Chapter 13 Logan
LOGAN
What if our luck didn’t actually flip, but we both got bad fortunes?” Hazel asks first thing on Monday morning when we meet at our spot in the now-gone Good Fortune Fair. “Logan?”
I snap out of my daze. “Sorry, I was distracted by—” I point at her shirt, which looks more like something I’d wear. “Are you… Do you realize you’re wearing a very colorful, very floral Hawaiian shirt?”
Hazel smooths out the front of her tropical pink and yellow short-sleeve button-down. “We do live on an island, haven’t you heard?” she teases. “I know. I look like someone who presses her luck.”
“Hey, if you got it, press it,” I say. “This style suits you. I like it.”
“Yeah. I forgot I liked these shirts, too.” She refocuses and hands me a bag of gummy numbers. In return, I hand her one of the two cinnamon lattes that I picked up on the way here. “You don’t have to give me something just because I bring you something,” she comments.
“But it’s our thing,” I say.
Hazel smiles at this and says, “You’re right. It is.” Then she takes a long sip.
I take one, too. At this point, I’m so caffeinated from the all-nighters I’ve pulled trying to sort out the set pieces. We finally figured it out at 2:00 a.m. After this morning and a nap, I’ll go back to the theater and keep working.
“But seriously,” she says. “We need to try something different. Charms and symbolic food, they’re nothing but false hope.”
“The money tree you sent me grew another leaf, so that feels promising. I’m usually only good with plants once they’re dead.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I remember what happened this morning. “But the arm of the lucky cat fell off, so maybe let’s not read into the charms.”
Hazel gives me a look like, see what I mean? “What we’re doing, it isn’t working.”
“There’s still more we can try,” I tell her between sips. “What does your tracker say?”
“The data’s inconclusive.”
We take the subway to Brooklyn, drinking our lattes in silence, walking the rest of the way to Empire Fulton Ferry Lawn in Brooklyn Bridge Park.
“What do you do with the candy I bring you?” she asks.
I drain the rest of my coffee and toss it in a nearby garbage can. “I eat too much of it, and then I give the rest to my crew. They think it’s a countdown to opening night.”
“That’s kind of funny,” she says without a trace of amusement. I can’t tell if she means it.
“I’m not complaining, but why candy?” I ask. “Is it because they’re numbers?”
“Candy symbolizes the sweetness of life in Chinese culture,” she says.
I pull the ribbon off the bag. “You just assuaged any lingering doubts I had for eating sweets every day,” I say, popping a gummy eight into my mouth. “Hey, so your birthday…” I slow my pace to match hers. “It’s tomorrow.”
Hazel’s so focused on her drink that she nearly runs into a jogger. “Is it? Oh.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulders and guide her into the park. “Thirty was a great age. You excited? New decade!”
“I haven’t felt my age in years,” Hazel says.
“Do you have any plans for it?”
“Interview prep. I’ll eat noodles.”
I swivel toward her, my arm dropping away. “That’s it?”
“I hate birthdays,” she mumbles.
This raises more questions in my mind, but I spot a man in his fifties with a thick mustache and a head full of gray curls. “Pretty sure that’s him,” I say.
“Him who?”
“I think we needed to try something more tangible, so I enlisted the help of an expert.”
“An expert? In what? Luck?” she asks.
I subtly gesture toward the man. “Exactly. I’ve hired a luck consultant. He’s got this multistep plan for how to increase it.”
It kind of sounded like a scam when I found him online, but I don’t tell Hazel that.
I’ve been racking my brain to come up with ideas to contribute, and I couldn’t bring myself to suggest turtle theft, though I did reconsider it.
I don’t want her to feel like this is all on her, especially when she’s doing this for me.
“A luck consultant?” she asks skeptically before considering it. “It couldn’t be worse than trinkets.” She holds her cup up to her lips and says discreetly, “Maybe we should have a safe word, just in case this goes south?”
“Good idea,” I agree. “How about… Shirley MacLaine?”
She just nods, not questioning it, and we quickly agree on our exit strategy.
The luck consultant waves as he approaches.
“The way you’re looking at me makes me think you’re Logan.
I’m Max Strout, but I prefer Maxwell.” We do introductions before Maxwell guides the conversation to the real reason why we’re gathered here this morning.
“In your intake form, you said you wanted to increase your luck. We’ll talk about methods on how to do just that.
I teach psychology and conduct research on this very subject and have worked with dozens of couples like yourselves. ”
Neither of us corrects him on this last point. It’s probably easier to just go with it than try to explain whatever it is we are to each other. Fortune thieves? Luck swappers? Or, in more standard terms, maybe we’re even friends?
We sit on an oversize blanket Maxwell has laid out on the grass. Hazel and I face the Brooklyn Bridge, the skyline of the Battery sitting just behind it.
Maxwell opens his briefcase filled with painting supplies and divvies up tubes of paint, brushes, palettes, and canvases. “So, tell me, Hazel and Logan, do you consider yourself to be lucky or unlucky?” he asks.
Hazel frowns. “Like right now? Or in general?”
Maxwell considers her. “Is there a difference?”
She casts me an unreadable glance. “I’m usually unlucky.”
Maxwell nods before turning to me, adjusting the collar of his navy turtleneck, which he’s paired with brown corduroy overalls.
“Normally, I’m lucky,” I answer. Noticeably absent is the usual confidence I feel when I say this.
Maxwell finishes unloading the suitcase. “Today I implore you to open your minds. We’re here to talk freely. I’ve found with clients that a change of scenery can help with this, hence the park.” He hands us each a paintbrush. “As we talk, you two will be painting something of your choosing.”
“Is that required?” Hazel asks. I can practically hear her thinking, What does this have to do with luck?
“You’re not gonna like what I have to say,” Maxwell says.
“Great,” she mumbles.
“You’re gonna love it,” he says.
Hazel looks confused while Maxwell carries on. He directs our attention to everything he’s brought. “What we do and share today is up to you. I won’t force you to do anything. Now,” he says, “why is it you consider yourself unlucky and lucky? Hazel, let’s hear from you first.”
I scan the horizon for something to paint as Hazel takes a paintbrush between her fingers, spinning it as a distraction, like she’s weighing how much to share.
“Well, my family has never been very lucky,” she says.
“Never? Are there any moments you can recall?” Maxwell asks. “In work or life? Have you ever won anything?”
Hazel swipes her paintless brush against her palm. “The only thing I’ve ever won is a spot on a two-week-long jury duty.”
Maxwell nods. “What about your family? Or in relationships?” He smiles. “Or, I suppose, prior to your relationship now. Maybe your luck has changed.”
Hazel’s eyes lock with mine for a few long seconds before she quickly shakes her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. But we’re not here for me.”
Maxwell shifts his entire body toward me. “Logan, why do you consider yourself lucky?”
His use of present tense throws me off. “Well, good things always happened for me.” I reach for the easy examples first, along with a tube of yellow paint to keep my hands moving.
“I’ve won a lot of giveaways and contests.
I’ve met people purely by chance at times in my life when I unknowingly needed them most. I beat out thirteen other people for my job.
My entire family has been fortunate enough to be comfortable in life.
” I squeeze a blob of paint onto my palette.
“Am I supposed to do this while I talk?” I ask Maxwell.
“I don’t need you to paint,” Maxwell says.
“Oh, okay.” I’m not sure if I should continue.
“I want you to paint,” he finishes.
Hazel and I catch each other’s eyes, and I can see in them that she’s amused.
“Right,” I say, adding more colors onto my palette. I let my hands take over with the mixing and painting as I talk. The strokes pour out of me as I dab light pink onto the canvas.
“Should we paint the bridge or…” Hazel asks, glancing around. “The skyline?”
“There’s no right or wrong answer,” Maxwell says. “If you see anything you like, paint that!” He holds a hand against the side of his mouth, like he’s letting her in on a secret. “The carousel and the ferries are fan favorites.”
Hazel grabs the tube of red paint. “Those seem harder than the bridge. What are you painting?” she asks me.
“All I have is a circle,” I say. “I’m seeing where it goes.”
“I’m so bad at art,” Hazel states like it’s an objective truth.
“You get to keep what you make,” Maxwell offers. “And you don’t even have to show us at the end if you don’t want.”
Hazel dips her brush into paint and attempts the activity. I think, more than anything, she just wants to keep busy. With the tip of her brush, she stabs at her canvas.
“Logan, I want to dig a little deeper into the people you’ve met in your life. You say it was by chance,” Maxwell says, picking up the conversation. “You happened to be in the right place at the right time, is that it?”