18. Logan
Chapter eighteen
Logan
Julie: Thank you for having T get my car.
I read the text, and I can’t help but smile. I know it’s early. I know I’m about to push my luck, but I take the risk and call her.
“This is a bold move,” she teases when she answers, her voice rough with sleep and—I can only imagine—one really bad hangover.
“I thought so, too.” I laugh.
How much of last night does she remember? How much does she want to remember anyway? I might have said too much, lost in whatever moment we were having, but her drunken confessions threw me for a loop, too.
“So.” I clear my throat. “About last night.”
“God, how much of a mess was I?” she groans.
“You were a delight.” I smile.
She snorts. “I’ll take that as a five out of ten.”
“The more important question is how are you feeling?”
“How do you think I’m feeling? Like shit.” She laughs. “And can I tell you … I called out of work.”
“Wow.” I’m impressed.
“I know . Used a sick day and everything.”
“Wild streak,” I tease.
“You’re a bad influence,” she says. But with the raspy sound of her voice and the quiet cadence, it doesn’t feel much like an accusation as it does an invitation to play along.
“I think you like it,” I tell her.
And in that same quietly seductive voice she says, “I think I do, too.”
I wish I could see her right now. I wish I could go back to last night and watch her again, her body moving on the dance floor, sweaty and messy and not caring about a thing.
“You know, it’s okay to be a little reckless, but maybe pace yourself. Hangovers are not the same in your thirties.”
Her answering laugh is loud, but I imagine there’s a blush attached to it. One that follows her neck down, one I’d love to follow, too.
“Hey Julie,” I start.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I just left you hanging like that.”
“You didn’t leave anything hanging.”
“I did,” I insist.
“You were trying to get away from the drunk girl that was blabbing away. Nobody would blame you.” She huffs out a laugh. “I crossed a line, and I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I tell her.
“You sure looked it.”
“You were drunk,” I admit. I didn’t know how to handle everything she was saying to me when she was drunk enough that there was a chance she wouldn’t remember. “I don’t know what you remember about last night …”
“I remember all of it, believe it or not.”
Everything gets quieter; everything becomes amplified. The sound of her breath on the other line, the rustle of bedsheets where I assume she’s sprawled out, the clearing of her throat. So that answers that.
“I meant everything I said,” I whisper.
“I meant it, too,” she reveals, and my eyes close at the sound of it. “So, what are the rules now?”
My mind is trying to catch up with my heart, that’s the issue. This is foreign territory. This is … I don’t know what the hell this is.
“There’s a milonga tomorrow night,” I say instead. “Come with me.”
“Uh. Not sure if I’m there yet.”
“You are. There’s a practice session an hour before, and then the milonga runs all night. But you could stay as long as you wanted. It could help you get a feel for different styles, help you get comfortable. Really get your feet wet. What do you think?”
“I think this feels like a low blow asking me when I’m hungover.”
I let out a small laugh. I haven’t been to one in a while. I’ve felt oddly removed from it, and the thought of going with Julie … well, it would be good for her. Maybe good for both of us. “People are non-judgmental. It’s just meant to be a good time. Drink some wine—”
“Don’t talk to me about alcohol right now,” she groans.
“Eat some snacks.”
“Also, no.”
“There’s a tango DJ. Does that sound enticing?”
“You’re funny,” She chuckles, but the following silence makes me wonder if she’s thinking about it. “And I can practice before hand? With you?”
“Yeah, we can meet an hour before.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “What time?”
“Let’s meet at six. The milonga starts at seven. Ideally you want to dress up for this but try to be comfortable. Oh, and it’s at the Midnight Ballroom. Down on Tenth street?”
“Yeah, okay. I can do that.”
I’ve got her, and now I need to keep going. “Want me to pick you up?” I offer.
“Seems to be the theme,” she quips. “Sure, I would love that.”
“Great. I can’t wait.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, the anticipation building.
“Hey Logan? Thanks for last night.”
“For what?”
“You know what. You carried me into a car for crying out loud.” She huffs out a laugh.
“Always. You know that.”
Her answering sigh is loud over the phone as she says, “Yeah. I guess I do.”
***
“Hey, do you think mom and dad gave you too much responsibility?”
“Uh …” Gavin is on the couch, remote in hand, searching for whatever new Netflix documentary he’s going to binge.
“Like, did they make you take care of me because you were the oldest?”
“They didn’t make me.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to. I had to. You know how things were after the divorce.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Why? What’s this about?”
“Just a question. Did you ever feel like you couldn’t prioritize your own things?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, mildly concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I know you did a lot for me back then.” He got a full-time job at eighteen, balancing school and work, offering to help me pay for the ballroom classes when the tuition increased. He wanted me to keep going—fully supportive, fully proud of me. “Did I take anything away from you?”
“I didn’t have to do anything, Logan,” he tells me, brows scrunched together. “I already said that. I wanted to do it for you. What’s this about?”
“Maybe you felt resentful towards me, I don’t know.”
“Nah.” He’s quiet for a while, looking at me, his mind probably racing. “I did what I did for you because I wanted to. And I hope you know that. I got to live my life, too. I did plenty of things for myself. You didn’t stop me. Mom and dad didn’t stop me.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to ease out of the topic of conversation. “Well, I’ve got a full day of classes and then I’m headed to the milonga tomorrow night.”
“Is this about San Diego?”
I almost flinch at those words but manage to shake my head. He’s talking about last year. The competition that Tara and I made a mess of. But now with the promise to Julie, the weight of San Diego is that much more prevalent.
“I’ve been proud of you from the very beginning, Logan,” he says clearly. “That shit isn’t changing. Ever. We all have bad days. You’re still alright in my book.”
I scratch the back of my neck, probably a nervous habit at this point. He’s said these things to me before. He said them then, a year ago, but with the both of us working on new trajectories of our lives, it seems oddly more genuine. “Thanks.”
“Are you still searching for jobs?”
“I’m not going to work with Steve if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Fair enough,” he laughs.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet.” Truthfully, I don’t.
“Also, fair,” he says. “Have fun at the milonga then. It’ll probably be a late night for me, and a busy weekend, so see you when I see you.” He lifts his hand in a wave, remote still in the other as he presses play on a documentary about koala rescue habitats.
“See you later.”
Suddenly, everything seems so different.
Suddenly, everything feels like it’s starting new.