Page 69 of Neat
“Let’s make one.”
Mallory
That weekend was the best weekend of my life.
I woke the next morning with Logan’s arms around me, his legs weaved through mine, my back to his chest. We’d kicked the covers off, but the warmth from his body alone was enough to sustain me. I’d rolled in his arms, watching him sleep and thinking over the promise we’d made the night before.
To make a universe — one where we could be together.
It didn’t exist. That much, we both knew for sure. There wasn’t a day anywhere in the future where his family or my family would be okay with us being together. But sometime in the last month, we’d decided it didn’t matter anymore.
Logan had kissed my nose when he woke up, smiling and running his fingers through my hair as he watched me. I could tell he was just as worried as I was, that he was wondering if what we’d said in the dark still held true in the light. He’d told me to stay in bed, brought me coffee and made us breakfast, and then we’d sat there in the sheets we’d made love in, and we’d talked.
He’d asked me if I wanted to be with him, and I’d said yes. I asked him if he was ready for the consequences of being with me, and he’d said yes. And that was all it took. Neither of us were in a rush, we knew we had time before we needed to tell anyone. For a while, we wanted to keep it between us — mostly because we were selfish, but a little because I needed to find a way to talk to my dad before we told him.
Logan was sure his family would come around, that they would support him eventually — even if it took a while. And from what he’d told me about them, I believed it. They may never fully approve, but his brothers would stand behind their brother, his mom would stand behind her son. There was love there, and understanding, and communication.
All three of those things were missing in my family.
I couldn’t imagine a day or scenario where I told my father I was falling in love with Logan Becker and he said, “That’s just swell!”I needed to think, to figure out a way to prove to him that Logan wasn’t whatever it was my father thought he was. I needed to show him that I didn’t do this just to piss him and Mom off, but because I cared about Logan — more than I’d cared about anyone before.
If Dad found out before I had a plan, everything would crumble. He’d take my shop, kick me out of the apartment above it that I called home, and if I knew him well enough, he’d find a way to take it out on Logan, too.
That was what scared me most.
So, with a promise to each other that we were together, but that we both needed time before we told anyone, we ate breakfast in bed, and then Logan laid me down in those sheets and made love to me slowly, sweetly, with his eyes watching mine, his arms trembling on either side of my head where they held him above me.
And the best weekend of my life continued.
It was absolute bliss, playing house with Logan. It was the first weekend of the shop being open, so all day long on Saturday, I was downstairs, hosting classes and talking to potential customers who would stop in on their walk down Main Street to find out more about what we offered. Logan was there, too, for a while — helping restock supplies, ringing people up at the Square register, cleaning up after one class so that I could get ready for the other. But when Mrs. Brownstein came in with her children, casting us questioning looks, we knew it was a little too dangerous. Nearly everyone in town knew our family history, and we didn’t need word getting back to either of our families before we were ready.
So, Logan went home for the day, working on cracking the password to his father’s hard drive and — God bless — working on that perfect body of his, too. Then we met up for a late dinner at my place, and he told me about the Elon Musk book he was reading while I told him about the hidden art talent in Stratford. We spent Saturday night tangled up in each other, talking and laughing and never even bothering to get dressed, because we knew it wouldn’t be long before we’d peel those clothes off once again.
And Sunday, we did it all over again.
Logan didn’t leave my place until bright and early Monday morning, giving himself the day to shower and shop and get ready for our Christmas party at work. It was Christmas Eve, and the entire distillery was off for the next two days, but the Scooter Whiskey Christmas party wasn’t exactly optional for the employees. It was always a grand affair, with Mom going all out with catering and a band just like she loved to do, and Dad giving himself an excuse to talk into a microphone, just likeheloved to do. They’d both made it very clear that I was expected to be there, and Logan and his entire family would be there, too.
Even though the last thing I wanted to do was put on another dress I didn’t feel comfortable in and play into the politics of Stratford, I knew it would be bearable with Logan there. I looked forward to stolen kisses in dark hallways, to watching him from across the room without anyone knowing I’d had him in my bed all weekend, and most of all, to coming home tonight and knowing he’d be coming home with me.
I floated on a high all day long, even when Chris dragged me an hour out of town to the packed mall crawling with last-minute Christmas gift shoppers to find me a dress to wear to the party. I didn’t even complain when he had me trying on heels to match, or when he insisted on paying to get my hair and makeup done by one of the girls at the salon there. We stopped by his place long enough for him to put on a well-tailored, navy blue suit and a red tie that matched my dress, and then we were off, headed to the distillery.
“Logan is going to have to sit on his hands to keep from touching you all night in that dress,” Chris said as we made our way across the parking lot. A hundred other cars were parking, too, and the clouds swirled with a threat of snow above us.
“I’ll have to tell him to thank you.”
“Oh, trust me, you wouldn’t be okay with how I’d let Logan Beckerthankme.”
I poked him in the rib, and he laughed, holding his arm out for me to loop mine through.
“Come on. Let’s see if your mom made any of that boozy eggnog we used to steal when we were teenagers.”
The wind whipped cold against our faces as we huddled together and made our way inside the distillery. The party was being held in the only event space the distillery had, which was usually reserved for schmoozing possible partners or big clients. I gasped when we pushed through the doors, gawking and doing a full three-sixty turn as one of the pew boys from church took my coat.
“Whoa,” Chris murmured, looking around with me. “Your mom really went all out.”
And she had. It was a winter wonderland inside that old warehouse. Blue up-lights cast the walls and ceiling in a beautiful cerulean blue, and fake snow fell from the ceiling in the form of little foam bubbles. As soon as the flakes hit the ground, they disappeared, but there was scene after scene of wintery fun lining the room — a snow man, a little forest of trees, a small log cabin with the chimney churning out light smoke, an actual fire pit that had people sitting around it making s’mores. The dance floor was already covered with distillery employees and their families doing line dances to the country music the band was playing, and there were carolers making their way around the room, singing Christmas songs softly — just loud enough to be heard by those in very near proximity.
We made our way deeper inside with our mouths still gaping, and someone handed us what appeared to be champagne, but it was tinged a light pink. When we tasted it, Chris’s eyes widened.
