Chapter 21 Logan
LOGAN
“Mom, hi,” I say quietly as we enter through the back door. She’s reading in the living room with a cup of tea.
She sets her book down and removes her glasses. “You’re back. Would you like tea? I can get—”
“All set, thanks.” I sit in the armchair next to the couch while Hazel heads upstairs to the guest room. “Is Warren officially retired now?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation light.
“We’re closer than before,” Mom says.
“Sounds like this has been a hard transition for him.”
She grabs her cup, the scent of her chamomile tea drifting over to me. “He’ll be fine. These things take time getting used to is all,” she says. “So… the lottery? You really played?”
I settle back against the cushion. “On a whim.”
“Isn’t that something?” Mom wonders. “Are you and Hazel okay now?”
I rest my elbows on my thighs as I lean forward in thought.
“More sites are picking up that social post. You know how many people win every week? A lot. They just don’t go to the lengths we did to try to hide our identities.
That’s what everyone’s entertained by.” I shake my head. “It was my idea, too.”
“Sounds like you were trying to help,” Mom says.
“I really was.”
Mom tucks one leg underneath her, adjusting to face me. “At least the security footage was flattering.”
That’s one way to look at it.
“I’m sorry for snapping,” I say as a crack of thunder booms overhead.
She sighs and pats my cast. “It was a nice time while we had it. Logan, I know you’ve had your challenges, but you come out stronger for them. Always remember that.”
This is the point in the conversation where I’d nod and agree or stay silent and not push back.
But I can’t do that anymore. “Do I, though?” I ask.
“What do you mean? Of course you do,” Mom says with a light laugh. “You have a good job, you live in New York City, you’ve got your health. You won the lottery for goodness’ sake! Just look at everything you’ve been through and have overcome.”
The room is dimly lit with just the small lamp on the table next to the couch. Still, I can see that Mom’s trying hard to put on a good face.
“Overcome or ignored?” I ask.
“Ignored?”
“Hard conversations, hard feelings. You don’t think we’ve just conveniently not dealt with those?” I ask.
“Where is this coming from?” Mom asks, her voice tight.
“I know when I transferred schools and went into carpentry and moved to the city, you were worried, especially after what had happened,” I say, processing this as it comes out, “But I didn’t want you to be concerned, so I pretended everything was okay—I pretended I was okay—all the time.”
“I’m your mother. Am I not allowed to worry?” she asks. “You cut yourself off and changed your life after going through something huge.”
It was something we all had to go through, and every one of us kept things positive. There was never any honesty, any realness, even to this day. I know I’m not innocent in this.
“You were the one I probably didn’t need to worry about as much, though,” Mom adds. “You’ve been my lucky boy since birth.”
“See? That right there,” I say, holding my hands out, “is not helpful.”
“Well, you have been!” Mom says with a shrug, her tea nearly sloshing over the sides of her mug. “Quite literally, too. Of all my children’s births, yours was the shortest and the least painful. How lucky is that? You practically walked out.”
“Nope! Too much,” I say, covering my ears.
Mom swats my hands down. “So you’ve had luck in your life. Why are you acting like it’s a bad thing? All your success, the accident. You know how much worse that could’ve been? You could’ve died.” She shakes her head. “So no, your luck isn’t a bad thing. I, for one, am grateful for it.”
“I’m grateful I was okay, too, Mom,” I say. “But that was a really hard time.”
“It made us stronger,” Mom says.
“I needed you.” My voice is a low whisper, but my words are clear. I only have to say it once. “I felt so alone.”
A small gasp comes out of Mom’s mouth. “And we got through it.” She closes her eyes. “Help me understand. Would you rather be unlucky? Would you rather not have good things happening to you?”
“Maybe I’d rather it be neither,” I say, scanning over the shelves of books and the vases of flowers. I can sense my focus is drifting, probably so I can avoid confronting this truth. “And everything isn’t just happening to me.” I feel hesitation as this comes out.
Because if everything isn’t happening to me, how do I explain everything in the past month that has felt like that? If I’m claiming to not have been a recipient of good luck, then maybe I haven’t been a victim of bad luck, either.
“I’ve never rubbed my luck in any of your faces, but it’s kind of feeling like you all think I have.
When you attribute my hard work to luck, it devalues what I’ve worked for,” I add, gaining confidence.
“It erases who I am, in a way. There are opportunities I made for myself over the years, hard decisions I had to make.”
“Ah,” she says, murmuring to herself. “So this is where it’s coming from. You’re stressed.”
I rub my hand along my neck. “Yes, I am, but that’s not why I’m saying this.”
“How can you be stressed when there’s so much to be grateful for?” Mom asks.
“I’m stressed and I’m grateful,” I say. “I can’t help but have emotions. Neither can you, and that’s okay. But never processing those emotions? We’re not doing ourselves any favors when we do that.”
Mom grabs her cup and holds it firmly between her hands. It’s unlikely I’ll break through to her in a single conversation, but at least I’ve said my peace.
“I’m not sure what you want me to say here,” she says.
“This isn’t a test. I just wanted to tell you that.”
“Okay.”
“And one more thing. I didn’t try to win the lottery.” I feel the need to clarify. “I wasn’t looking for an easy out.”
Mom looks confused. “Isn’t anyone playing the lottery trying to win?”
“It was about a girl.”
She smiles. “Earlier on the deck. You and Hazel… you shook us, I think. Don’t be too mad at Jane. She’s also stressed.”
This gets my attention. “Is she okay?”
“She… well, she doesn’t want to be part of your father’s company anymore,” Mom reveals. “I think maybe she sees you doing what you want, and she’s jealous. Your sisters, they’ve never had your luck—” She holds her hand up. “They’ve never felt like they could make decisions in the way you have.”
While I was so adamant about figuring everything out on my own, my sisters followed the path our dad laid out for them.
I hear Maxwell’s voice in my head. Mindset. Expectations. Listen to your gut. Be open to new experiences.
“Jane doesn’t need luck,” I tell Mom. “Neither does Eva. They can make their own.” I start to stand but drop back down in the chair to say this last part. “Please tell Warren I’m sorry, too. Maybe go easy on him. It sounds like he might be struggling with saying goodbye to a career he loves.”
“Warren loves his work, yes, but he’s the one who’s talked about retiring,” Mom says. “It’s time.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not still hard.” I stand and squeeze Mom’s shoulder. “See you in the morning.”
“Goodnight. Oh, and Logan?” Mom whispers. I turn from the archway entry. “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Hazel won the raffle. I hope she likes golf.”
I laugh dryly. “Well, isn’t that just my luck?”
She smirks and flips back to where she left off in her book as I head upstairs to the guest room that Mom’s made up.
I quietly open the door as the room lights up from a shard of lightning.
Hazel turns over to face me. “Is that my doing? Or are you Zeus now?” she asks, pointing to the window. “I can’t keep the fortunes straight.”
“I honestly don’t know anymore.”
I reach for a pillow to make up my bed on the floor.
“You’re not sleeping in the bed?” she asks.
“I… didn’t want to assume,” I say, clutching the pillow.
Hazel pulls back the comforter, welcoming me in. She’s wearing one of my tie-dye shirts that falls just above her upper thighs.
“You make them look so good,” she says, biting down a smile. “Does it look goofy on me?”
“It looks better on you,” I say, taking off my jeans and flannel button-down. Her eyes darken a shade when I remove my T-shirt. “Please, take them all.”
“One’s plenty for now,” she says.
I slide in next to her. She meets me in the middle, the sheets cool. Hazel’s hands and feet are colder.
I gasp when her toes graze my shin. “Fuuuuuu—how long have you been in here?”
“I’m looking into compression socks,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I fear my toes are frozen to the point of no return.”
I slap my thighs. “Come on. Get them on here.”
Hazel doesn’t wait for me to say it twice. She tucks her feet under my legs and wraps her hands around my stomach.
She releases a contented sigh. “I’m regaining some feeling.”
I shiver. “G-good.”
She laughs and burrows her face into my neck, and the tip of her nose is cold, too. I make a mental note to buy her a truckload of hand and toe warmers for when I’m not around to keep her warm myself.
A deluge of rain beats against the windows and roof, unsynced and chaotic. I feel safe in here with Hazel. Cozy, even. I’ve never had anyone to weather the storm with.
“It’s an oak tree,” Hazel says. “Without leaves?”
She must be looking at my tattoo.
“It’s the stage where the tree has lost everything except for what’s necessary for it to survive.
For it to get through the impending winter,” I explain.
“In time, though, those leaves come back stronger.” I pause for a moment.
“This is the tree that stopped me from crashing into my neighbor’s house, right after barreling through the fence and playhouse. ”
She reaches out to touch the dangling root of the oak, stopping before her fingers make contact with my skin. She finds my eyes, like she’s asking for permission. I nod.
Slowly, she drags her finger from the roots at my triceps up to a tree trunk and its barren branches sprawled over my shoulder.
“Trees have hard years,” Hazel says quietly. “They survive droughts, windstorms, flooding. They weather storms. They’re resilient.” She takes her time, sliding her finger over to my biceps. I wonder if our contact sets everything within her on fire, too. “They earn every inch.”
She stops at my shoulder, the pads of her fingers finding a raised groove.
“Scar from the glass,” I explain, filling in the blanks.
“It must’ve been really hard going through that,” she says. “I wish I could’ve been there for you.”
“Me, too.”
Hazel turns onto her side so we’re chest to chest, intertwining her legs with mine like the roots on my arm. She leans over to kiss the scar, trailing her kisses down the tree. As she does, I drop a kiss on her temple.
“Did you know some trees can predict the weather?” she says.
“I think that’s a myth.”
“A belief,” she says. “Some people think you can look at a tree’s leaves and know a storm is coming. The leaves will curl or flip over. But it’s because of the wind. Or humidity.”
“Isn’t the prediction kind of true if the leaves are doing that, and then it does rain or storm?”
“I guess it depends on what you want to believe,” she says, sliding her arm under her pillow to prop her head up more. “The leaves can make a prediction about the weather. But there’s nothing else about how strong that storm will be. Or how long it’ll last. Or how much damage it’ll do.”
“That doesn’t sound very useful.”
She considers this. “Maybe, as long as you’re not hiding out in fear of the storm, the heads-up can be helpful.”
“So that you can get ahead of it?” I ask.
“If it helps you to take action, yes. And if there isn’t a storm, then you’re ready for the next one.”
I adjust my head on the pillow so I can see her better. “Well, whatever’s coming, we can face it. Together.”
A streak of moonlight slips past the curtains, providing just enough light for me to see Hazel’s face and the glimmer in her eyes that tells me she agrees.
She leans back, holding up my right hand in the blue light, tracing her fingertip across my palm. It’s a more sensitive sensation than I’d anticipated. She follows each line, winding up, down, around.
“I have bigger gaps between my knuckles,” I analyze. “Doesn’t that mean money’s slipping through my fingers?”
“Only when it’s my birthday,” Hazel teases.
“Oh yeah?” I squeeze my fingers tighter together, the light vanishing. “What does my palm say?”
She traces her pinky across the center of my palm. “This one’s very long. I believe it’s the Handsome line.” She surveys my face. “Yep, accurate.”
I gently fist my hand around hers, trapping her pinky.
She lets out a laugh and then quickly says, “Okay, okay. All I remember is that this is the Love line.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she runs her thumb along the line closest to my fingers.
“And yours looks clear and unbroken. As for the rest of them…” Hazel slowly presses a kiss against each line, “that’s the best I can tell you. ”
I kiss her knuckles in return. “If that’s what my future holds, I’ll take it.”
Hazel clasps both her hands around mine and presses them to her chest. We’re able to make direct eye contact lying down like this.
If I leaned forward a few inches, I’d be kissing her.
It’s the predicament I’ve found myself in lately.
When I’m not kissing Hazel, it’s all I want to do.
When I’m kissing Hazel, it’s all I want to keep doing.
This is what I’m thinking about when Hazel presses her lips against mine. In reaction, I brush my fingers along her jawline and down her neck, feeling her pulse beat steadily against my thumb.
We’re tangled up in a queen-size bed, trading quiet kisses back and forth.
Our very first kiss was hurried, the second curious and indulgent.
But these… these kisses feel like a promise.
These are the ones that don’t have to lead anywhere because we have all the time in the world for more. They are the end destination.
“This moment. It makes me happy,” she says when she pulls away. “You make me happy. I want to feel it. I want this to last.”
So that’s what we do. We stretch out this moment for as long as we can. We talk until our voices are hoarse from whispering, and when we’re not talking, we’re kissing.
Hazel snuggles into my shoulder, and I hold her in my arms in the blue light of the moon as the wind chimes clang outside in the storm. It’s sometime after the rain falls to a steady thrum that her breathing finally slows, and she falls asleep smiling.