Chapter 3 Logan
LOGAN
You’re someone who likes to press his luck, aren’t you?” Hazel asks as she pulls a packet of cherry gummies from a shelf below the checkout counter. Her question sounds more like a frustrated comment.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing a box of cotton swabs.
The bodega’s heat has finally started to permeate my cold, damp shirt and pants.
Going home to change would’ve been the sensible thing to do, probably, but after everything that happened earlier, I’m not ready to say goodbye to Hazel quite yet.
“I can just tell,” she says. “For one, you wear that shirt out in public. And you probably carry too many plates and bowls from the kitchen to the living room.”
“Sometimes I even carry too many plates and bowls while wearing this shirt.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“Swing and a miss,” I mumble.
Hazel’s eyes flick up at me. “No, that was funny. But also, you were walking a cat on a leash. Feels a little luck press-y.”
She resumes browsing, passing the island of ready-to-go food. She turns halfway back to me. The depth of her dark-brown eyes draws me in. There’s an entire forest in them with a warmth that feels reserved for special occasions. Maybe even for special people.
I peer over the food island at her as she skims the items, seemingly distracted.
Her face is illuminated from below, the light accentuating her cheekbones and full bottom lip, the dip of her Cupid’s bow.
When she glances up at me again with something playful in her eyes, it nearly takes my breath away.
She’s gorgeous.
“In my defense, I’m pretty sure the smell of chicken lured him in,” I say. “Like his namesake, he can’t fully control himself.”
“Caramelized sugar can’t control itself?”
I laugh at this. “Mr. Mistoffelees is his full name,” I clarify. “His owner, Mrs. Walker, was in the original production of Cats, and because Toffee’s a tuxedo cat, she couldn’t help herself.” Hazel looks confused so I add, “Mr. Mistoffelees couldn’t fully control his magic?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know what any of that means,” she says, walking away from me and scanning the fridge filled with beers and sodas.
I move over to the register and offload everything in my arms except Toffee.
I take in the “No Smoking” and “Smile, You’re on Camera” signs next to the bodega’s social media handle advertising a chance to win a free king-size candy bar for each follow.
I browse the shelving containing impulse buys. Anything to distract me from her.
“Add your cherries to the pile,” I tell Hazel when she meets me at the front. Her eyebrows shoot up skeptically when she sees the pile of items on the counter. “This is all part of fixing you up. When hydrogen peroxide touches that”—I nod at her arm—“you’re going to want something to bite down on.”
Hazel doesn’t fight this and sets the candy on the counter. As she does, she glances over the clerk’s head at the wall of medicine and pain relievers. I follow her line of sight to a sign for Advil, but there aren’t any boxes left.
“Anything I can grab you?” the clerk asks her.
Hazel shakes her head. “Oh, uh, I’m good.”
The young clerk nods to me. “Ready?” he asks as he begins scanning everything.
“One box of antiseptic ointment, please. And actually… any chance you have more Advil back there?”
“I just sold my last one,” the clerk says.
“Nothing in those boxes?” I push. “Would you mind taking a quick look? I’d really appreciate it.”
“Uh… yeah, sure. One sec,” the clerk finally agrees. He opens the flaps on a few boxes behind the counter.
“They probably don’t have any more,” Hazel says.
“Let’s just see,” I say.
“Ah-ha! You’re in luck. Didn’t realize this was back here,” the clerk says, placing the box next to the other items. He nods at my wrist. “Cool bracelet.”
Peeking out from under my long sleeve is my red, woven bracelet.
“Oh yeah, thanks. It’s by a string artist from the city.
She had an installation in Times Square.
Once it was over, they reused the material for these.
” I glance at his Indiana Jones T-shirt with a vintage-looking airplane flying through the clouds on it. “Nice shirt.”
“Harrison Ford’s the greatest,” he says.
“Did you know he was a carpenter before hitting it big?” I ask, setting Toffee on the ground to grab my wallet. I tap my credit card on the card reader.
“Oh yeah? He came in here once. Great guy,” the clerk says as he moves the last item into a paper bag, clearing off the counter. The bright blue of the New York Lottery mat draws my focus.
“What’s the Powerball at?” I ask.
“Thirty million,” the clerk says.
I grab a play slip from a holder on the wall, along with a pen.
The clerk hands me the bag. “Quick Pick?”
“I’ll pick my own.” To Hazel, I say, “I’ll split whatever I win with you.”
Hazel’s head snaps up in my direction. “Do you do this a lot?” she asks.
“Pay for goods? Most of the time, yeah,” I joke.
“No. Play games you know you’ll lose,” she says, crossing her arms. “Join random peoples’ fortune readings. Offer half your lottery winnings to someone you don’t know. Which you don’t need to do. Obviously.”
Hazel follows me and Toffee outside to an empty bench. Next to us, the bodega’s flower stand is lit up, showcasing colorful roses, baby’s breath, and mums wrapped in cellophane.
“Do you like any of those?” I ask.
Hazel glances over her shoulder. “They don’t last long enough to enjoy them.” She looks back at me. “Please don’t get me any. You already got me enough.”
“You sure? Those lilies look nice.”
“They do, but I don’t have water to put them in,” she says. “Pipe broke.”
“That’s rough, sorry.” I lift Toffee onto the bench and sit next to him. I pat the space beside me, but Hazel doesn’t join us.
Instead, she asks, “Hey, what did the fortune teller say to you?”
“She said a lot of things. If I remember correctly, you were there, too.”
“Nothing gets you disassociating faster than three bad fortunes,” she says. I can tell that she’s trying to make this sound lighthearted.
I pat the bench again. “You can trust me to help you with this,” I try to reassure her.
She frowns, staying where she is. “You don’t need to do that. I can take it from here.”
“In my line of work, there are a lot of cuts. I’m pretty good at cleaning them up.”
“Where is it you work that you get a lot of cuts?” she asks.
“I’m a carpenter. Well, now I work in a theater.”
“Like on Broadway?”
“As of a few months ago, yes,” I say as she makes a huh sound. “Now sit. Please. No one should have to bandage themselves up.”
Toffee hisses at a dog walking by, prompting Hazel to sit between us and drape her unscathed arm over him protectively. The other arm she holds out toward me.
I rip open the bag of cherry gummies and hand it to her. “We can talk about whatever will take your mind off this,” I say, setting her arm on my knee. Her hand is freezing, which makes me wonder if she’s nervous.
I hold underneath her arm to keep it steady as I analyze her scratch in the light of the bodega’s storefront window.
It’s worse than I thought. There are two six-inch-long parallel scratches.
Just below her inner elbow is a miniature tattoo of the outline of Mickey Mouse’s head.
It surprises me, this particular permanent choice she’s made.
“I want to talk about your fortunes,” she says again, keeping her eyes on me. I feel her arm flex in my hand. “She must’ve said something really good for you to buy a lottery ticket.”
I open the canister of hydrogen peroxide wipes. “She did say good things.” My smile drops after I hear myself. “Oh. Shit. Did I take your good fortune?”
Hazel looks back at me, her eyes widening. “I don’t know, did you?”
“I don’t know! Do you want mine? Seriously, you can have them.”
“Pretty sure that’s not how it works. And besides, I don’t want your pity fortune.” She gasps. “Wait, is this why you’re offering to split your winnings? To assuage your guilt of fortune-stealing?”
“Gummy,” I prompt, and with her free hand, Hazel quickly reaches into the bag and stuffs a handful of cherries into her mouth.
I make quick work of dabbing across the scratches with the wipes. She doesn’t react.
“Wow, I’m better at this than I thought. Did that not hurt?”
“It was es-croosh-ting.” She swallows the candy down. Her watery eyes find mine as she licks her upper lip. That lick does something to me. “Excruciating.”
I track her eyes sliding down my face to my lips. It’s quick, but I’m quicker. She catches me catch her. Hazel turns her head away as her cheeks pinken. She’s so fucking cute when she blushes.
Hazel closes her eyes and rubs her temple with her free hand. “Can you please just tell me what your cards were? Do it quickly, while everything already hurts. Get it over with at once.”
I open the boxes of Neosporin and cotton swabs.
“First of all, no, I’m not trying to ease my conscience,” I say, responding to her earlier question.
“I don’t like having debts. This is me paying you back.
Wendy said abundance is coming my way in my job or finances.
That was from the present card, so it could happen any day now. ”
“I can relate to the debt thing, but the reading cost ten dollars,” Hazel says, peering into the bag. “This more than covers it.”
I squeeze ointment onto the cotton swab and run it over the long red lines.
“What about the future?” she asks. “What did your third card look like?”
I dump the box of Band-Aids into my lap, dozens of miniature Hello Kitty faces smiling up at us.
I peel off the backing to the bandages. “Wendy said I have everything I need to make my dreams a reality and that next month is a good time to execute on any ideas or goals I’ve wanted to achieve.
” I shrug, pressing down gently on the sticky strips.
I use up the entire box. “You’re good to go. ”