Chapter 9 Hazel
HAZEL
The money is deposited on a Wednesday afternoon.
It’s staggering, the amount. One second it wasn’t there, the next it was.
I was certain we’d get a call after the press event about how there was some sort of mistake. A mix-up in the numbers or the winners. A processing error. No metaphorical but came.
Logan texts when he sees his own deposit, his message appearing above Jerry’s latest update: Healing process doing its thing.
Ever since Sunday, Logan and I have been texting.
I updated him on how smooth my first day at Sweet Escape was, how I’ve already memorized the names of more than 75 percent of the inventory, and progress on the job hunt.
Yesterday, I had a call with the recruiter who emailed.
The salary for the senior data analyst role was more than I anticipated.
If I go for the manager role, it’s even more than that.
Milly is moving me forward for both. Logan gave me play-by-plays from the theater.
The set piece mix-up was worse than he thought and two of his stagehands quit.
Now Logan’s insisting on celebrating our win. I only agree if we don’t call it a celebration.
Later that night, I meet him on the corner of Varick Street and North Moore Street in Lower Manhattan.
Logan’s waiting for me, dressed in medium-wash denim—well-worn, as always—sneakers, and a blue sweater with a white shirt peeking out from underneath.
It’s just like the one he wore when he had his very own Mr. Darcy moment in the middle of Central Park Lake.
At the memory, heat collects under my thick gray wool sweater.
I couldn’t even be bothered to try averting my gaze after he pulled himself out of the water.
The way the wet cotton hugged every inch of muscle on him.
The way it revealed the beginnings of a tattoo sprawling up his shoulder.
It was blurry through the fabric, though I could tell the design was of the roots of something.
I wanted to reach out to touch him. Find out what those roots led to.
Logan smiles when he sees me. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. Smile. But the ones he saves for me are different. They send my heart into overdrive. I hope that never stops—his smiling or the fluttering.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey yourself. We’ll be here tonight.” He points to the building across the street, which is only three stories tall, the top portion of it brick. On the street level, a giant, arched red door tips me off.
It’s a firehouse. But why does it look so familiar?
I read the words above the door. Hook & Ladder 8. “This is from Ghostbusters.”
Logan tips his head. “Come with me.”
The red door opens, revealing a massive, shiny firetruck behind it. Inside, Ghostbusters signs, stickers, melted phones, and clocks cover the doorways and walls.
Logan waves to a group of firefighters across the firehouse.
Everywhere he goes, he’s like a social butterfly collecting friends.
It amazes me how he does that. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up.
I don’t even have friends now. I lost touch with everyone from college.
I wouldn’t go to happy hours with coworkers because I needed to save money.
More often than not, work consumed my weekends. I’ve hardly explored the city.
I follow Logan to the back stairs. They’re a little uneven, and the railing’s wobbly, but it’s a historic old building. There’s a type of charm in the imperfection of these places that I adore.
At the top of the second flight, I grab Logan’s arm. “I’m not lucky enough to break the law, and you’re definitely not in a position to push it more than you have. Are we allowed to be here?”
“It’s okay,” he says. “A buddy I used to work with is a fireman here.”
“And he’s just letting us hang out on the roof?”
“No, of course not.” Logan pushes the door open with his back. “He’s letting us eat on the roof.” He smiles. “I made a sizable donation as a thank-you.”
“Not even twenty-four hours into getting the money and you’re already paying people off,” I say dryly. “Money really does change a person.”
Logan laughs as he leads me to a table set for two with paper plates and cups. In the center, a votive candle flickers.
“They’re battery-powered,” he says as he slides out my chair for me. “Though this would probably be the safest place to burn a candle.”
The building’s so low that there’s not a great view of the city. But because it’s on the corner, the entire sky stretches out in front of us. The horizon burns bright orange with streaks of red flickering underneath as the sun moves. It’s a fire no one needs to put out.
Logan reveals a few paper bags filled with an assortment of white takeout boxes.
He pops the lids open. “On the menu for this evening, we have egg rolls, white rice, lo mein, Kung Pao shrimp, sautéed string beans, dumplings, sesame chicken, egg drop soup, hot and sour soup, fried rice, beef and broccoli, and General Tso’s chicken.
” He rubs his hand behind his neck. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got everything. ”
The man literally brought me a feast.
“Chinese takeout. Just like the movie,” I recall.
“And for dessert we have…” He shakes a box of Twinkies, another reference from the movie. “Got the sense you have a sweet tooth.”
Playing along, I add, “For hors d’oeuvres,”—I pull out a bag of candy and drape it over my arm—“an assortment of gummy numbers, for good luck.”
Logan gives me a questioning look. “Eights and sevens?”
“Eight is auspicious in Chinese culture. The pronunciation of it sounds like how you say to make fortune,” I explain. Dad never let me forget this. “And you mentioned having Welsh grandparents. Seven is supposed to be lucky.”
He takes the bag from me and smiles at it. “You remembered that?”
I remember everything about you, I don’t say. “This is the good stuff. It’s from the shop,” I say instead. “You got me candy, so here’s some back.”
He rubs his neck. “Thank you. I’m a little embarrassed I got you bodega cherry gummies.”
“Candy is candy. I don’t discriminate.”
He plops the bag in the center of the table for us to share. Even when he’s doing something mundane like popping the lids off takeout boxes, he wears a small, permanent smile. It’s too cute.
Suddenly, I’m nervous. “You really didn’t have to go through all this trouble. The last thing you need to do is spend money on me.”
Logan nods toward the candy without missing a beat. “It’s no trouble, and I could say the same to you.”
“Sugar and renting out a firehouse are not the same things.”
“Maybe not, but we both wanted to do something nice for each other.” He glances up at me, his eyebrow arched. “You don’t need to reciprocate this.”
“Fine. I’ll cancel my ask to the police precinct,” I joke.
Logan laughs.
“Thanks for planning this,” I add. “I’ve never been inside—or on—a firehouse before.”
“I thought you’d like it because you mentioned the Ecto-1 at the pizza shop.”
Did I? “How do you remember that?”
“I remember everything about you,” he says, sounding entirely serious.
Oh.
His earnestness catches me off guard. My nerves can’t catch a break. “What was it with the eighties and cars?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the fact that maybe what I’m feeling isn’t actually nerves but… excitement? “I’m marathoning eighties movies, and wow, did they love their vehicles.”
“You enjoyed the movie, though, right?” Logan asks, scooping a heaping mound of rice onto my plate.
“Enough for me to remember the car’s name.”
“Good. Otherwise, this really would’ve been a bust.”
“Ha ha.” I add a spoonful of General Tso’s onto my rice. “I had never seen a ghost movie before. Do you find that weird?”
“I find nothing about you weird,” Logan says, though he can’t help but ask, “So you’ve never seen Casper?”
“My dad’s superstitious. He wouldn’t let us watch any movies with ghosts in them,” I share. “Especially after my mom…” I swallow. “After my mom died.”
Logan sets his chopsticks down. “Hazel—”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. It was a really long time ago,” I say, waving him off. “But when people face uncertainty, they lean into superstitions. That’s my dad in a nutshell. He grew up hearing how ghosts could be harmful if provoked and didn’t want anything to do with them.”
Logan watches me for a second with concerned eyes before following my lead and moving on. “But you’re not a believer in ghosts, superstitions, the paranormal?” he asks.
“I believe in that as much as I believe in fortune-telling,” I say.
He nods, like he hears me but isn’t entirely convinced by what I’m saying. “They drink Budweiser in the movie, but I don’t drink, so I hope it’s okay that I brought these,” Logan says, setting onto the table a ginger beer and a root beer. “You can try both and take whichever you like best.”
My heart softens at this. “Why are you always so nice to me?”
Logan sits back against his chair, which looks too small with him in it. “Do you think it’s annoying? Me being this nice?” His question comes out serious.
I almost spit out the ginger beer I’m taste testing. “Annoying? Oh my god, no. I just… no one’s ever done something this sweet for me before.”
His jaw clenches at this. “You deserve nice things, Hazel,” he says, expelling a frustrated breath. “My ex, she just always thought I was too nice. Which I don’t get. I’m too nice, so that makes me a bad person?”
“You’re the perfect amount of nice.”
Logan’s shoulders relax. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get all intense. She even said I smile too much, so it was probably doomed from the beginning,” he says in a more lighthearted way. “What am I supposed to do? Not smile?”
“That would be a tragedy.”
At this, he smiles. Because of course he does.
“Well, cheers to nice things,” he says, holding up the root beer I didn’t choose. “Like winning the lottery.”
I slide my drink closer to me. “Cheers-ing is too celebratory. We’re not supposed to be doing that.”