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They walked Magnificent Mile, Ella pointing out areas of architectural interest while they dodged tourists and shoppers, then took the Green line to the Garfield Park Conservatory, a labyrinth of indoor and outdoor gardens.
They took their time, pausing in the outdoor areas to sit and talk, their conversations easy, long, and meandering, as if they’d been storing conversation for the past twenty years.
Logan had wondered if that part of his memory had been faulty, the way he and Ella had been able to talk and talk and never grow tired or bored of each other. He’d thought maybe it was a product of their adolescence, when finding someone to share all the things you’d never said out loud with was a novelty.
But nothing had changed between them. She was still the most interesting person he’d ever talked to.
They’d lowered their voices in the indoor areas and she’d slipped her hand into his like it was the most natural thing in the world as they continued through the glass enclosures, giant greenhouses housing every kind of plant and tree imaginable.
Cocooned by the plants that grew in every direction, the humidity that made it feel like they’d stepped into a tropical paradise, they’d been surprised to find that it was growing dark when they finally stepped outside.
By the time Ella suggested a Mexican restaurant in the area, Logan was ready for a beer.
The restaurant was small and intimate, the walls covered in Mexican art, plants hanging from the ceiling as if they’d never left the conservatory. It was busy, but the conversation was a murmur, as if no one wanted to break the spell of the place, the candles flickering at the center of the tables casting soft light over the room.
Ella ordered a margarita and sat back, looking at him with a smile.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
Now it was his turn to stare, something he’d done every chance he got throughout the day. She’d gotten ready quickly before they left the house, but Logan wouldn’t have guessed it: she looked as beautiful as he’d ever seen her in a white dress and sandals, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, the curls falling over her shoulder when she moved her head a certain way.
The waiter returned with Logan’s beer and Ella’s margarita, plus a basket of chips and some salsa. They placed their order and Logan waited for the server to leave to speak again.
“Today was nice.”
She took a drink of her margarita. “It was. Thank you.”
“Thank me?” He laughed. “You were the tour guide. You’ve probably seen all those places a million times.”
“It was different today,” she said.
“How so?”
“Slower.”
He grinned. “Are you saying I slowed you down?”
She laughed. “It’s a good thing.” Her expression grew serious. “You know me, Logan. Slow isn’t my default setting, and I’m not saying that as an endorsement.”
“But look at all you’ve accomplished,” he said. “Could you have done it if slow was your default setting?’
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “You and Hawk have done it. You’ve built something significant, and you’re not on the treadmill.”
“Slow isn’t Hawk’s default setting either,” Logan said. “I don’t even try to keep up with him.”
It was something he’d once been insecure about — the way Hawk was always hustling, always moving, always striving, while Logan was more often than not content to let things happen, to go with the flow.
It wasn’t a compliment in L.A. He was always surprised to hear people from other places talk about how California was laid back. Everyone in L.A. was grinding. It was the only way to survive there, let alone achieve anything when everybody else around you was hustling 24/7.
Making it look easy was part of the game.
Logan had had decades to get used to the differences between him and Hawk. He’d learned to accept them, even embrace them. Hawk kept him from standing still too long, from thinking too hard.
Ella used to do that for him too.
They spent the rest of the meal reminiscing, sharing stories about their childhood and adolescence together, filling each other in on the things they’d missed while they’d been apart.
