Page 51 of Neat
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dad lied. Iknewit was a lie, but I didn’t press him on it. “And don’t turn this on me. Why was Logan Becker at your shop?”
“Unpacking boxes, building furniture, hanging art, setting up and organizing supplies in a way that would make sense for classes. He washelping,” I emphasized. “Which is more than any of you three have done, and you’re my family. So, back off.”
Mom seemed to relax a bit, reaching for her mimosa for a sip, but Dad narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be hanging out with him outside of what’s necessary during your training at the distillery.”
“Yeah, well, you also didn’t think it was a good idea for me to pierce my nose, but, here we are.”
“Do not get smart with me, young lady,” he barked, and Malcolm snickered, which earned him a swift kick to the shin under the table.
“Relax,” I said as my brother rubbed his leg. “I’m not hooking up with Logan Becker, Dad.”
Mom gasped. “Mallory Loraine!”
“What?” I shrugged. “That’s what he’s thinking. That’s why he’s all freaked out.”
“That’s enough, Mallory,” Dad warned under his breath, and it was just as our appetizer of cinnamon bread was brought to the table. He smiled at the waiter, thanking him, and glared at me one last time before he unraveled his napkin. “I just want to remind you to keep your distance and remember the deal we have in place. I wouldn’t want you to lose everything you’ve worked so hard for over something stupid.” His eyes hardened, but then he pulled his gaze away, smiling at Mom and reaching over to squeeze her hand. “Now, I think we’ve had enough of this talk at the table. Malcolm, tell us how things are going in the marketing department.”
That launched the conversation back into Scooter Whiskey territory — the most comfortable subject for my father — and launchedmeback into my own thoughts. I let myself tune out, hearing my father’s warning as I envisioned Logan’s smile, his honey gold eyes, his ridiculous arms that I’d felt up close and personal last night.
My chest tightened, because I never considered all the things that would comeaftera night like last night. And now that I was sitting at the table with three reminders of why I never should have eventhoughtof kissing Logan, let alone going through with it, I realized how careless I’d been.
Normally, I wouldn’t have cared. Normally, I would have freakingmarriedLogan Becker, if it meant giving my father an ulcer and distancing myself more from the family name.
But normally, I didn’t have an art studio on the line, and not a prayer of making it happen without my father’s help.
My thoughts were a hurricane as I sat mute through the rest of brunch, and by the time I got home, all I wanted to do was take a hot shower and sleep the afternoon away. I walked straight upstairs, slung my keys and purse on the coffee table, and started stripping.
But I stopped right in the middle of the room.
Nothing in my apartment was how I’d left it. The dirty dishes were washed and laid in the rack to dry, my bathroom counter was wiped down, my hair product all put away on the shelf, flat irons and curling irons tucked away into a basket on the counter that I forgot I even owned. The bed was made, the tables cleared, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say the floors were swept and mopped, too.
And every single wall was decorated with my paintings, sketches, photographs, and awards.
They were everywhere — the sunset photo I’d captured on the white, sandy beach in Alabama, the self-portrait sketch I’d been assigned to do my second year in school, the shockingly bright and vivid painting I’d done of a trio of jazz musicians on the street in New Orleans. Even my diploma — which, before, had been curled up and tossed into a box of other worthless things — was flattened and framed, the wrinkles of my treatment of it barely visible.
I covered my smile, shaking my head as I looked around the room. “Oh, Logan Becker,” I whispered to myself. “What kind of strange creature are you?”
In the middle of the bed was a note, scrawled on the same sketch paper I’d left him one on that morning. When I picked it up, I laughed again at the stick-figure drawing — a girl and a boy in a very promiscuous position, her bent at the waist, him behind her, both of them smiling.
Thanks for the coffee, and for a great night. Made the bed, but fair warning — there’s still paint on the sheets. I thought about washing them, but decided I wanted you to go to bed with a reminder of me. Try not to get too turned on without me here. See you at work. — L
My cheeks shaded, and I pressed my hand to the heat there, shaking my head at the note.
I was in a special kind of trouble now.
Logan
Later that Sunday evening, all my brothers and I were gathered around the fire pit in Mom’s backyard, kicked back, each with a drink in our hand. The night was quiet, save for the sounds of us sipping and the soft music coming from inside the house. Mom was in there making dinner, singing and bopping along to her favorite Fleetwood Mac album. Something about the quietness made me miss the summer, when the katydids chirped loud throughout the night, and the fireflies flickered on and off in the yard.
I’d tried my best to get my mind off Mallory, but had mostly failed. Church had been a small distraction, and I’d gotten in a good workout afterward, using my own bodyweight as torture until my muscles were aching and sweat was rolling off every inch of me. But now that I was quiet again, my hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey and my eyes watching the fire dance, all thoughts bounced back to her.
I hadn’t heard from her.
I expected a text when she got home and seen that I’d cleaned up her place, but nothing came. Neither of us had initiated talking about last night, and the longer the silence stretched between us, the more my stomach turned.
I wondered if she regretted it.
