Page 4 of Logan
The soft lavender paint on the walls is faded now, the corners cluttered with old knick-knacks I didn’t bother to pack when I moved out. It smells faintly like dust and the vanilla candle my mom used to light in here when she cleaned.
After almost eight years, I moved back home. The words echo in my head like a sentence I never imagined saying out loud. I tried finding another local job, but nothing was available in my field. Every application, every polite phone call, every follow-up wasmet with silence. Deep down, I know why. I’m pretty sure Mr. Watson made sure that any hotel within driving distance knew not to hire me.
I had considered going to the management above him writing everything down, taking it to someone who could fire him. But even in my angriest moments, the thought of walking back into that building made my stomach twist. I wanted to put it all behind me, shove it into some dark corner of my mind and never have to see his face again. And realistically? It would be his word against mine.
That night, he even texted me with one neat, impersonal message saying he was sorry he couldn’t offer me the position, but that was “no reason for walking out during my shift.” A neat little way to rewrite what happened. Covering his ass. Turning the truth into a messy, unwinnablehe said, she said.
I tell myself it’s better this way. That walking away was my choice.
The truth is, I wasn’t really that happy living in the city anyway. My apartment was small, clean, and painfully quiet. I didn’t have many friends there, so my nights were a rotation of working late shifts or binge-watching Netflix until I fell asleep on the couch. In a way, maybe all of this was a much-needed way out a brutal one, but an out nonetheless. Still, I could never rationalize packing up my life and leaving without a job or some kind of plan. I wasn’t runningjustbecause I was lonely.
Right now, I just need to take a minute to breathe. To rebuild the savings I blew through just trying to survive these past weeks. Thank God my lease was month-to-month because it made breaking it almost too easy when everything came crashing down.
My plan is simple: find a job here, save as much money as I can, and let the dust settle. After that, I’ll decide if I want to stay, reestablish my roots, or disappear to someplace where no one knows my name. For now, the first step is finding work.
In Bartsville, that means the local newspaper. My mom pulled one for me this morning, the thin stack of pages folded neatly in half, smelling faintly of ink. Here, job hunting is still done in print an entire town stubbornly holding onto the idea that not everything has to live on a screen.
Driving back into town earlier, I couldn’t help the memories that came rushing in. The best and worst times of my life all happened here, and most of them within the span of a single year. Every street corner, every storefront carries a ghost. And a part of me, an instinct I can’t seem to shake, feelshimhere. His presence like static in the air. It makes me want to turn my car around and run in the other direction.
Because he is the reason I left. Or… ran.
Pushing that thought down, I pick up the paper and settle into the creaky desk chair by the window. Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, dust motes drifting lazily in the warm glow. I flip to the classifieds, scanning the tiny print.
A few babysitting jobs. Not terrible, but they wouldn’t rebuild anything close to the kind of savings I need.
A retail position. Possible… but I know myself. Half my paycheck would be gone before I even got it, swallowed up by impulse purchases and “employee discounts.”
And then the last posting catches my eyeBartender, six nights a week, at Ambrosia.
I’ve never even heard of it before, but the name sounds sleek. Mysterious. From what I’ve heard, bartenders can make goodmoney, sometimes great money if the place stays busy. Maybe I could get out of here sooner than I planned. Maybe I could even line up a few odd jobs during the day to pad my savings.
I dial the number listed before I can overthink it, the phone cool against my ear. A woman’s voice answers, brisk but not unfriendly. We talk for less than five minutes, and somehow, I hang up with an interview scheduled for tomorrow with the manager.
It’s only when I set my phone down that I realize…
How exactly do you dress for an interview at a bar?
Chapter Two
Logan
Some people don't know when to quit and that's why they quit
Some need to hit the bottom to see they got a problem, they can't handle it
But that ain't why I started cleaning up my life
Wish it was but, that would be a lie
I've been sober 'cause there ain't no hangover like you
- ‘Drunk Me’ Mitchell Tenpenny
Walking into Ambrosia, I’m surprised how crowded it is on a Monday afternoon. The hum of conversation mixes with the low thump of bass from the speakers, and the scent of whiskey and perfume hangs heavy in the air. I scan the room automatically, a habit from years of reading a space before I settle in.
I look at the stage and see Darcy up there, hips swaying in a way that’s supposed to be seductive but just looks practiced. She gives me a wink as she drops into a split, the sequined fabric of her top catching the dim light. At least she fucks better than she dances.
Darcy’s been around a lot, hoping one of us will fall for her and make her an old lady. Difference is, no brother is going to give that title to a chick everyone in the club has alreadyhad. Giving someone that title isn’t something to fuck around with. These girls think it’s the same as being a girlfriend, but it’s not even close. If anything, you could compare it to marrying a woman but even that doesn’t hold up. You can divorce your wife. Making a chick your old lady is permanent. One and done.
