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Everly, Jazzy, and Stanton headed down Central Avenue toward Sunny’s Side Up, the town’s best breakfast place. It was the first time she’d been with both of them at once since they’d ambushed her a month and a half ago, and while she was thankful for the extra reprieve from dealing with the fallout from the premiere special at work, she was not ready to handle their chaotic enthusiasm this early in the morning. Stanton had been quizzing her about the diner’s menu for the last three blocks, while Jazzy listed the various alternatives to yoga pants that she planned to dress Everly in for future outings. They were both talking at the same time, and Everly had no idea who to answer. Her poor brain was spinning like a pottery wheel.
Ahead of them, Logan set the pace, walking backward to record their interactions. The stare of his camera pressed against Everly’s skin. That premiere special had made it clear how closely he watched her with that lens, and it was hard not to analyze every single thing she did. What did she look like walking? Did she swing her arms weirdly? Were her steps too big? Too small? Did her feet make weird noises? What was her resting face? How did her voice sound outside her own head? Everly didn’t know how anyone on a reality TV show ever managed to be themselves.
She hadn’t even been able to get comfortable enough alone in her car earlier to do a confessional. She’d been dying to talk about her frustrations with how Sady had framed her in the special. But every time she tried, she ended up muttering “um” and “like” and never forming an actual sentence, then laughing uncomfortably. She was barely out of the driveway by the time she’d given up.
If only she could draw what she was thinking instead of having to talk to a camera. The images would be saturated with angry flashes of color and sharp, steep points, and broken circles.
Stanton linked arms with her and gave her a shake. “How much farther is this place? Rhode Island? I need a waffle before I murder someone.”
“Another five or six blocks. You’ll know it when you see it.”
The entire establishment was egg-themed. Tables in the shape of eggs, seat covers that looked like sunny-side up eggs, curtains decorated with eggs in every possible form, salt and pepper shakers that looked like they’d been birthed by chickens. The sign balanced on the roof boasted a pair of fried eggs big enough to be flying saucers. Basically, if it could be an egg, wear an egg, or look like an egg, Sunny incorporated it into her décor. If the food wasn’t so damn good, Everly would have driven to Bourne (or anywhere else) to avoid the eye-searing tackiness.
Stanton groaned like Everly had said they wouldn’t be eating for a week, sagging dramatically against her. Shaking her head, Jazzy took up his other arm with a smile. “Distract poor Stanton here by telling us a little more about what you do at the office.”
“Uhhh.” Everly talked about herself these days about as often as she wore a color scheme lighter than navy blue. “I answer phones and organize travel and prep meetings.” She was doing a great job making her life sound like a yawn fest. Viewers were sure to be swarming to change careers after this aired.
Of course, instead of looking over at Jazzy, Everly had spoken directly at the camera.
Logan arched an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Shit.” Fighting the urge to slap her hands over her face, she turned to Jazzy and repeated herself.
Unfortunately, because Logan always seemed to be at least slightly within her peripheral vision, Everly cringed when she saw him get too close to the curb, ruining that shot as well.
He paused, and lowering his camera, gave her a long look, one that implied her very existence complicated his universe tenfold.
It was probably not the intent, but those frowns were becoming catnip for her. Everly wanted to see every one. Categorize them on a spreadsheet. Determine which ones were for her alone. Invent new ones along the way.
“What? I didn’t want you to fall,” she said. “I was concerned.”
“He’s got it under control, hon.” Stanton patted her hand. “Logan has superhuman spatial awareness. Do you know how many times I’ve tried to trick him into stepping in a puddle? Never once have I succeeded.”
“Well, now I have a new goal,” Everly deadpanned.
Logan rolled his eyes in that bemused way that she associated withTV sitcom dads, then, lifting the camera back to his face, twirled a finger in the air as if to say “take three.”
Everly was about to list her job skills résumé-style again when an older woman turned the corner with her dog. It was a black Lab, in that floppy, all-legs phase, where he wasn’t quite full grown but no longer a puppy. He paused to say hi to Jazzy and Stanton, licking their hands and pressing his head to their thighs.
He was just approaching Everly when he sniffed the air, turned with a jerk, and abruptly dove at Logan, tugging the leash right out of his owner’s hands.
With his camera on his shoulder, Logan didn’t have time to throw out an arm to protect himself before the dog head-butted him in the crotch at full speed. He grunted loudly, surprise and pain animating his usually stoic features.
Through it all, though, he managed to keep the camera balanced on his shoulder, even as the dog continued to snuffle at him like he’d found buried treasure.
“Odin!” his owner called out, mortified.
Everly beat the woman to Logan’s side. Crouching, she puckered her lips in some kissy noises, cooing the dog’s name until he pulled away from Logan. His tongue lolled loosely out of his mouth, his tail flapping happily.
“Why don’t we leave the poor man’s family jewels alone,” she suggested, giving the dog some good scratches behind his ears.
Logan smirked. “Thanks.”
“Did you wash your jeans in bacon or something?” Even as he basked in Everly’s attention, Odin’s face kept drifting back toward Logan.
He patted at each of his pockets, one of those deep furrows creasing his brow. When he reached the left one, he swore under his breath and dug his hand in.
It reappeared full of bone-shaped treats.
