Chapter 4
It takes me a solid hour to decompress from the shock of seeing Logan here and the subsequent panic attack. If I’ve got one thing going for me right now, it’s the fact that I’m in one of the best possible places to decompress.
The sun is setting behind my cabin, painting the sky shades of purple and orange. At the front of the cabin, unobstructed by anything, is the sea. Its waves are angry and crashing against the rocky shore, situated below a short cliff that ends a mere twenty metres from my door. Already, the fog is starting to cloud the air.
The sound of waves has always been soothing to me. Although I never lived near the sea, it reminds me of my time in Red Lake, the place I lived for six years where Logan and I met. I can’t count the number of times I let the faraway sound of the quiet shore lull me to sleep.
During plenty of these occasions, Logan had been there, his quiet, sleepy breaths adding to the lullaby of the waves. And now, knowing Logan is nearby, it’s impossible not to get thrown back to those moments in time.
One of my favourites happened over the summer between fifth and sixth grade when we went camping at White Lake, another Ontario lake named after a colour for some godforsaken reason. My parents liked to invite Logan along since his mom usually had to work through the summer. And while it was always fun, there was one day that stood above the rest for its combined perfection: beautiful weather, hot dogs on the fire pit for lunch, hours spent diving for mussels and sitting still in the shallow water waiting for minnows to tickle our toes, freshly caught walleye for dinner, and s’mores on the bonfire to wrap up the day. All of it with Logan by my side.
That day wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, though. Later, when my parents probably thought we were asleep, they started arguing in hushed tones while in their own tents.
“I’m not gonna let you just miss another one of Avery’s Christmas plays,” Mom said. Dad argued that every year was the same spiel and that it wasn’t a big deal.
But we weren’t asleep. We were both reading the first Percy Jackson book with flashlights underneath our sleeping bags so my parents wouldn’t see through the tent’s flimsy material. My heart sank once I understood what Mom meant, that Dad would yet again be gone on a months-long work trip instead of attending the Christmas play at school. And worse still, he didn’t seem to care.
I pretended not to hear the conversation. But Logan heard it just as well as I did, and as much as I tried to hide it, he noticed my slouched shoulders and resigned demeanour, even in the darkness of our tent.
Instead of acting like nothing was wrong, he took my hand, quietly unzipping the tent’s door so my parents wouldn’t hear, and pulled me along to distract me with a midnight swim. The sound of his laughter and the gleam of his smile in the moonlight feels as vivid as if it had happened just yesterday.
The thought of him gnaws at my heart. And it’s not just because of my conflicting feelings about the last conversation I had with him. Shouldn’t he be in San Fransisco? Unless he’s on vacation as well …
No, that doesn’t make sense. Why would he be manning the front desk if he was taking a vacation? No, he is obviously working here for some strange reason. Even when we were kids, it was clear to everyone that Logan was a genius with computers. And even if I’d never admit this out loud—not even to Sophie—I periodically stalked him on Instagram to see if his life seemed to be going okay, once every few years. Maybe more. But who’s counting?
Not me.
I’d been so stoked for him when I’d looked him up after graduating college. It so happened that he’d graduated too—from the University of Toronto, a long way from home for him. And he’d announced his move to San Francisco soon after. Obviously, some awesome tech startup wanted him for his software engineering genius.
Last time I checked, nearly a year ago, he was still in San Francisco, being his nerdy self and creating big things out of just ones and zeroes.
But seeing him here, now, has me worried. Not that there’s anything wrong with working in hospitality; I respect the hell out of service workers. But the Logan I once knew despised spending more time than necessary working with most people. And there’s no way his big brain could be getting the fulfillment it needs at a job like this, where the hardest technical challenge is probably a slight bug in the booking system.
I realize I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve barely exchanged a full sentence with Logan. There’s no way to know what’s actually going on with him. Maybe he got married to a woman whose family owns this place, and he helps out occasionally while working remotely.
The idea of Logan being married sends my stomach reeling. Not that I have any claim to him. Not after the way I ran away.
I try to shake off the feeling but can’t get my brain to shut up. Before I spiral into another panic attack, I decide to find a distraction.
And who better to distract me right now than Sophie?
I make my way outside and sit on the comfy chair placed on my porch. Before I call her without warning, I send her a text, in case Heather is sleeping. I’ve heard her rant about people who call or visit without warning several times now.
Her response comes barely a minute later:
Yeah call me now what’s up?!?
Relief floods through me, and I immediately dial her number. When she picks up, I already feel a bit better—the power of friendship. “You won’t believe who’s working here,” I say, slightly short of breath.
“Don’t tell me it’s fucking Jasper,” she spits out, already angry on my behalf.
“God, no. I can’t even imagine.” That would just be perfect, wouldn’t it? “It’s Logan.”
The other end of the line is silent for a few moments. “Logan, from Red Lake, Ontario? That Logan?”
“Yeah, that Logan.” I can hardly believe it myself.
“What is he doing there? Didn’t you say he lived in San Francisco now? Working as a programmer?” Sophie’s voice turns high-pitched.
“Yeah, he?—”
“Why the hell would he be working at a resort in Nova Scotia? It’s literally on the other end of the continent.”
When I can finally get a word in, I say, “I have no idea. You know pretty much everything I know by now.”
We’re both silent for a moment as I let her process the news. Although I haven’t told Sophie about the social media stalking, she does know he was my best friend once upon a time.
“So … did he get hot?”
Of course that would be her first question. Heat rushes to my cheeks because I have indeed noticed how he’s changed. How his jaw has squared out and he wears a nicely groomed stubble that suits him perfectly. How he has the same downturned eyes that glow with newfound maturity. How he’s definitely a handsome man now, not a cute boy.
But that’s not what I respond to Sophie. “Um, I don’t know,” I stammer.
“That means yes.” I can hear the teasing in her voice. “So, is he single?”
“What? I haven’t … I already told you that you have all the information I have.”
“I hope he’s single.”
“He was my best friend.”
“What has that got to do with anything?”
I sigh. I want to ignore what her words are making me feel. The slight twinge in my belly. The memory of his fingers grazing my face. And that night, years ago?—
“Soph, I can’t be with anyone right now,” I insist. “I can’t even contemplate being with anyone right now. I thought you’d know that better than anyone else.”
“And I think you’ve paid your dues and done enough sulking. It’s not like Jasper was good enough for you, anyway, or like you ever listened to me about that.” I hear Heather squeal behind her, and I feel my heart clench.
“I remember,” I whisper. Not that I ever agreed with her about that. “But I really thought it could have been my turn with him to … to have what you have.” My voice almost breaks at that last part, but I hold it together.
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t because he could have just decided to up and leave like he did for you here. And you’d be left as a single mom.”
At least I’d have a baby. But I don’t dare tell Sophie that. The last thing I want to do is guilt-trip her for having what I don’t. That’s not her fault; it’s mine. Maybe if I’d caught on earlier that Jasper was going to leave—or if I’d been the person he needed—things would be different now. Maybe I should have listened to Sophie all those times when she was warning me about him.
“Anyway, I’m supposed to meet Logan for a drink later, and I’m so fucking nervous.”
“Yeah, I can imagine. Just pretend it’s me or something, only ridiculously more attractive to you.”
I roll my eyes. “Har har.”
The happy baby squeals have devolved into cries now. “I’m sorry, I think I’m gonna have to let you go,” she says in a hurry. “But text me after the drinks. Keep me updated.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. Speak later.”
I hang up, not sure whether my mood is better or worse than before. Before I go back to feeling like shit, I decide to get ready to walk back to the lodge. I’ve still got to get my car parked next to the cabin. Plus, Logan is expecting me for that drink.
Trepidation fills my body down to my fingertips. Even though guilt is still gnawing at me, I’m elated at the idea of catching up with Logan. Sophie may be my best friend, but I’ve never felt the same way around someone as I felt when Logan was in my life.
Seen. Understood. For who I really was. Really am.
I go back inside and step into the small but clean bathroom next to the king-sized bed. I give myself a quick glance in the mirror, in front of which I have to tip-toe to fully see myself. Horror strikes me at once. I’m an utter and complete mess—my long strawberry blonde hair is frizzy and knotted, likely from the beginning of my panic attack when I tend to pull on it. Deep bags underline my tear-swollen eyes, which reflect back a tired—rather than luminous—blue.
And this was Logan’s first impression of me? At least I didn’t wear mascara today. Otherwise, the tears would have smudged everything and made me look 150 percent more chaotic.
My first instinct is to look for a hair elastic in my bathroom bag, but it’s still in my car. Instead, I try to finger-comb the tangled waves and flatten the frizz away. A cool splash of water calms the redness in my face, but it does little to erase the damage.
Oh, well. There’s not much I can do about it except worry he’ll think I’ve completely given up on looking good.
Which, I kinda have. I’ve just been dumped. But, of course, I’m not gonna lead with that. Pathetic.
I give myself a last once-over and head for the door as my heart keeps hammering against my chest like it wants to shoot to the moon. But as I touch the door handle, I pause.
I have no idea why I bother doing this, but I still do. It’s worth a try.
I let go of the door and sit on one of the overstuffed chairs near the breakfast nook, grabbing my phone from my pocket. I open my texts and find the person I’m looking for.
Dad.
With a tiny spark of hope, I type away, sending each message without waiting for a response:
Dad, you’re not gonna believe who I just came across.
It’s Logan. You remember Logan? Of course you do. Just imagine my reaction when I saw him lol
Anyway, I’m feeling a bit nervous. I’m gonna go meet up with him now for a drink and I keep worrying about the last time I talked to him
I remember you were at home when this happened because you took me out fishing without mom to distract me after it happened
Remember how you caught that pike that was so big it wouldn’t fit in the net LOL
I look at the string of text messages and wait.
Maybe today will be the day he sees them.
Maybe today will be the day he actually texts me back.
But, of course, he doesn’t see them. For the hundredth time, I wonder if he even goes on his phone anymore or if he’s purposefully ghosting me.
Like I always do, I switch over to text Andrea instead, Dad’s Colombian girlfriend. Even though things get lost in translation, I’m still grateful to know that my dad is alive, at the very least.
But she won’t tell me much more than the fact that Dad is supposedly fine, which I hardly believe. You can’t be ‘fine’ and stop messaging your daughter out of the blue.
Hi Andrea! Let my dad know I ran into Logan today. He’ll remember who that is.
That’s all I send. But I don’t even know if she’s patching my messages through.
I wait for a moment, then feel my phone vibrate and read what she sent back. A quick Google Translate gives me this response:
Oh that’s wonderful, is that a friend? I’ll let your father know. I hope you’re okay, honey :)
No. I’m very much not okay. Just like every other time I try to contact Dad, my stomach gnaws like it’s been filled with lead.
This has been a long, long day. And it’s not even over yet.
By now, nothing else is keeping me back, so I head out of the cabin. I let the door close and auto-lock, knowing Logan will give me a key soon anyway.
Outside, the mist has crowded the air and the sea ahead, and the sun has almost set. I make my way back to the lodge, which is a short three-minute walk from my cabin. The salty scent of the ocean breeze soothes my nerves. I close my eyes and inhale it with intention. I can feel my heart slowly calming down.
By the time the lodge appears in front of me, Logan is already standing on the patio with a drink in his hand, and my stomach does a somersault.
He waves at me, smiling from ear to ear. I smile and wave back, feeling a bit more confident than before. Unless he’s faking his enthusiasm, he does seem really happy to see me despite everything. Perhaps he’s not holding a grudge. Or, if he is, he’s not letting it surface at the moment.
If that’s the case, that’ll be something future me can deal with.
“Hope you’re feeling better,” he says as I join him at the round table he’s at. Currently, we’re not alone at this patio; we’re surrounded by three other tables of people, to whom I don’t really pay much attention. Because all I can focus on is Logan.
Sophie was right. I can’t help but notice how handsome he’s become. Unlike the last time I saw him in the flesh, he’s now taller than me. Of course, that’s no big feat. Although I’m close to hitting five feet, I don’t quite hit the mark—something my dad always good-naturedly teased me about.
Logan himself doesn’t seem super tall. It’s difficult to tell since he’s sitting down. But I’m guessing he must be five or six inches taller than me. He’s still narrow-framed and lean, but I can see his muscles have filled out considerably. Even though he’s always been an indoor person, it’s obvious he’s been doing at least some physical activity. Unless the muscles in his forearms just naturally pop out like that?
Warmth pools in my belly at this observation. Geez, Avery, calm down. But a magnetic pull, undeniable and strong, captures my attention the moment my eyes meet his. Even though his face is so similar, the new angles and his short beard are doing things to me that I can’t explain.
I realize I’ve been staring for way too long without answering. He’s giving me a quizzical look. “Oh yeah, sorry,” I stammer, fidgeting in the cheap plastic seat. It’s a bit too small for my liking—I’m not lacking in curves. “I’m still a bit out of it. But I’m calm.” I gaze away from him and fiddle with my hands.
“Do you drink?” he asks as he stands. “I’ll go get us something, but I don’t know what I should get you.”
“Hell, yeah, I drink,” I respond with enthusiasm. But then I remember I just had a panic attack. I need to take it easy. “Got something fruity and not too strong?”
He raises one eyebrow. “Why does that not surprise me?” Since we were so young when I moved away, we never drank together. All we got when we were thirteen was a single, tiny cup of wine here and there at family dinners. And that one rum and coke at our graduation party—but I don’t want to think about that right now.
That being said, my tastes in alcohol are similar to my tastes in other things, and sweet, fruity things have always been a weakness of mine.
I’m surprised he still remembers.
“I know just what to get you then,” he says as he turns around. Before I know it, he’s gone back inside, presumably to the bar and kitchen.
I take the moment he’s gone as an opportunity to check in with myself. The last thing I want is to start panicking again just as we’re catching up. But a quick scan of my body reassures me. Although I’m feeling tense from this social encounter, I don’t detect any rising peaks in my emotional state.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
I tell myself to just focus on the moment and have fun. Even though there’s a chance things could be awkward, I try to detach myself from the outcome.
Easier said than done.
Logan comes back with two drinks in hand: one that looks like a hazy beer, and the other like the summery drink of my dreams. It’s got shades of orange and red and what looks like ice blended through it. The glass is reminiscent of tropical drinks. He even took the extra effort to add a little paper umbrella to it.
The glee must show on my face because Logan starts laughing right as he sets the drink in front of me. “I’ll assume I chose wisely, then?”
“You read my mind.” I’m about to take a sip from the bright yellow straw when I stop in my tracks. “Wait, how much alcohol is in this thing?”
Logan sits and puts his own beer down on the table. “Usually the answer would be a lot. But I toned it down for you. There’s just an ounce in there now.”
Feeling pleased with that answer, I take a sip and perk up. It hits every note I look for in a summer drink—sweet, juicy, sour, bubbly, cold … and I even detect a hint of salty?
It’s perfect.
I moan in satisfaction. “What even is this?”
Logan chuckles, obviously satisfied with my reaction. “It’s the resort’s specialty drink. The Cape Dream.”
“What’s in here? You’ve gotta teach me the recipe.”
He smirks at me. “Um, absolutely not. It’s a trade secret.” He grabs his pint of beer and looks straight into my eyes. “We’ll see how I feel at the end of your stay.”
The end of my stay … I don’t even want to think about that right now. Somehow, for an instant, I forgot this wasn’t permanent. I don’t live here. This is only a fa?ade. A distraction from my mess of a life to allow me to get inspired to do my work again.
I’m not sure I like how this makes me feel. But I play along and smile, returning his gaze. “Oh, yeah? What am I gonna have to do to pull it out of you?”
A sudden image flashes through my mind: my hands all over Logan’s chest, rigorously unbuttoning his checkered shirt to uncover the muscle underneath. Blood rushes through my cheeks.
Why did my mind go there?
Logan must notice my discomfort because he raises his glass to change the subject. “To old friends,” he says simply.
I clink my glass with his, careful not to spill a single drop of this godly elixir. “To old friends,” I repeat before taking another huge sip. My eyes roll almost uncontrollably from the explosion of flavour. Logan smiles, satisfied at my reaction.
“So,” he starts after swallowing his swig of beer. He leans comfortably against the table. “What has Avery Breton been up to for the past seventeen years?”
“Well, that’s a loaded question.” I have no idea where to start. “You know … the usual.”
He chuckles. “The usual? And what would that be?”
“Well, for starters,” I begin with a deep breath, “I’m my own boss now. Well, kind of.” I pause, expecting him to jump into the conversation, but he doesn’t. Instead, he’s staring intently at me. Listening. Like, actually listening. Waiting for me to continue.
This throws me off for a moment. I’m used to people speaking over me—even Sophie will interrupt me all the time, although she doesn’t do it out of malice. She just can’t contain herself.
“I write stuff for businesses, like, on a freelance basis,” I explain. Telling people you’re a copywriter typically doesn’t pan out well. They’ll either assume you’re in copyright law, or they’ll have no idea what you’re talking about.
“Oh? What kind of stuff?”
“The words on their websites, social media, emails … that kinda stuff.”
“Oh, so you’re a copywriter.”
I’m stunned. “Yes, exactly!” I say with way too much enthusiasm. And now that he’s started my engine, I find it hard to stop. “But this recent project is a doozie, so I needed a new perspective. Which is why I drove from Montreal all the way here.”
“Ah,” he says, giving an approving nod. “So why here in particular?”
“I always wanted to visit the cape I share a name with,” I explain. I don’t waste any time launching into my follow-up. “But I could ask you the same. I thought you were working in San Francisco.”
Surprise hits his face. Oops. Now he’ll know I’ve been low-key stalking him online. Or, at least, that I used to at some point.
“Well, um,” he stammers. “I was. For a long while, actually.” I can see him squirming in his seat a bit. Did I hit a nerve already? But he shrugs it off and continues. “Still am, actually. I just took the summer off to switch things up a bit.”
“Okay, so why here?”
“That’s easy.” He motions with his arms as if showing me the entire place. “My uncle bought this place two summers ago.”
“Ooh.” So this is a family business?
He leans back into his chair to exaggerate his smug look. “Yup. I mean, he’s never here, and it’s all run by his manager, but still. It got me an in.”
“Cool.” There’s a sudden quiet tension that fills the evening air. Unable to let this silence hang for more than a few seconds, I spit out what’s likely the most chaotic sentence I could utter:
“Actually, I lied—I’m not just here for a new perspective. I’ve got writer’s block because I just got dumped last month and I needed to get away …”
Oh my God, why can’t I shut up?
“And if I don’t do this project, I’ll run out of money and lose my apartment.” As soon as those words leave my mouth, air escapes my lungs. What is wrong with me?
A small bit of shock registers on his face. “Oh,” he says, looking genuinely sorry. Now I’m mad at myself. The last thing I want is for him to pity me.
But he’s not done speaking. “Was the guy an idiot? He must have been an idiot.”
“Why?”
“He lost you,” Logan says simply.
Heat flares down my chest. I look away, suddenly very interested in the material this deck is made of. There’s something hanging in the air, and I don’t know what’s going on, exactly.
But it’s obvious Logan and I are still connected in some way.