Chapter 23 Logan
Logan
Dominic’s place is a converted textile factory in Bucktown—three stories of exposed brick and industrial steel that he bought for a song ten years ago and turned into something that looks like it belongs in an architectural magazine.
The ground floor is all workshop space: concrete floors, massive rolling doors, enough room for the various projects he cycles through when his brain needs something to do besides make money.
“Hand me the ten-millimeter,” he says around the wrench, not looking up. “Should be on the bench behind you.”
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Your footsteps. You walk like someone who’s never been in a fight.” He straightens up, pulling the wrench from his mouth and wiping his hands on a rag that’s already more grease than fabric. “Also, I have cameras. Very high-tech. You’d be impressed.”
He stands, and I get a good look at him—faded jeans, a T-shirt that probably cost three hundred dollars but is just as covered in grease as his rag. Only Dominic could make motorcycle grease look like a fashion statement.
“Hey, lover boy.” He grins, tossing the rag onto his workbench. “How’s domestic bliss treating you?”
I open my mouth to give him a deflecting answer, something light and easy, but nothing comes out. I just stand there, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of everything I came here to say pressing down on my chest.
Dominic’s grin fades. He studies my face for a long moment, and I watch the shift happen—the transition from casual friend to the guy who’s had my back since we met at Harvard.
“Shit,” he says quietly. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Everything.” I run a hand through my hair. “Audrey wants to meet my parents.”
He’s silent for a beat. Then crosses to the bar area and pulls open the vintage refrigerator—the one he keeps stocked with imported beer and the fancy sparkling water he pretends he doesn’t drink—and takes out two bottles. He pops the cap off one and hands it to me.
But before I can bring it to my lips, he plucks it right back out of my hand.
“You know what? You need something stronger than this.” He sets both bottles aside and reaches for a cabinet under the makeshift bar—an old workbench that he converted to fit the aesthetic—producing a bottle of Japanese whiskey. He pours two generous glasses and hands one over. “Sit. Talk.”
I sink onto the battered leather couch he claims is for ‘thinking’ but is mostly for napping between projects.
“So, what brought this about?” Dominic asks when it seems like I’m not going to continue on my own.
I take a deep breath and stare into the whiskey. “We had a fight. Things got tense between us at the lab—I don’t even know how it happened. We were supposed to be working through the FDA security revisions, and then it turned into something else entirely.”
Dominic leans back against the bar, arms crossed, eyes sharp and focused on me. “What happened?”
I shrug, feeling the weight of everything that happened.
“I snapped when she kept shooting down my ideas. I accused her of being dismissive, and she fired back about me not sharing anything about myself.” I let out a hollow laugh.
“She was right, of course. I’ve been keeping her at a distance.
I just… I don’t want to share her with them. ”
Dominic is quiet for a moment—unusually quiet, which means he’s actually thinking. He studies me over the rim of his glass, then says, “You think they’ll break her.”
“That’s an understatement.” I take a drink. The whiskey burns, then settles, warming a space that’s gone cold. “You know what they’re like. You’ve met them.”
Dominic stares into his glass. “They’re like a TED Talk that fucks you up emotionally.”
God. It’s perfect. I want to laugh, but instead I just drain my glass.
He pours another round and sets his own down, dropping on the couch beside me. “You ever think that maybe it’s not her they’ll break? Maybe they’re just... reflective surfaces for your own nightmare scenario?”
I glare at him. “Did you just accuse me of projecting?”
“I did,” he says, all fake solemnity and real affection. “Look. They’re monsters. But they’re also furniture. You’ve lived with them your whole life—Audrey hasn’t. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Come on, man. You know my mother,” I say, and my own laugh comes out dark. “She can smell insecurity at a hundred yards.”
“I think your father is the one to watch,” Dominic shoots back. “The man’s a Bond villain crossed with a motivational speaker. But… I’ve survived several dinners and meetings with them, and I’m still largely intact. You’re honestly telling me you think Audrey couldn’t hold her own?”
“She shouldn’t have to.” I say it too fast, too loud, and the words shock me. Dominic just raises an eyebrow.
“She wants to, or you wouldn’t be here. This is classic Logan, man—you make a risk matrix out of everything, but none of your math ever factors in that people might actually want to show up for you. You’re not protecting her. You’re protecting you.”
The words land like a punch I didn’t see coming. I want to argue—want to explain that it’s different, that he doesn’t understand—but I can’t, because he’s right. He’s fucking right.
He taps the side of his glass. “And you’re definitely not protecting your parents, because they’d love nothing more than to dissect her and mount her on a plaque next to your old debate trophies.”
I groan and press the heels of my hands into my eyes. “How do I do this? Is there a playbook for introducing someone to your worst impulses and your worst genetics?”
Dominic considers. “Actually, yes.” He gets up, pacing a circuit behind the couch, and I know he’s revving up for some kind of performance.
“Step one: you warn her about the dragon’s lair.
Step two: you go in together. Step three—” He snaps his fingers.
“You set something on fire. Not literally. But you find a way to disrupt the script. You refuse to play the role they’ve assigned you. ”
I stare. “That’s your advice?”
He leans over the back of the couch, all bright eyes and smirks.
“Audrey doesn’t want protection. She wants partnership.
She wants the real you, even if the real you is quietly cringing your way through a high-stakes parental inquisition.
You want her to see you, but right now, all you’re showing her is the curated version. ”
The curated version. The one I’ve been perfecting since I was eight—smart enough to be useful, controlled enough to be tolerable, edited enough that no one sees the mess underneath.
When I say nothing, he adds, softer, “But Audrey doesn’t want the curated version. She wants you.”
“This version is me.”
“It’s the version you prefer. But behind it is a whole fucked-up legacy and a lot of pain. Audrey already sees it—she just thinks you don’t trust her with the truth. That’s the part you’re fucking up.”
I don’t try to argue. What’s the point? Dominic knows me better than I know myself, and every word seems lined up on a grid for maximum impact.
He rounds the couch and sits again, this time leaning forward, elbows on his knees.
“They’re going to test her,” he says, all trace of humor gone.
“Your parents. They’re going to test you, too.
You can’t pass the test by hiding her from it.
All you can do is bring her into the room and bluff your way through. ”
I drain my second whiskey. “What if she hates me when she sees how fucked up it is?”
Dominic grins. “Then she wasn’t the right one, and you save yourself some drama. But I don’t think that’s what’ll happen.”
“Why?”
He shrugs as if it’s obvious. “Because you love her like a motherfucker, and people feel that shit, even if it’s in the middle of an emotional abattoir.”
Love. The word sits there, obvious and terrifying. I haven’t said it to her. Haven’t let myself think in those terms. But Dominic just drops it into the conversation like it’s a given, like everyone can see it except me.
Maybe everyone can.
He refills my glass and clinks it against mine. “Audrey’s a grown woman with a titanium backbone. She’ll be fine. If anything, by the end of the night, your parents will probably be scared of her.”
I snort, whiskey burning my sinuses. “That’d be something, wouldn’t it?”
“It sure would.” We clink glasses and lapse into a comfortable silence, broken only by the clink of ice and the distant hum of the city coming through the steel-framed windows.
“I heard you went to see David a while back,” Dominic says carefully. “Before you and Audrey got together.”
I go still. “Who told you that?”
“Bennett.”
“How’d he know?”
“David told Caleb, Caleb told Bennett, Bennett told me.” He shrugs. “You know how it works. We’re like a bunch of gossiping grandmothers, except with better suits.”
“Great. So everyone knows I was a thirty-four-year-old virgin at the time. Fuck. Thanks, David.”
“What? Whoa. No one knew that. Just that you needed advice. The details stayed private.”
My ears burn. Fuck.
Dominic swirls his whiskey, watching the light catch the liquid. “It’s all good. I’m not here to give you shit about it—I never have. But I get why you went to him. David’s been through the wringer—marriage, divorce, kid, the whole catastrophe. He’s got perspective I don’t have.”
“Dom—”
“But I gotta be honest with you.” He looks up, and there’s something unguarded in his expression that I rarely see. “It stung a little. That you didn’t come to me.”
“It wasn’t about you. It was about—” I stop, not sure how to explain without explaining everything.
“About the fact that you’d never even kissed a girl before?”
I stare at him, glass frozen halfway to my mouth.
“You know something?” he says, almost gently. “I always knew. Or at least, I figured.”
“How?”
“Logan, we’ve been best friends since college.
I’ve seen you turn down more women than I can count.
You’ve never once left a bar with anyone, never mentioned a girlfriend, never had anyone stay over.
And you’re not the type to pay for it on the side—you’d find that transactional and weird.
” He shrugs. “And I know you’re not gay.
So… I did the math. The odds pointed to V-card.
Then when you did the hand block thing with Audrey, well, that told me you’ve never kissed a girl, either. ”
I don’t know what to say. All these years of carefully guarding that secret. Convinced that if anyone found out, they’d see me differently—as broken, as defective, as less than. And he just… knew. This whole time.
And he’s still here. Still my best friend. Still looking at me like nothing’s changed.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“Because it wasn’t my business. And because I figured you’d tell me when you were ready—if you ever wanted to.
” He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“But here’s what I need you to understand: I don’t do relationships.
I’m a disaster at them. But I know women, and I know you.
And I will always, always have your back.
No matter what. Even if it means dealing with your parents if they go too far this time. ”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight.
“You’d seriously go to war with my parents?” I ask, laughing to lighten the moment.
“Abso-fucking-lutely.” His expression hardens slightly. “You know I’ve got you covered there. Whatever you need. The hard stuff, the awkward stuff, the stuff you don’t want to handle yourself. That’s what I’m here for. I’ve got you.”
I’d like to say I won’t need backup, that I’m totally prepared to white-knuckle my way through this collision of worlds on my own. But I can’t lie to Dominic—not about this. We’ve logged so many hours in the trenches together, it would feel wrong to put a mask on now.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. It burns a little, how much I mean it, how I wish I’d told him so much sooner.
He lets the silence live for a minute, then grins, mercifully shifting gears. “All right, enough heavy shit. What’s the plan? You gonna bring Audrey to the house for dinner, or are we talking black tie, five-star restaurant?”
“Dinner at the house. Saturday night. I already called my mother.”
“How’d that go?”
“About as well as you’d expect. She asked if Audrey came from ‘good stock.’”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I told her Audrey’s father owns an auto shop and her brothers are mechanics.”
Dominic winces. “And she said?”
“She said, ‘How... industrious.’ In that tone she uses when she’s trying not to say something worse.”
“Your mother is a piece of work.”
“My mother is a snob who married into money and has spent the last forty years pretending she was born with it.” I drain the rest of my whiskey. “And my father is worse, because at least my mother is obvious with her disdain. He just... quietly makes you feel like you’ll never measure up.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. Audrey’s not going to run just because your family is fucked up. Everyone’s family is fucked up in their own way. At least yours comes with good real estate.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s your silver lining? Real estate?”
“I’m a practical man.” He refills our glasses and holds up his own. “To facing the firing squad.”
“To surviving it,” I counter.
We clink glasses and drink.
“Now,” Dominic says, settling back into his chair, “tell me about this relationship of yours. I’ve barely seen you for weeks.
Feels like I’m operating with only one arm now that I’ve lost my wingman to relationship mode.
So, what is it you two do together? Get hotted up whenever you conquer a particularly hard line of code?
Do complex algorithms drive you both so wild you’re banging in the lab in between simulation tests? ”
I can’t hide my smirk. “I’m not telling you any of that.”
“Oh! You do. Come on. Just the broad strokes. Was there a desk involved? Do you keep your lab coats on?”
“I’m leaving.”
“What about those protective glasses? Do you guys wear those? Oh! You do it on those lab benches, right? I’ve heard they can hold a lot of weight. They’d be perfect.”
I’m already heading for the door, but I’m smiling. This is what Dominic does—takes the heavy stuff and makes it lighter, reminds me that I’m not alone in this.
“Saturday night,” he calls after me. “Text me after. I want to know if your mother actually combusts when she meets a woman who doesn’t curtsy.”