Chapter 13 Logan #2
I nod. “I was. Each time. I met Mrs. Walker at an inn I stayed at.” Hazel looks up when I mention this.
“She’s the reason why I’m in New York. I was looking to get out of my hometown, and she’s a Broadway producer.
She knew of people looking for stagehands and carpenters, and I fit that bill.
She connected me with the right people, let me rent out one of the apartments she owns for a price I could afford.
” I keep my eyes trained on my painting as I talk.
“Meeting her changed my life. So did meeting Mr. Patterson.”
“Who’s Mr. Patterson?” Maxwell asks.
My audience has directed their full, undivided attention on me. All at once, this feels like a makeshift escape room we must paint ourselves out of. The brisk morning air turns hot, the trickle of sunlight streaming through the trees suddenly a spotlight.
“Oh. Uh…” I trail off.
I wonder if I’ve ventured too far. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t think twice about opening up like this. I’ve always loved connecting with people, talking to them, learning about them. And I don’t mind people knowing me in return. But now… everything’s different.
“You don’t have to tell us,” Hazel says, throwing me a lifeline. An out. If I wanted to Phone-a-Friend, she’d be the one to pick up, and all I’d have to say is Shirley MacLaine.
Hypothetically, that’s when one of us would feign a stomachache, like we discussed. I’d tell Maxwell that we need to cut the session short and thank him for his help.
But I don’t say our safe word. I surprisingly don’t feel uncomfortable or like we’re being taken advantage of.
“I was in an accident when I was younger. For underage drinking and driving,” I confess, keeping my voice steady and my hand even steadier as it sweeps more paint onto the canvas.
With part of my focus on painting, sharing this story feels more approachable.
Like it’s part of something else and not the only thing that matters.
Because at one point, it was all that mattered to me. I’ve grown a lot since I was twenty, though, and I’m proud of who I’ve become. I’m proud of who I’m not anymore.
Hazel pauses what she’s doing, just for a second. I catch her reluctance to keep going once I’ve dropped a statement like that. She slowly keeps moving, but I can sense she does so for my benefit, to not make me feel like I’m under a microscope.
“It was just another Friday night when I thought I was above it all. Above the law,” I say.
“I borrowed my dad’s car when he explicitly told me not to, just to show him that I was above listening to him, too.
I raided my parents’ bar, started drinking, didn’t stop, and got behind the wheel.
” I dip my brush into brown paint and spread it across the canvas.
“I crashed the car. Drove right through my neighbor’s fence and through his daughter’s playhouse.
Thankfully, it was at night, and she wasn’t inside playing.
It could’ve been… it could’ve been more of a nightmare than it already was.
” As I relay this, I realize I’ve turned toward Hazel like I’m telling this story just to her. Like this piece of me is just for her.
“Were you okay?” is the first thing Hazel asks.
“Physically, yes,” I say. “I was fined, and my license was suspended. My neighbor, Mr. Patterson, didn’t press charges, but it was only on the condition that I rebuild the fence and playhouse.
I went over every day when I didn’t have classes.
It’s how I learned carpentry. The entire trajectory of my life changed.
Was saved, really.” I run my hand over my shoulder.
“Of all the yards I could’ve driven into, it belonged to someone who was not only forgiving but who actively helped me out of a bad situation.
He taught me the foundations of woodwork. ”
“That must’ve been really scary,” she says, leaning over to grab my hand.
It was terrifying. It was the worst experience I’ve lived through, still to this day.
Even worse was that I felt completely alone throughout it all.
Anytime I wanted to talk about it, Mom would just remind me how much worse it could’ve been, and my ex-girlfriend didn’t want to constantly hear about it.
So I convinced myself that everything was good. That I was good. After all, I did survive it in the literal sense.
But there’s a reason I’m behind the stage and not on it. My act wasn’t convincing enough, and my relationship with my ex was never quite the same. When I couldn’t move on from the accident, she moved on from me.
For years, I stayed in town improving my carpentry skills, forcing down any negative emotions when they came up. The heartache—related to my ex or the accident, I couldn’t tell anymore—lingered. That’s when it was time to do something about it. I went to the inn, and then, after that, to New York.
Somehow, it feels better that Hazel knows this about me.
I want her to know the whole person she’s graciously decided to help, but I also don’t want to bring her down more than I already have.
So I squeeze her hand back and say, “The accident made me stronger. Scary is what happened to this canvas while I was talking.”
Hazel’s gaze lingers on me for an extra beat. “Right. Of course.” She watches as I adjust my hat, her eyes lingering on my head. “Your lucky hat. It was the one you were wearing the night of the accident.”
It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
“And the accident, the aftermath… that’s what you believe was the right place, right time?” Maxwell asks, reminding me that he’s here, too.
“I don’t believe it. I know it,” I say, my eyes drifting back to my canvas. It’s now that I realize I’m painting a portrait of Hazel. I don’t have anything close to the skill level it would take to capture her beauty, but it’s abstract enough to be presentable.
“I can see how that feels lucky. No one got seriously hurt; you were introduced to a new career path. Maybe people even reminded you how much worse it could’ve been.” Maxwell runs his fingers down his mustache. “With Mrs. Walker, how did she know you were a carpenter?”
“I told her. That’s when I learned she worked in the theater.”
Maxwell nods thoughtfully. “And when that opportunity was presented, you said yes?”
“I stayed in my hometown way too long after the accident. I would’ve said yes to anything at that point,” I say. “The opportunity… it just presented itself. They always have.”
“It was an opportunity you acted on,” Maxwell says.
“You were in the right state of mind to say yes to begin with. With your accident, too, you didn’t have to say yes to Mr. Patterson.
In fact, several of my clients don’t say yes when opportunities like that come up.
I take it you’re not a soft worker.” He pokes the air with his pointer finger.
“You’re a hard one. Would you agree with that? ”
I don’t pretend that I’m not a hard worker. I have been ever since Mr. Patterson gave me that second chance.
“You were exposed to people. You made yourself easy to get to know. You shared your life with people. Your interests,” Maxwell continues. “You were open to opportunities. You said ‘yes.’ ” He holds his hands out, palms up. “That’s luck you made.”
Luck that… I made?
“I was born lucky,” I correct.
“I don’t have good news for you,” Maxwell tells me. “I have really good news for you: There’s no such thing. We can make our own luck. In fact, anyone can. And if you can harness this mindset, you’ll find yourself getting a little luckier.”
As he says this, a dark blue dragonfly circles us, landing on my canvas.
Hazel gasps and sets her hand gently on my cast, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Dragonflies represent good fortune,” she whispers.
The irony isn’t lost on me that we’re here to get practical and grounded advice, yet are still reading into the symbols around us.
Maxwell gives us a few more minutes to finish up our paintings and invites us to share what we’ve been working on. I don’t expect Hazel to let us see her art, but she does. Slowly, she turns her canvas around. I’m staring back at a person’s very colorful, very abstract face.
“It’s Logan,” she reveals. “Well, it was supposed to be.”
While I was over here painting a portrait of her, she was doing the same of me.
If you see anything you like, paint that.
“Hazel, I don’t like it,” Maxwell says. He claps his hands together. “I love it!”
I have an oversize square head with big eyes and spiky yellow hair. She’s given me pink lips and dressed me in a spiral-tie-dyed, long-sleeve shirt.
“The resemblance is uncanny. It’s very cubist,” I say of her piece. “Are you one of those annoying people who say they’re bad at something but are secretly really good?”
“I can’t explain this,” she says, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear.
“Maybe it was the lucky combination of good morning light, quality supplies, and your muse?” Maxwell poses. Muse, really? “Or once you moved beyond ‘no,’ were you in the right mindset? You started off negative, saying you’d be bad at this, but you still did it. And look what happened!”
“Well, no. This is a fluke,” Hazel pushes back. “Art is not my strong suit. Seriously. You should see my stars. They look like a toddler drew them.”
“Maybe.” Maxwell tilts his head. “Maybe not.”
Hazel goes quiet as she processes this, so his message must have the desired effect.
Maxwell pats his chest, removing his phone from his overalls’ front pocket. “Excuse me for a moment. If this call is what I think it is, I need to take it.”
“In case I wasn’t clear, I love it,” I tell Hazel when Maxwell steps away to answer his phone. “Would it be okay if I kept it?”
“You want this?” She glides her pointer finger along the top of the canvas. “I’ve seen your apartment. This would not fit.”
“I think it’s exactly what my place is missing.”
“Uh-huh,” she says. “Let me see yours.”
“Unlike what you claim, I’m not actually all that terrible at drawing.” I cringe and turn my canvas around. “But this… I’m really sorry.”
The corners of Hazel’s mouth curl when she realizes she was my inspiration.
“You look scary,” I say. “I mean, not you you. But this version of you? It might haunt me.” Saying it’s a disaster would be an understatement. I got so caught up trying to capture the exact shade of her eyes the entire time that the rest of her ended up as straight lines.
“I love what you did with my hair,” she says, delighted at how I went overboard with brown paint. Her hair looks more like a hat that’s been puffed up by static electricity.
I take another look at my portrait of her and bust out laughing. “You know, I actually thought this was decent at first? Then I saw yours of me and damn.”
I didn’t anticipate any of this making her blush, but maybe it’s because I’ve embarrassed her?
Hazel rocks from one side to the other. “My eyes are following me.”
“We should probably never speak of this again,” I say, running my hand across the back of my neck. “At the very least, it needs to be burned and then divided up across garbage cans so it can’t somehow come back together.”
Hazel takes my canvas, smiling down at my poor attempt.
“Can I be honest? There’s something about it I resonate with.
I’m the mature, responsible one,” she explains.
Her expression turns contemplative. “And this stick figure version of me… Well, it feels like I don’t have to be totally put together. All this can get is better.”
I nod in confirmation. “It literally couldn’t get worse.”
She brushes her thumb along the side of the canvas. “I’d like to have it.”
“Then it’s all yours,” I say. “But I won’t be held responsible for nightmares that may occur.”
A laugh bubbles out of Hazel’s throat. I wish I were better at art, for no other selfish reason than to paint this moment of her sitting on a picnic blanket under the Brooklyn Bridge as we attempt to chase a little luck.
I want to capture all of her, every single detail, in every vibrant shade this canvas can hold.
But it’s more than that, I think. I don’t want just portrait-level with Hazel. I really do want to know everything about her, and the only way I can do that is for us to spend more time together. If that means I have to continue being unlucky to do so, then so be it.
Maxwell rushes back to us. “Thanks for waiting. There was a last-minute cancellation at a restaurant I keep putting myself on the waitlist for. It’s finally paid off!” He rubs his hands together. “Now, where were we? Mindset is just the beginning.”