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At one time we were close doing fun things together. Then on the night of his sixteenth birthday, everything changed. All because of that one disastrous kiss, he no longer wanted anything to do with me.
No more shooting hoops together on the basketball court after school.
No more studying for a test together in the library after class.
No more playing Call of Duty on his PS3 on weekends, something we both loved doing.
In fact, after that night, he barely acknowledged my presence and was certainly no longer speaking to me. It was abundantly clear, he’d moved on.
I look over my shoulder at him leaning back on the sofa with his eyes closed and it’s hard to reconcile this moody man of recent years with the boy I once called a friend. I can’t imagine the man before me being joyful about anything, let alone the arrival of a new computer game. I can’t even imagine him breaking into spontaneous laughter like he would do when Katie, Sarah, and I would hang out with him at the family beach house in the weeks before the party.
At some point over the years, Logan became a people-hating grump. More serious than I would often tease him of being.
Even his apartment has the same uptight feel as its owner. All modern clean lines in shades of gray and tan, that should work but doesn’t. The whole place totally lacks warmth. There isn’t a family photo or even any personal items around the room. A hotel suite in a luxury hotel would feel more welcoming. I’m grateful to Logan for letting me stay when he obviously doesn’t want me here. And if I leave a few of my things lying around to make the place feel more lived in, then I can’t see the harm in that. Any little improvement to warm up a sterile space has to be a good thing.
One thing that hasn’t changed in the intervening years, Logan still holds a grudge against me for some reason that I can only put down to a perceived rejection of him. Honestly, our old feud is way past its expiration date in my opinion. It all started from a stupid teenage reaction by a naive girl, who had no experience with boys. If I’d had the first clue about anything, I never would have pushed him away. But a lack of understanding and too much alcohol conspired to create a moment that over the years has morphed into a habitual taunting and teasing that is hard not to retaliate against.
From the first time I laid eyes on Logan, I thought he was the hottest boy I’d ever seen. Nothing at all like the Californian boys I’d been used to. More serious and certainly, more mature. It was my second day at the new school and Katie, Sarah, and I were sitting in the cafeteria when he walked in. Maybe it was just me, but it felt like the world stopped spinning at that moment. At least that’s what I imagined in my romantic fifteen-year-old heart, and it was probably the same for a good number of the other girls sitting nearby when their heads turned in his direction. Logan even at that age had the looks of a Hollywood A-lister and the confident swagger of a rock god. In fact, he still does. I remember thinking that he was just like the boy in the young adult romance book I was reading at the time. All silly schoolgirl stuff.
“Who’s that?” I had asked the girls when I’d recovered enough for speech to come out of my dry mouth. I remember Sarah had just grinned at me, and Katie had rolled her eyes. It should have been enough of a warning. But no one had mentioned that Katie’s stepbrother was the hottest guy in our grade.
I smile to myself, thinking back to how embarrassed I was at the time. I’d been so worried that my new friends wouldn’t want to hang out with me anymore, after making a complete fool of myself. But Katie wasn’t really bothered and waved Logan over and introduced us.
Over the years I’ve decided that my reaction to seeing Logan the first time was more likely because he stood head and shoulders above the two guys he was with. I’ve always been attracted to tall guys, a carryover from my early childhood years when I felt like a freakish giant.
I don’t have a lot of happy memories of my years at school except for those ones when I moved to New York and met Katie and Sarah. They were definitely the best, filled with some of the happiest moments in my life. It was the first time I truly felt like I fit in and was accepted for who I was and not seen as odd because of how I looked, or worse, what my parents did.
Picking up a clean towel, I walk into my adjoining bathroom and lean on the sink in front of the wide mirror. I still struggle to see in my reflection what globally recognized fashion labels and cosmetics companies do. Years of being the awkward, tallest girl since my first day in kindergarten, was kind of hard to move on from. I was laughed at and called giraffe girl every time I attempted to join in.
It was only when the boys reached their teens and I was no longer the tallest did I begin to feel a little less freakish. By fourteen, I was finally able to coordinate my long lean limbs. I developed curves in all the right places and the attention from the boys was very different. I was finally developing a small degree of confidence. But then disaster struck. The life I knew came crashing down around me with my father’s arrest.
I begin to work through my skincare routine, washing away the memories of that time along with the final residues of my makeup. I don’t often allow myself to remember those painful months. Just occasionally I do look back but only so I can appreciate the life I have now.
Back in my room, I snatch up my cell from the bedside table where it’s charging and tap out a text to Sarah. Poor Sarah has already had to put up with a number of my ranting texts about Logan over the last week. It’s not like I can complain to Katie about her brother or our other friend Dana who works alongside Logan at Carlson Publishing. No, Sarah is the only one I can vent to, and like Katie, she lives in England too, so mostly we rely on texting.
Doing a quick calculation in my head to account for the time zone difference, eleven fifteen in New York is something like three or four in the morning, I’m not expecting a reply for a few hours. Nevertheless, I still type my frustration into a message.
Me: You’re never going to believe what Logan is all up in my business about now? He’s complaining about my pajamas. Asshole.
My fury at the annoying man is a fire in my belly. He’s such a hypocrite, when the day after I moved in, I found him in the kitchen leaning on the counter, in nothing but a pair of thin black sweatpants. Showing off abs so brawny and delicious I wanted to run my fingertips over every one of the ridges and valleys on a journey south. Acres of gorgeous skin on display. He didn’t speak, no surprise. Instead, he just pushed off the counter and sauntered over to the fridge like I wasn’t even there. Stepping toward the coffee machine, my eyes remained glued to the slow play of sculpted muscles across his back. I tracked them all the way down to where the sweats hung so low on his hips they threatened to display his butt crack.
How dare he complain about my state of undress in the apartment after that.
I send the text to Sarah and three little dots appear telling me she’s replying.
Sarah: Interesting!!
Me: Interesting would be why you are up and responding to my texts at this time in the morning.
Sarah: I was just saying goodbye to a friend.
Me: Does this friend come with benefits?
Sarah: He might. But back to you. I wonder why what you wear bothers Logan.
Me: I know. Why does he want me to wear a bathrobe like I’m a granny or something?
Sarah: Maybe he wants you only to wear a bathrobe and nothing else.
