Page 82 of Here We Go Again
“Maybe… it just doesn’t add up, right?” Logan crosses and recrosses her arms, then continues talking like a film noir detective. “Who is that excited to see an ex? Joe left him after fifteen years with nothing more than a note. Probably broke his heart. And he’s just… happy to see him? Just like,I named my gallery after you and I’ve been waiting for you forever?”
“Was that accent… Australian?”
“I don’t buy it.” Logan shakes her head. “No one is that open with their heart.”
Rosemary stares up at the heavy bags under her eyes and the snarl of her bushy eyebrows. She wants to reach out for Logan, but she doesn’t know how. “I-I thought it might be nice to give Joe and Remy a little privacy, so I found us a place to get dinner that I think you’ll love.”
Logan frowns. “We’re just going to leave Joealonewith a stranger? How do we know Remy isn’t turning Odie into a fur coat as we speak?”
“You do know101 Dalmatiansisn’t based on a true story, right?”
Ocean Springs is the kind of place where your auto mechanic kindly offers to give you a ride to dinner after she closes the shop. Gladys has a rusty old pickup, and they sit three across in the cab, with Rosemary straddling the gear shift. Gladys plays Brandi Carlisle the entire fifteen-minute drive.
As the pickup crunches over a gravel parking lot, a huge sign becomes visible in the dark: “The Shed Barbeque & Blues Joint.” Above the name is a giant, winking pig welcoming them into his warm embrace.
“What the hell is this place?” Logan asks her. “It looks like your personal nightmare.”
“But it looks like your dream.”
They thank Gladys the mechanic and head toward the pig sign. The restaurant is a collection of low-slung wood buildings with tin roofs—literalsheds—and the line to order is out the door. There is a giant list of all the awards they’ve won for their barbecue and the Food Network shows they’ve appeared on. License plates hang from the rafters inside and kitschy signs cover the walls, and it’s just the kind of tacky Americana shit Logan loves. Still, her weird mood persists, even as she orders a giant platter of beef brisket.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rosemary asks when they find themselves at a picnic table outside.
Logan takes the plastic utensils out of their sleeve. Rosemary can’t believe she’s about to eat a meal that’s served with wet wipes. Logan stares down at her towering mountain of food, then jerks her gaze back to Rosemary. “We had sex last night.”
Rosemary’s first bite of macaroni salad turns to stone halfway down her throat. “And… that’s why you’re in a bad mood?”
“Yes,” she grumbles. “Wait, no. Not like that. Shit. Sorry. Hayley fucking Kiyoko—that’s the greatest thing my lips have ever touched.” She’s not talking about last night; she’s talking about her first bite of beef brisket. “Hurry, try your pulled pork.”
Rosemary hesitantly obeys and gathers a bite with her plastic fork and knife. “Eleanor fucking Roosevelt!”
“See!”
“Holy hell!” Rosemary shovels in another forkful of saucy, tender meat into her mouth. “I truly might orgasm from this pulled pork.”
“Right there with you,” Logan agrees with a moan. Her hazel eyes have lightened again, and for a few minutes, their communication is limited to exchanging tastes of their food while making sex noises, emphatically pointing at the biscuits, the fried okra, the mac salad.
Rosemary delights in the way her stomach expands into the waist of her dress. Logan has barbecue sauce all over her face, and Rosemary wishes she had the confidence to wipe it off, the way Logan had done with the powdered sugar earlier.
“So, um,” Logan eventually says. “The sex…”
Delights are short-lived. “Yes…?” Rosemary isn’t sure what Logan wants here. A play-by-play debrief? A Yelp review? A solemn vow that they’ll never speak of it again?
“I-I should’ve checked in with you first thing this morning,” Logan says sullenly. “I should’ve asked how you’re feeling about what happened and made sure you’re okay, but I’ve been in my own head about it. I’m sorry.”
Rosemary crosses her legs under the table, then uncrosses them, then rubs the side of her heel against Logan’s calf, because if she doesn’t touch this other woman immediately, she might explode. “How areyoufeeling about the sex?”
Logan stares down at the carnage of her plate. “I feel guilty, Rosemary.”
Rosemary breaks contact with Logan’s leg. “How come?”
“Because it was your first time, and I’m”—Logan lifts her arms, then lets them fall back to her sides—“a fuckboy.”
The plastic fork slips out of Rosemary’s hand and clanks dully on her tray. Right. Of course.
Rosemary should have expected this. Last night felt like something special, for both of them. Like they were both peeling off the carefully crafted layers they show to the outside world to reveal the rawness underneath. Watching Logan touch herself, she could almost see the years of feigned apathy and indifference and guardedness dissolving into the water. Or she thought she could.
But here they are twenty-four hours later, and Logan is insisting she’s still that careless fuckboy. That whatever Rosemary thought they shared in that tub was an illusion.
