Chapter 7
Ipull the rod back with a violent twist and feel resistance. Gotcha. But as soon as I start reeling the line back in, it goes slack again.
Ugh. This day hadn’t gone much better than yesterday, and even my fishing stinks. It seemed like I’d just woken up and started writing just five minutes ago, but when I noticed I’d been up for hours, I knew I had to take a break. That’s when I headed to a rocky corner of the coast to fish. I’d seen other people fishing here from the cliff by my cabin, and it turns out there’s a small shack that rents out gear.
Thing is, I’ve never fished in the sea. This is nothing like lake fishing. No luck so far.
To make matters worse, I was forced to share my shitty writing progress with Leslie this morning. The first draft of the home page was due, and I didn’t have a choice. The Zoom call I had with her to hear her thoughts felt like pulling teeth.
“It’s missing the … emotional punch,” she told me. “The magic. We want people to go through an entire transformation as they’re reading the website—do you get me?”
I got her. I just don’t know how to make it happen.
I sigh and finish reeling the line in. This is probably it for today. While I’m enjoying having my bare feet on the rocks and the water lapping at my toes, I could do without the fishing part. After all, I always preferred the ‘being on a boat’ part of fishing more than the actual fishing itself.
That, and spending time with Dad.
Our quiet memories on the lake with a fishing rod in our hands are some of my favourite memories with Dad. We both felt uncomfortable with small talk, so neither of us felt forced to say something just to fill the silence. We could spend hours at a time just listening to the quiet lap of the water against the boat in those early hours of the morning.
When one of us did speak, it was to say something real. Like when he’d asked me how I was doing in school, not as a formality, but because he actually wanted to know, deep down, how I was getting along. And whenever I let him know it wasn’t going as well as I wanted, he always had words of encouragement for me. It’s like he always knew what to say.
Those fishing trips became less and less frequent when we moved back from Red Lake to Montreal. Not only were Dad’s work trips longer, but we also had to go out of our way to find a good spot away from the city. Still, it didn’t stop me from asking. And when I asked, we’d go.
But as time went on, Dad spent more and more time in the evenings locked up in my parents’ room. Sometimes, I’d see him for dinner, and that was it. And I could see what it did to Mom, too. She didn’t let it show, but I could tell she was lonely. Even though I couldn’t bring myself to care for them, I’d spend time curled up on the couch next to her as she caught up with her franco TV dramas and folded laundry. Mom didn’t fare well alone.
I head back to the cabin and begrudgingly get back into writing again. Before I know it, a knock on the door jolts me from my work. I glance at the clock—6 p.m. My mood immediately shifts from sour to elated.
This has to be Logan.
I immediately jump to my feet, then cringe as I gaze down at myself, which is ridiculous if I think about it. Logan and I basically grew up together. He saw me in way worse than these sweatshorts and ripped T-shirt. So why is this suddenly making me self-conscious?
I take a deep breath and head to the door, swinging it open with a grin.
“Hey,” Logan says casually as he steps inside, his eyes scanning my outfit. “New fashion statement?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me. “Shut up. This is every copywriter’s work uniform.”
Logan chuckles as he drops himself into one of the two cushy chairs at the table. “Right. Makes sense. So how’s the writing going?”
I groan as I imitate him and fall back into my own chair—the same one I’ve practically spent all day in, except for that quick fishing stint. “I’m about ready to throw my computer out the window.”
Logan winces. “That bad, huh?”
I nod, throwing my head back with a sigh. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Every time I start to write, it just feels like … I don’t know, like I’m completely empty of anything.”
Logan’s eyes soften and he grabs my hand, squeezing it lightly. The warmth of his skin sends a soft tingle through my body. My heart skips a beat and I’m filled with a newfound rush, like I’ve swallowed a whole colony of bees. It’s comforting yet unsettling at the same time—a strange combination that has me wanting more, even if I don’t know why.
“That’s exactly why you need these outings with me,” he says softly. “You need to get out of your head and get away from the computer for a while. You can’t spend all your time in front of it; you need to take a break every now and then.”
I freeze, mesmerized by his warm gaze. His words feel like a revelation. He’s right—I’m not doing myself any favours if I stay cooped up in this room all day, every day. Even if I take a break or two, I need to widen my horizons a bit more to get this inspiration flowing. That’s why I agreed to his idea in the first place.
Well, that and the fact that I absolutely want to spend more time with him while I’m here.
Logan must sense the shift in my mood because he squeezes my hand again before releasing it and giving me a small smile. My breath hitches.
“So, are you ready for our first outing?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at me expectantly.
My heart flutters as I nod, feeling my face crack into a wide grin. Then I remember what I look like, and I gaze back down at myself. “Umm … I’m gonna need a minute.”
“Sure.” He laughs, then gets up from the chair. “I’ll wait outside.” As he’s just about to shut the door, he peeks his head back inside to tell me: “By the way, you look great. I was just kidding earlier, you know that, right?” And before I can respond, he shuts the door, leaving me alone in my cabin.
My cheeks flush, and a warmth spreads through my chest. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. Then, with a newfound energy, I hurry up to get ready, throwing on whatever I can find and trying my best with my messy hair.
I slip on an old pair of sneakers and some jeans that are slightly too long, but comfortable enough that they don’t drag on the ground. I’ve pretty much just brought ratty T-shirts and tank tops with me, but I manage to find a button-up short-sleeved shirt that isn’t completely off-putting. Finally, I brush some mascara over my eyes—just enough to make them stand out—and tie my hair up into a messy-but-cute bun before grabbing my purse and heading outside.
I open the door to see Logan staring out at the ocean. He turns at the sound, his face brightening when he sees me.
He doesn’t say anything, but he certainly looks stunned. It’s only when I look at him funny that he straightens his face. I attempt to do the same.
“We can head to the lodge—my car’s parked there,” he tells me as he starts walking. I follow, giving one quick glance back at the ocean. I can’t help but wonder what he was thinking about before I came out of the cabin.
The two of us used to be perfectly acquainted with watching the other live in their little bubble like this. We used to spend hours side by side, quietly relaxing in his room or under a tree somewhere; I’d be writing in my notebook while he played on his Gameboy or learned how to code on his laptop. And he knew for a fact that when I had my focused face on, I was not to be disturbed. He never did. Me? Most of the time, I left him alone. But sometimes, I’d tease him and tell him to work on his code instead of playing on his Gameboy.
Soon, we make it to the lodge, and Logan gestures to a black sedan. He makes his way to the driver’s seat.
“So, where are we headed?” I ask as I climb into the car with him. The inside smells nice, which is a change from the constant sweaty smell I had to endure in Jasper’s car. Until now, I’d believed all guys had messy cars by default. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe not all guys leave their gym equipment in their car overnight because they can’t be bothered to carry it back and forth from the apartment.
It doesn’t just smell nice, though. The scent is identical to what I picked up when I had my face against him the other day after my panic attack. I try to think of literally anything else because it’s tantalizing.
Logan turns the key in the ignition, then flashes me a mischievous grin.
“We’re heading to my favourite eatery,” he explains as he pulls away from the curb. “It’s usually missed by tourists, but all the locals hang there.”
“Oh, so you’re a local already, huh? You mean you actually socialize?”
He goes red and chuckles. “I guess so. I’m not sure why. I just feel at ease there.”
We drive for a while before I see what looks like an old house with a sign that reads, ‘The Coastal Kitchen.’ Logan parks on the street and we make our way inside as my stomach is doing flips.
Is this a date?Nah, it’s probably not a date.
So why do I feel like I’m on one?
The overwhelming scent of grilled seafood and delicious baked goods fills the air as we walk in. It’s clear right from my first impression that this restaurant isn’t fancy at all but cozy and warm instead.
The warm lighting of the restaurant casts shadows on the brick walls, while sunbeams peek through the windows, illuminating a few tables here and there. A small bar lined with stools sits in the corner next to a worn piano. There’s the gentle crackling of a fire in the corner, which immediately makes me nostalgic for the evenings spent by the bonfire over the summer with Logan. Soft conversations and laughter rising from the tables make the air feel almost alive.
I love it.
Logan leads me to a booth in the corner and we sit down. A short but stout waitress in her fifties comes over and hands us two menus. Instinctively, I put on my social mask and try to sit up straighter.
The waitress winks at Logan. “Don’t tell me you are finally bringing a date here!” she exclaims, looking straight at me. My face flushes.
Logan goes beet-red. We probably match. “Oh, no, no, this is Avery, an old friend of mine,” he replies quickly. Quickly enough that he almost makes it sound like this being a date would be the worst thing on the planet.
I deflate a bit at his tone. Not that I was absolutely expecting this to be a date, but it does make me feel weird to hear him respond so quickly.
Ugh. I need to get it together. I’m not even supposed to be dating, anyway. Seeing as I can’t write properly, I’m clearly not over my breakup. The last thing I should do is rope someone as sweet as Logan into my mess.
“Well, a friend of Logan’s is a friend of ours here,” the waitress responds with another wink. With her dimples and wide smile, she reminds me of the typical, kind aunt that would squeeze your cheeks if you let her get close enough.
I smile awkwardly and try to ignore my heart hammering against my ribcage. “Hehe, hi.”
Dread crawls through my arms all the way to my fingers. What was that?
“I’ll let ya take a look, then, honey,” she responds, ignoring my weird reply. Before I know it, she’s gone from our table, and I shake off this anxious energy.
Logan explains: “I always order the same thing. And if you’re still a fan of shrimp like you used to be, I highly advise you to do the same.”
“Oh, yeah? What is it?”
He nods, his eyes lighting up as he talks about the food. “The shrimp pesto pasta. Seriously, it’s ridiculous how good it is. You won’t regret it.”
I nod, feeling relieved that I don’t have to spend too much time thinking about what to order. I’m already nervous enough as it is, which feels kind of ridiculous. It’s true that I haven’t been out in a while—not since the breakup—but this feels like next-level caveman behaviour. “Okay, then, shrimp pesto pasta it is.” I set down my menu, not even bothering to look through the rest.
It’s quiet between us for a moment before Logan speaks up again. “So, I’ve been wondering about something,” he says hesitantly. “I can’t say I’m completely surprised to know you’re a copywriter. But I have to ask—why copy and not stories?”
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. My heart races in my chest as I try to figure out how to answer him without sounding like a complete failure.
“Oh, you know,” I start, then let my sentence trail off.
He looks at me, puzzled. “Uh, not really, no. You were always the writer. I was the logical one. So I have no idea about anything.”
How do I tell him the truth without sounding completely materialistic? It’s not like I didn’t try. I don’t even remember how many manuscripts I came up with and sent over to publishers, only to hear crickets back. And even when I tried to handle publishing myself, nothing came of it.
There’s a chance I could have persevered if I wanted to. But hopes don’t pay the bills. Copywriting does.
I shrug and look down at the menu, fiddling with it to occupy my hands. “Well, I figured I might as well get paid for writing if no one wants to read my fiction, you know?”
Logan nods slowly, but I can tell he isn’t completely convinced by my answer. “I get it. It’s too bad, though. I remember the stories you used to tell me when we were kids. They always made me laugh, but in a good way, you know.” His eyes go bright. “But mostly, I remember how you looked when you were writing. Your face would completely change. It was like you were gone in another world entirely. That’s one of the things that I loved the most about you.”
My breath catches in my throat. It’s difficult to imagine we spent so long apart when we had been so close. Because we were that close. We did love each other, as friends do. As families do.
At least, that’s what I try to tell myself. But the memory of his body against mine in the dark says otherwise. The sound of his heartbeat against my ear, the feel of his chest, the warmth of?—
Cut it out, Avery.
“Since I still write, I guess I’ve made it more than most,” I continue. “I mean, I could be stuck in some dead-end job typing up reports or whatever. But I actually get to use my creativity and write stuff. So it’s not all bad.”
“You’re the one who knows yourself best.” Logan shrugs. “All I know is, you seem to be struggling a ton with this project. Not that it’s not okay or anything. Obviously, you can’t be on your A-game all the time.”
“Yeah, I?—”
“So, what will it be, honey?” I almost have a heart attack when the waitress creeps back up on us. I was so caught up in our conversation that I didn’t notice her at all.
“We’ll both have the shrimp pesto pasta,” Logan tells her.
“You got it, then. Anything to drink?”
Shoot. I hadn’t even thought about looking at the drinks. Logan looks at me, seeming like he’s detecting my nerves.
“Uh,” I stammer before I frantically grab the menu. “Um, uh … this.” I point at something called Wicked Minx Sour. “Yeah, this.”
“You sure? You don’t need more time?”
“Yeah, yeah, I want this.”
She gives me a side-eye, which seems to be more out of concern than judgement. “Alrighty, then. And for you, the usual?”
Logan nods. “Yup, thanks, Judith.” When she’s gone, Logan turns his attention to me again. “Hey, you okay?”
Seventeen years apart and he still knows how to read me so easily. I wring my hands together under the table. “Sure. I’m just …” I pause. “A little nervous, I guess.”
I’m never this upfront about my social anxiety. I always expect people to question me or ask me why or look at me weird. In the few times I’ve mentioned being nervous in a situation where most people aren’t, I’ve gotten judgy looks. So now, I just bite my tongue.
But Logan doesn’t give me a weird look. Instead, he shoots me a sympathetic smile. And he waits patiently for me to continue if I need to.
It warms my heart. But it also feels a bit disorienting. I’m used to people speaking over me, or at least starting to talk as soon as I take a moment to breathe. So it takes me a moment to get my bearings and keep speaking.
“Social stuff is kind of hard for me.” I keep wringing my hands and avert my eyes from his attentive gaze. “You know about the panic attacks. But talking to people I don’t know … it doesn’t necessarily give me a panic attack every time. It’s more like … it’s…”
I clench my jaw in frustration. If I were writing this, it would be easy, but it’s so difficult to find the right words when I’m speaking out loud. “It’s like every time I need to talk to someone who doesn’t deeply, truly know me—and there aren’t a lot of these people—it’s like someone has thrown a weighted blanket over me, but not a good kind, like a way too heavy kind, and everything is harder because I have to put on this mask. And at the same time, it’s like my mind becomes all foggy and I can’t think straight, so whatever I say comes out as gibberish.”
I stop to take a breath, then finally look into Logan’s eyes. “And … I deal with it. I go to therapy. All the stuff you’re supposed to do. But for some reason this entire year, it feels like it’s gotten worse, and now this anxiety is creeping into my creative work, and then I got dumped on top of everything else, plus my dad—” I stop mid-sentence.
Logan cocks his head sideways. “What about your dad?”
Dread crawls through my chest like vines. This is one part of my life I’m not ready to share with anyone yet. Not even my former best friend. “Oh, he’s just, I don’t know … but anyway, like I said, I manage. It’s not as bad as it seems.” Except it is.
Before Logan can reply, Judith is back with our drinks. I nearly snatch it from her before she can place it on the table. I take a big sip from the pink straw. It’s good.
Logan takes a sip of his own beer, then places his forearms on the table to lean against it. “You should have told me before. We could have gone to an activity with fewer people.”
“No, I actually like going out where there’s people,” I stammer. “And that’s why I deal with it. Because I need that social interaction. I like going out and feeling the hum of people. It’s just … I need to recover after, if that makes sense.”
If it was so simple as avoiding social interactions, I’d just become a hermit and move as far away from the city as possible. But I’d get lonely too quickly. “Plus, this place is pretty cool. It’s exactly the kind of spot I’d choose if I were on my own.”
Logan’s shoulders seem to relax. He looks relieved. “Okay. That’s good to know. But you can tell me if it’s becoming too much and then we can leave. I’m okay with that.”
“Okay.”
“And you know you don’t have to act like anyone but yourself around me,” he reminds me with a crooked smile.
I look down shyly. “I know.”
Before either of us can say anything else, an old man walking by our booth stops with a big smile.
“Logan!” the man exclaims right before giving Logan a big tap on the shoulder. “I didn’t even know you were here! How come we haven’t heard you at the piano yet?”
Logan’s cheeks go red. “Oh, well, I’m with someone, so I didn’t think to?—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, suddenly feeling giddy. “You play piano?” This is new. Back when we were kids, doing anything creative for him felt like pulling teeth. And he sang like a strangled cat.
Although, playing an instrument can also be a technical feat, so I shouldn’t be surprised at what he’s capable of.
The old man beams and slaps his hands down on the table, making me jump. “Oh, does he ever! He always plays for us folks here. Dontcha, Logan?”
A lady two tables across from our booth joins the conversation:
“Yes, go play! I’ve been waiting for you to go! Don’t disappoint us!”
“How are you shy all of a sudden?” the old man asks Logan, whose face looks like it’s going to spontaneously combust. “Is it because of this beautiful little lady here?” Now it’s my turn to blush. “Are we interrupting a date?”
“Huh? No, no,” Logan reassures the old man before standing from the booth. He shoots me an uncertain smile. “Yeah, I play. Do you mind if I go do a song or two to appease these guys?”
Trying to ignore my self-consciousness from the old man’s comments, I nod with enthusiasm. “Absolutely not, I don’t mind. I can’t wait to hear you play. Go, go.” I shoo him off with my hands and give him a toothy grin.
Satisfied he got my permission, Logan makes his way to the piano by the bar. It’s an old, rustic thing that’s probably been here as long as this building, but it’s part of what makes this place so cozy. I don’t take my eyes off him for a second while he sits at the bench, stretches his fingers a bit, and finally begins to play.
When I recognize the opening notes of All of Me by John Legend, my entire body freezes with shock. My favourite song. This can’t be a coincidence, can it? I try to remember if I mentioned this was my favourite song during any of our conversations over the past few days … but I can’t recall mentioning it at all.
The notes are crystal clear, perfectly executed, and the restaurant has gone still. I’m not the only one enthralled by the music, but I think I’m the only one who cannot—even for a single microsecond—look away from Logan as his fingers dance on the keyboard with grace.
There’s something unfurling in my chest, like a small flower blooming and spreading its petals against my sternum. Suddenly, there’s nothing but Logan and the music, and the restaurant fades away. My vision tunnels straight into him.
His playing is beautiful. He is beautiful.
A wave of emotion washes through me, and I have to bite my lip to keep my eyes from watering. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself and take the attention away from him. But it’s so hard not to let this wave completely overtake me. I don’t think I’ve ever felt something quite as powerful as this.
Even though I don’t want to look away, I close my eyes just for a moment. And that’s when I realize it’s gone.
The weight. The dread. Everything that’s been pulling me down for the last several months. In that magical moment, it’s all gone. All I feel is warmth, and bliss, and?—
Something else that’s deeply familiar yet brand new. In that moment, listening to the notes engulfing me, I’m thirteen again, buried in Logan’s arms, never wanting to let go.
Too soon, the song ends and brings me back to the present moment as everyone in the restaurant claps. I shake myself off and join them enthusiastically, still not looking away from Logan.
That’s when he turns around and looks straight at me. He’s absolutely beaming. My insides go fuzzy.
What is happening to me?