Page 90 of Here We Go Again
“You’re methodical and organized and a boss-ass leader,” Logan corrects. “I never could’ve done this trip without your binder and your planning and your ability to think ahead. You keep us moving forward, and it’s because of you that Joe is getting the death trip he wanted.”
They’re surrounded by water, but Rosemary’s mouth has gone completely dry. “Thank you, Logan.”
“But…” Logan’s arms move in slow circles. “The Rosemary I knew as a kid also liked to take risks.”
Rosemary frantically kicks her legs under the water but tries to look calm where Logan can see her above the surface. “Risks are…” She searches for the right word. “Risky.” She cringes.
Logan is silent, but in the fragments of moonlight, Rosemary can see the hurt tugging at the corner of her mouth. She wants to give Logan more than evasive answers. She wants to givemoreof herself. “My dad, Malcolm… did I ever tell you how he died?”
She shakes her head.
“It was an overdose,” she hears herself say, even though the words feel detached from her mouth. “He struggled with mental illness his whole life. Undiagnosed, of course, because he didn’t believe in therapy. He self-medicated to deal with it. Alcohol, then opioids, because he had a bad back.”
She’s already so tired from treading water, so tired from unearthing the things she’s buried in the deepest parts of her. Logan—whohas always known her better than anyone—knows how tired she is without Rosemary saying anything. She swims a little closer, wraps an arm around Rosemary’s waist, and helps her stay afloat. Their faces are so close, she switches to whispering. “Growing up, my dad always told me our brains worked the same way. We saw the world in similar ways. When he was healthy, he was an artist, too. Kept a pottery wheel out in a shed in the garden. And when he died—” She chokes on the story. It feels like a tennis ball has lodged itself in her throat, and she can’t swallow around it.
“When he died,” Logan repeats in a low voice, “you thought you had to always play it safe to avoid becoming him.”
The hazel of Logan’s eyes is too intense, tooseeing. Rosemary looks down at the black surface of the water. “I am like him. I got unhealthy, and I coped by self-medicating.”
Logan wraps her slick legs around Rosemary’s, tilting her body so all her weight is resting on Logan. She doesn’t even have to tread water, but she keeps circling her arms anyway. “I’m going to say the same thing to you that you said to me in Santa Fe. You’re not like your dad. Because you do believe in therapy. Because you try so damn hard all the time.”
Rosemary finally stops fighting and lets herself rest against Logan’s body.
“You’re allowed to be a flawed person, Rosemary. You’re allowed to take risks and make mistakes.”
“It doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”
Logan murmurs in understanding. “I get that. But I need you to know something, Rosie.” She melts a little, hearing that nickname in Logan’s coarse whisper. “Your brain is the most beautiful thing about you. And I’m including your soft ass in this list.”
She barks out a laugh and breaks the quiet tension of the moment.
“I’m serious,” Logan deadpans. “Your brain is an asset. Not a liability.”
And that’s when Rosemary stops laughing and starts kissing her. She kisses her like they weren’t just talking about dead dads. Or, maybe, she kisses her like theywere. She kisses her like she unearthed something important about herself, and Logan didn’t run away.
Logan tangles around her even more as she kisses her back just as fiercely. She’s weightless, drifting in the circle of Logan’s arms. “Acres and acres and acres of you,” Rosemary mutters.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ROSEMARY
“I’m bored,” Logan declares one hazy, lazy afternoon.
Much to her apparent chagrin, no one responds. Joe and Remy are working on their puzzle, while Van Morrison sings about how these are the days from the record player. Rosemary has her laptop on her thighs, and she’s writing all the imperfect words.
Apparently frustrated that she didn’t get more of a reaction, Logan throws her paperback across the living room. “I said, I’mbored.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to do about it,” Rosemary answers without looking up from her laptop.
“Joe!” she shouts. “I’m bored!”
“Boredom is a sign of a lazy mind,” Remy calls back from the kitchen.
“Or a neurodivergent one!”
“Hmm. Fair point.” Remy comes to stand in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room. “What’s the cure?”
Logan languishes on the couch like she’s fainted and needs to be revived. “I don’t know. It’s a deep-seated boredom, and it’s filled my bones with lead and my brain with worms.”
