Serena appears to be walking down the street, drinking her morning coffee, undoubtedly on her way to an early work meeting.
“Speaking of Logan,” Layla puts in. “How are things going between you two? Bennett said there was some server emergency, which is how we knew we could ambush you with flowers and baked goods this early on a Monday morning.”
“Things are...” I trail off, suddenly sheepish. “Really good. I’m going to sound like the worst, but it’s actually kind of disgustingly great.”
“Disgusting is the goal,” Serena says. “If you can gross us out with cuteness, you’re doing it right.” She raises her coffee in salute and almost walks into a traffic sign, then swerves at the last second. “Oh my god. Close call. Some of us have lives at stake during these check-ins, FYI.”
“Tell us ALL,” Layla pleads. “Because we are, frankly, obsessed with the two of you.”
I take a huge bite of cinnamon scroll to delay answering.
The sweet, sticky dough coats my mouth like a hug, and I chew slowly, thinking of how to summarize five weeks of rapid-fire escalation.
The sex is incredible, I want to say, but that’s not even the top five.
It’s the waking-up tangled together, the ease of being with him.
The weird, soft feeling of knowing someone is in your corner—even when you’re too tired to be a whole person yourself. It’s the best. But also…
“He met my family yesterday.” I lick frosting off my thumb as I watch Layla’s jaw drop.
“Oh my god. Did your brothers eat him alive?”
“Not really. They all showed up unannounced. At 9 a.m. While Logan and I were... in the middle of something.”
“Audrey. No.” Serena’s eyes go wide.
“Audrey yes. He ended up wearing my ‘Girls in STEM’ T-shirt while my dad and brothers interrogated him for three hours.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence. Then Layla bursts out laughing—the full-body kind that makes her double over and gasp for air.
“I need more details,” she wheezes. “I need every single detail. Start from the beginning. Did he panic? He panicked, didn’t he? Oh god, I can picture his face—”
“He was actually...” I pause, remembering.
Logan in the too-small pink shirt, his hair a mess, trying so hard to be charming while my brothers sized him up like wolves circling prey.
“He was kind of amazing, actually. Nervous as hell, but he tried. He talked to my dad about cars. He let my brothers give him shit without getting defensive. He just... showed up.”
“Of course he did.” Serena’s expression softens. “That man is so gone for you.”
“He is. It’s adorable.” Layla has recovered enough to sit upright again. “And how did your dad take it? Meeting the boyfriend?”
“He gave Logan the ‘if you hurt her’ speech, but like, the abbreviated version. Which is basically his seal of approval.” I smile, remembering the way my dad clapped Logan on the shoulder before they left.
Good man. Take care of my girl. “I think they liked him. Even Tony, and Tony doesn’t like anyone. ”
“Because he’s likable,” Serena says. “Under all the awkwardness and the computers and the weird, code-poet thing he’s got going for him, he’s actually a sweetheart.”
“A golden retriever in a tech bro’s body,” Layla agrees.
“He’s also the hottest guy you’ve ever dated,” Serena says, pointing her coffee at the screen for emphasis. “And don’t deny it. I was there for Hot Garage Greg, and I was there for Rebound Brian the ‘Just OK.’ Logan is far and away the most bangable.”
“Thank you?” I try to muster an equally enthusiastic response, but something in my stomach clenches. I press a thumb hard into the edge of the bakery box, channeling the tension I don’t want them to see.
Serena squints at me. “You sound like you’re trying to agree, but secretly you’re not agreeing.”
“I’m agreeing, but...” I cut off, like my mouth got ahead of the script. They pounce instantly.
“But?” Layla prompts. “Is there a but? Audrey, it’s us. Say it. Is he, like, weird at sex? Does he have a secret family? Does he pick his nose in bed?”
Serena jumps in, “Or—wait, is he secretly mean behind closed doors? Maybe he doesn’t believe in deodorant?”
“No! It’s nothing like that.” I stuff another bite into my mouth and let the sugar slow me down. “It’s just—”
Their faces draw closer to their respective screens. I picture them in two corners of my apartment, inching forward from across the city, until I can’t look away.
“It’s just,” I say, swallowing. “We’ve been dating for over a month now, and...”
They wait. I have to finish it.
“And I still haven’t seen his place,” I admit, each word softer than the first. “Not even once.”
There’s a three-second beat as this lands. Layla’s perfectly drawn brows hike up, and Serena’s lips part in surprise.
“Wait,” Serena says. “You mean you fuck all over your apartment, but have never fucked in his?”
“I mean, we’ve never even crossed the threshold. I don’t know if he rents or owns, or what his sheets look like, or if he even has sheets.” I rake a hand through my hair, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s always my place. Always. I tried to mention it, but he just… pivots. Every time.”
Layla takes this in, expression folding from shock to analysis.
“That’s… actually really strange,” she says, rolling the words like a test drive.
“And you’re sure he’s not, like, lying about being a billionaire and living in a van?
Or hiding an entire other relationship? Because that’s a classic move for guys with secret wives. ”
“He doesn’t have a secret wife,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I hear how hollow they sound. How would I actually know that? I’ve never seen where he lives. Never met anyone from his family. Never had so much as a pizza delivered to his place.
“You’re sure?” Serena asks. Not unkindly, but pointed.
“I mean, he’s with me almost every night. When would he have time for a secret wife?”
“That’s not the ringing endorsement you think it is,” Layla says gently. “Audrey, you’re a scientist. Think about this like data. What do you actually know about his living situation?”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
“He has an apartment somewhere in the city,” I say slowly. “He’s mentioned a home gym—he converted his second bedroom. And he goes there sometimes, I assume. To get clothes, or handle…stuff. I don’t know.”
“But you’ve never been there.”
“No.”
“And he’s never invited you.”
“No.”
“And you don’t know the address.”
The cinnamon scroll sits heavy in my stomach.
I don’t even know his address.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I say, but my voice sounds thin even to my own ears. “He’s private. You know how he is.”
“Private is one thing.” Serena’s brow furrows. “But you’re his girlfriend. You’ve met his friends, he’s met your family. Keeping his apartment off-limits feels...”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.
“Maybe he’s embarrassed?” Layla offers. “Some guys are weird about that. They think their place isn’t nice enough, or they haven’t decorated, or—”
“He’s a billionaire,” Serena points out. “I don’t think his apartment is a cardboard box under the expressway.”
“Maybe it’s messy. Maybe he has a secret collection of something embarrassing. Anime body pillows. Vintage Beanie Babies. A shrine to Elon Musk.”
“He hates Elon Musk.”
“See? We’re learning things.” Layla spreads her hands. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation. You should just ask him.”
“Or,” I start, because I’m non-confrontational and would rather not confront him if I don’t have to. “You could ask Bennett and Caleb. They’ve been his friends since college. Surely they’d know the answer here. Right?”
Layla’s eyes light up with the kind of cunning that always gets me into trouble. “Excellent idea. I’ll text Bennett.”
Serena cackles. “Group chat or solo?”
“Solo first,” Layla whispers, glancing at the screen with the focus of a bomb squad tech while she types.
I’m suddenly, weirdly nervous. I mean, it’s not like I’ve never trusted my friends, but something about this feels like pulling the pin on a grenade then handing it to Logan. It’s a small explosion, but the shrapnel might hit us both.
“Don’t panic,” Serena says, reading my face. “We’re not going to send a SWAT team. Just gather some intel. If it’s nothing, fine. If it’s something, better we know before you show up and find a ferret farm in the living room.”
“I don’t think it’s a ferret farm,” I say, but then I think about it and realize I have absolutely no evidence to the contrary.
Layla’s phone buzzes. And her brow furrows as she switches apps and reads over the message.
“That was fast. He’s at work, but Bennett sent, ‘Weird question, but it’s up to Logan if/when he tells her about his property holdings.
Let’s just say his primary residence isn’t a typical Chicago apartment, and not something he talks about.
If she’s worried, tell her not to be. He has his reasons. ’”
“What does that mean?” I ask, feeling an uncomfortable tickle at the base of my skull.
Serena tilts her head, analyzing. “I guess it means you’ll have to ask Logan yourself.”
“Yeah.” I pick at the edge of my cinnamon scroll, suddenly not hungry anymore. “Yeah, I should.”
“Hey.” Serena’s voice is gentle now. “Don’t let our wild theories freak you out. This is probably nothing. Logan’s head over heels for you—anyone with eyes can see that. Maybe he just hasn’t thought about it. You know how he gets when he’s focused on the project.”
“She’s right,” Layla adds. “The man rented you a planetarium. An actual planetarium. That’s not the behavior of someone who’s keeping secrets. I’m sorry if our over-dramatic imaginings freaked you out.”
“You didn’t freak me out. I just… I wish he wanted to share his world with me.”
“I’m sure he does, honey,” Serena says. “As soon as he’s ready.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
I know they’re right. I know Logan—know the way he looks at me, the way he touches me, the way he whispers my name like it’s something precious. I know he loves me, even if he hasn’t said those exact words yet.
But there’s a small, cold part of me that remembers what it felt like to be kept at arm’s length. To be good enough to sleep with, but not good enough to bring home. To realize, too late, that I was a convenience rather than a priority.
I thought I’d buried that part of me in Sweden, lost it entirely when Logan and I got together. But apparently, she was just waiting for the right moment to dig herself back out.
“You’re catastrophizing, aren’t you?” Serena observes. “I can see it on your face.”
“I’m not catastrophizing.”
“Your eyebrows are scrunched together and you look like a worried chipmunk. It’s very cute, but it means you’re overthinking.”
I force my face to relax. “I’m not overthinking. I’m just... thinking. A normal amount.”
“Sure you are.” Layla doesn’t sound convinced.
“Look, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to eat another cinnamon scroll because those things are expensive and I didn’t send them to be wasted.
Then you’re going to go to work, be brilliant, save some lives with your fancy brain implant.
And tonight, when Logan inevitably shows up at your door with takeout and heart eyes, you’re going to casually mention that you’d love to see his place sometime. Easy. Simple. No big deal.”
“And if he deflects?”
“Then you push a little. Gently. You’re allowed to want to see where your boyfriend lives, Audrey. That’s not an unreasonable ask.”
I nod slowly. She’s right. Of course she’s right. This is probably nothing—a simple oversight, a product of circumstance and chaos. Logan’s been so focused on the FDA deadline, so worried about getting everything right, that he probably hasn’t even thought about where we spend our nights together.
I’m making something out of nothing.
“OK,” I say. “You’re right. I’ll ask him.”
“Good.” Serena smiles. “Now, tell us more about the interrogation. I want to know exactly what Tony said when Logan walked out of your bedroom wearing your pink T-shirt.”
I laugh and let them pull me back into the story. The teasing is familiar, comfortable—exactly what I needed to shake off the strange unease that had started to settle in my chest.
But later, after we’ve hung up and I’m gathering my things for work, I catch myself staring at the sunflowers on my counter.
Why doesn’t he want me to see where he lives?