7
Ava
“. . . I’m gonna lose his number. I don’t want to get into a whole thing with someone right now,” I say, one shoulder pinching my phone against my ear.
I’ve been trying to put Logan out of my mind the last few days, but I texted Laura the SparkNotes on what I ended up doing that night after she canceled on me. Then, of course, she called me, demanding the whole rundown, and now I’m rehashing every thought I’ve had about him.
Laura, on the other end of the line, makes a noise between disbelief and concern before she voices her thoughts. “You sure you’re not just back to waiting for Jackson? It’s been like a year!”
I hold back a snort, but the eye roll is so dramatic it jerks the steering wheel as I drive home from work. Laura knew all the times I pocketed my self-respect and tried to get back with my ex. She had already given me a lot of grief over it.
As if summoned by his name, the vehicle that passes me going the other way makes my heart lurch. I recognize the Massachusetts Fish and Wildlife Office seal on the side of the van. It disappears around the bend, hidden in the rolling autumn hills just as quickly as it appears.
I skip the turn onto my street and just keep driving.
I’m too close to home, I can’t shake the feeling that if I go back there, Jackson’s car will be parked right out front, and he’ll be sitting on the hood, waiting for me and that follow-up conversation.
He probably decided he’d had enough of me dodging his calls, that he had to roll in and save the day, fix my headlights, scoop up some injured wildlife, all that golden boy bullshit.
And then I’d be back to wondering why someone so wonderful couldn’t see a future with me.
After a few moments, I hear Laura’s tiny, distant voice. “Earth to Ava, did I lose you?”
“What?”
“I said, are you going back to Jackson?”
I recoil at the thought. “No, oh my god, no.” I swallow and shake my head automatically, trying to pick up the thought I left off on. “No, for real this time. I’ve learned my lesson.”
There’s the faint sound of nail polish bottles clinking together as she rummages through her collection on the other end of the line. She’s always doing her nails when we have a long phone call. “Mm, alright. I’m gonna remind you that you said that later.”
I wasn’t ready to explain to her that this wasn’t about Jackson; it was about pattern recognition.
I knew the butterflies that Logan gave me a little too well.
Already, I’d thought about him too much, answered the itch to reach out via text, and felt the gleeful zing of excitement when he quickly replied.
It’s not just that I’m a big fan of his weird dick. I can be honest with myself: He’s cute. He’s really cute, and god, wouldn’t it be nice to let him take me on a date, treat me real nice? But I don’t know how I’d avoid falling in love with the rest of him, too, if we did that.
Which was precisely the reason I couldn’t. Even a coffee date would be dangerous. He was so pretty when he smiled. If I liked him as a person, I’d probably be done for. Head over heels, stupid grinning at nothing, kicking my feet thinking about him whenever he wasn’t there, capital L-O-V-E.
And then, what if we got through all that, and he still broke my heart? How would I ever come out on the other side of it?
So, it’s not going to happen. I’m not even going to sleep with him a couple more times. I’ll hop back on the dating apps if I have too. It’s fine, I can do that, I have enough self-restraint, I think.
I like Logan. A lot. But I had liked Jackson too. Just because he gave me butterflies doesn’t mean he won’t hurt me when this is done.
I’ve been down this road before. Maybe it feels good now, but it isn’t going to last. Losing his number is self-preservation.
A number of people, Laura included, have suggested I take some time to myself, figure out who I am without Jackson. It always rubs me the wrong way, like I’m being told I don’t know who I am.
I’m exactly the same person I was with him: a little too loud, a little too brash, kind of a mess.
Maybe that’s what they’re all getting at when they say take some time alone: I need to work on myself. Become less of a mess, become someone easier to love and stay with.
A long sigh escapes me, alongside the too-familiar pinprick-sting in my eyes.
I wish he would have given any of those as reasons why he was breaking up with me.
I wish he would have told me my nose was too big or he didn’t like that I always had dirt under my nails, anything except that he still loved and thought the world of me.
I wish he would have told me exactly what to fix, so I could have hated him for picking at my flaws.
Now I just sit around wondering if he loved me why wasn’t I worth it to him to try to make it work.
If there is nothing wrong with me, why aren’t we together?
Even without my friend’s commentary, it made me feel pathetic, chasing after him like that.
I turn down a few long, winding roads, and eventually pull over at a gas station a few miles from home. I drum the steering wheel for a few moments, trying to tap the anxious energy out. I didn’t see for sure if it was Jackson driving, maybe I could go back.
Maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe it was someone else from his office, doing something about all the coyote sightings.
I sigh and cut the engine, hop out of the truck, and readjust my grip on my phone. Might as well get something to eat from the mini mart while I’m waiting around.
Laura rambles on about some article that she’s only half through reading of while I snag a handful of pre-packaged snacks from the shelves, stacking them in the crook of my elbow, the plastic instantly sticking to my skin.
It’s a hot, sweltering night, humid as hell, with a host of cicada noises plaguing the air. The kind of night I’m trying to get twenty dollars out of the ATM in the corner and realizing I might not have that in my account.
The gas station door clatters, and I glance over just as Laura is telling me, “So, according to this, squirt is pee. And I don’t like that. ’Cause then what, everyone who sees divinity in making a bitch cream her panties has a piss kink? No way—”
Oh my god, there’s Logan on the other side of the store.
I duck into the chips aisle and keep an eye on the top of his head just barely visible over the shelves.
Thank fuck he got here after we changed topics, I don’t know how I would maintain my aloof, standoffish persona with him if he knew I’m still devastated over the ruin of my last relationship. No, but for real, imagine.
“We’ll get philosophical later, ok? I gotta go,” I hiss and hang up halfway through Laura’s tinny incredulous ranting.
Lucky for me, Logan’s not paying attention as I slip into a different aisle.
I debate whether or not I want to say hello, but seeing as he’s not alone, maybe I won’t.
I think that might be the same guy Logan was drinking with at the Thirsty Turtle the other night.
I’m not sure, I wasn’t really paying attention to his friend.
“Oh my god they still publish it,” the friend whisper-exclaims in an almost reverent tone. I hover, eavesdropping as they stop by the magazine rack. “How many print newspapers do you think this has outlived?”
“You know, you don’t have to buy porn exclusively at gas stations.” Logan sighs heavily, unimpressed.
“Fuck off, it’s nostalgic.”
“What do you need nostalgia for?”
“Uh, it’s gonna make my wife laugh, so it’s worth every penny,” his friend declares, his voice diminishing as he wanders off around a different corner.
I take my chance and peek around a stack of motor oil cans that look like they’ve been in this shop for ten years.
Logan is wearing a tank top, his long dark hair in a pink claw-clip, reading glasses pushed up on his head and a raggedy pair of jeans cut off above the knee, little tendrils of wispy white threads hanging off the ends.
It’s the sluttiest I’ve ever seen him, and my god am I here for it.
In a panicked, backtracking kind of way, I catch my reflection in the refrigerator case.
Some strands of my hair are starting to curl and frizz in the heat, and I’m clearly crazed.
I press my face to the glass, relying on its cold surface.
I’m hot and bothered in so many ways. I’ve never thought of jean shorts as sexually attractive before.
An AC vent kicks on near me. A shiver runs up my back, prickling my skin. Logan takes in a sharp breath and, as if sensing my stare on him, turns around, his eyes finding me instantly. “Oh, hey.”
Logan crosses the linoleum floor to me, and before I can pick my jaw up off the floor, I blurt out, “Hey. You’re wearing jean shorts. Jorts.”
Logan, of course, frowns, because that’s what he always does. He does it so formidably, I almost take him seriously for a moment. “What’d you call me?”
Oh no, I’m not going to be afraid of him again. He can frown all he wants in his button-down shirt looking stern as fuck, but it does not have the same effect in the jean shorts. I know the moment he smiles or blushes, it’s clear he’s just a big dork.
I raise my chin and reply as clearly as I can, “I said, ‘Hi, Logan.’ ”
“You did not.”
Holding his stern gaze, I know I’m going to outlast him. Because I know what he is underneath, and because I like him, I’ve got more than one thing in my toolbox.
“Ava,” he says, voice utterly level, but he can’t keep a straight face together while he’s looking at me. I can see the muscle tensing in his jaw as he fights off a smile. Seeing what a corny weirdo he is has somewhat de-fanged my estimation of him.
“Logan,” I reply as sweetly as I can manage, and his brow tightens the slightest bit. I can play this game better than him.