Page 84 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

I ignore that. “Do you want to talk to her?”

Logan frowns as he massages the back of his neck. “I don’t know, honestly.”

“That’s fair,” I say. “You should take some time. Figure out what you want to do. It’s your choice.”

Mason’s mouth twists in a skeptical frown. “Feels to me like an easy no right now.”

I glance at him, uneasy with his tone, but it doesn’t feel like my place to push back. So, lightly, I say, “I don’t know. I struggle nightly with choosing between washing my hair and stretching the dry shampoo for one more day, so I think it’s fair for Logan to take a minute on this one.”

Logan’s lips twitch in the first almost smile I’ve seen from him since Lydia’s face came onto that screen.

Mason puts up his hands. “Your call, boss.”

“While you’re thinking,” I ask Logan, “do you want to stew or a distraction?”

His lips curve from an almost smile into a full one. “Distracted, I think.”

“Mason,” I say. “What if we didn’t go back to Apple Valley tonight? Any chance you know of something fun enough in Maplehurst to make us forget all this for a while?”

Mason’s mouth explodes with a grin. “Hell yes. My whole life has led up to this moment.”

After Logan has his meeting with the insurance adjuster downtown, Mason plies us with smashburgers at a place where the tables have crayons for doodling on white paper tablecloths. Then he convinces us to go to a house party, which to Logan’s horror and my own surprise, is being held on a Monday.

“Monday is the new Wednesday,” Mason quips.

“There are parties on Wednesdays?” I ask.

Mason grins. “Wednesdays are the old Thursdays.”

Logan pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m way too old for this shit.”

But I elbow him and whisper “distraction” while Mason follows up with such an alarming mix of persistence and determination that he relents.

That’s how Logan and I—both in our thirties and definitely way too old for this shit—end up shoving ourselves between tightly packed bodies in a low-lit basement that reeks of the chemical-sharp smell of spilled liquor and college student sweat. A kid with messy blond hair who calls me “bro” serves us beers from a keg and we take up a spot in the corner where Logan, empty-handed, crosses his arms and surveys the room.

“Cut that out, you look like a cop,” Mason yells over the thud of music.

“That child could not be eighteen, let alone twenty-one,” Logan says, uncrossing his arms to gesture at a man-size boy, fully sprawled out and snoring on a stained couch. “Someone should tell his parents where he is.”

“Wake him up and ask for their number,” I offer with a smile.

Logan narrows his eyes like he’s considering it.

“Do not encourage him,” Mason says elbowing me and glaring at his brother.

Logan puts up a hand. “Fine. I’ll let it go this time.”

“At least you’re not thinking about Lydia,” Mason says.

“Who knew underage drinking would be the best distraction Maplehurst has to offer?” I ask as I take another sip from my Solo cup.

Over the rim, Logan’s eyes meet mine. “Or a close second.”

Something bright and warm washes through my belly, and it has nothing to do with the cheap beer.

After Logan complains thirty more times about the volume, Mason steers us onto the lawn, where the air is fresher and the music dulled. We play cornhole, our hands smeared with orange from chips and Cheetos. Every time I sneak glances at Logan, meeting his gaze across the lawn, it sends a shock of pure adrenaline through my system.

Mason goes to get himself another beer—I didn’t find it nostalgic enough to override the fact that it’s also disgusting—and then harangues his brother until he joins a game of flip cup.