16
The Hideaway
The instant we pulled up to the small building on the dark street, thunder boomed so loud it rattled the Town Car’s windows. The sky split open, letting loose a sheet of rain.
Logan leaned over me to peer out the window. “It’s a monsoon.”
Our driver, an older man whose name I’d learned was Nigel, nodded. “The news reported strange weather patterns in the area.” He eyed us in the rearview and spoke excitedly, giving off big dad-whose-weather-channel-watching-has-finally-paid-off energy. “They’re saying the hot and cold air has been gusting up unpredictably. Opposite forces coming together. We’re in for a ride tonight. Maybe the thunderstorm of the year.”
I’d be drenched the minute I stepped outside. These heels were not made for walking, especially in a flood.
Beside me, Logan laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“First the lightning storm, now this.”
“You’re laughing because whoever’s in charge of the universe hates us? Bold move, angering her further.”
“I’m laughing because there are still people who say climate change isn’t real. Take one look outside, fuckers. We’ve had more storms in the past few months than we usually have all year.”
“What did I tell you about swearing?” Nigel asked, wagging his finger.
“I’m not putting dollars in a swear jar, Nigel. I’d be broke in a week.”
I shook my head. “You and my sister are the only two people I know who laugh maniacally at bad weather.”
“You want to make a break for it?” He glanced down at my feet. “Or I can carry you if you’re worried about slipping.” He must’ve read my expression, because he said, “Yeesh. Fine, too soon.”
“Run on three. One, two—”
Logan burst out of the door and sprinted toward the bar, hands shielding his face.
“You didn’t wait,” I screeched, scrambling after him, then doubling back when I realized I forgot to shut the car door. “You monster!”
The rain was ice-cold. It took less than a second to soak through my clothes entirely, which I knew because there’s no mistaking the feel of rainwater in your underwear. I stilt-walked as fast as I could to the entrance, where Logan stood under a green-and-white awning, holding the door open. He ushered me in and swung the door shut, and suddenly the pounding rain was replaced by the melancholic strings of a country song as the lights and warmth of the bar enveloped us.
The handful of bar patrons stopped talking to stare. I glanced at Logan and understood why—besides being a semifamous person, he currently looked like a six-foot-two drowned rat. I could only imagine what a sight I must be. My navy pantsuit clung to me like a second skin, and when I squeezed my hair, a small waterfall poured down. I waited for someone to recognize Logan and call him over, but all the bar patrons simply went back to their business.
“Come on,” he said, nodding to the bar. I followed him, studying the place. It was tiny, no more than ten tables, and everything was made of old weathered wood. It was a dive, and not the trendy kind the hipsters had made popular on the east side. This was old-school, a dingy dartboard in one corner, a beat-up jukebox in the other, and old sepia photographs of men in cowboy hats lining the walls.
At the bar, a middle-aged guy in pearl snaps stood rinsing glasses. “Hey Jimmy, you care that we’re dripping all over your floor?”
The bartender grunted and tossed Logan a single cocktail napkin. I guessed that meant no.
“It’s mostly whiskey and beer here,” Logan said, handing me the napkin. I took it gratefully, dabbing under my eyes. When I pulled it back, I noticed a simple logo scrawled across the center: The Hideaway. How appropriate that this was Logan’s favorite bar. The man was a hideaway himself. He managed to be at once so public—literally, his opinions splashed in news coverage across the state—and yet so private, his innermost feelings closed to everyone. I especially couldn’t seem to get a read on him.
As I was preparing to order, all the lights in the bar blinked out. A wave of groans echoed from the tables.
“Don’t worry,” Jimmy boomed. A match sparked as he lit a candle, placing it at the end of the bar. “Been open thirty years. No storm’s gonna stop us now. I’m still slinging if you’re still buying.” He lit a second candle and placed it under Logan’s face. The light danced over him like he was sitting around a campfire.
“You sure you want to stick around?” Logan asked. “I understand if you don’t.”
I sloshed closer to the bar. “Are you kidding? I’ll take a Jack and Coke, please, Jimmy. Better make it a double.”
Once we’d been served our drinks in Jimmy’s finest plastic cups, Logan crooked a finger at me. “Come on. This is how you’re going to unwind.”
“Darts?” He was leading me to the board in the back corner. “You’re asking me, a person with zero athletic ability, to throw needles in a blackout. I don’t think you understand the concept of relaxing.”
“Look, Jimmy’s giving us candles.” And indeed he was, placing two on a nearby table, giving our corner a warm glow. Logan set his drink down and pressed his hands together. “You’re not going to make me beg, are you? Because that would be embarrassing for all of us.”
“You’ll never unsee it,” Jimmy agreed gruffly.
I stuck out my hands. “Fine, give me the darts.”
I was red—queen of hearts, Logan said—and he was black. I tossed my first dart and it narrowly skirted Logan’s nose before clattering into the wall. He turned to me, amazed. “Should I be offended?”
“Told you. My lack of physical coordination is practically a party trick.”
He peeled off his blazer and hung it over the back of a chair, then rolled up his wet sleeves. In the candlelight, his dress shirt was practically translucent, clinging to his chest. Oblivious to my staring, he squared up, faced the dartboard, and sailed a dart easily into the triple ring.
I narrowed my eyes. “Just how often do you play?”
“Oh, I never get to anymore.” He chalked his score on the board. “Trust me, I’m rusty.” As if to prove his point, he tried another and missed the ring entirely.
I squared up like I’d watched him do. Was it left foot first, or right?
“Here,” he said, walking toward me. “May I?”
I took a deep breath. “Sure.”
Logan’s hands found my hips, tugging me toward him. “You’re right-handed, so you’ll want to stand like this.”
I shivered against the warmth of his hands. The last time he’d held me this close was when he’d lifted me on top of the elevator handrail.
“And hold the dart like this.” He put his arms around me and adjusted my fingers. “More control.” He glanced down. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” I said, unable to tell him it was ten percent rain, ninety percent his proximity.
“No, we can fix this.” Ever the problem solver, Logan ran his hands up and down my arms, creating friction. “You look like some Victorian heroine come off the moor after a gale. Elizabeth Bennett or something.”
I don’t think he realized the enormity of the compliment. I swallowed hard as he continued to rub his hands over my arms.
“Regency,” I murmured.
He stopped, hands resting on my shoulders. “What?”
“Regency heroine, not Victorian. Jane Austen published Pride and Prejudice in 1813... Never mind. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He laughed. “You’re funny.”
I squared up again and Logan stepped back. My muscles were loose and languid now, and when I tossed the dart, it landed in the outermost ring.
I gasped. “I got on the board!”
Logan tapped his glass to mine. “Cheers. Here’s an idea. Why don’t we make the game more interesting?”
“No way I’m letting you fleece me. I’m not that much of a sucker.”
He put his hands up, the portrait of innocence. “Hear me out. No money involved. We’ll play for something else. And for every dart you get on the board, you’ll get double the prizes. I’ll have to sink a bull’s-eye to get one. You’ll never get a better offer.”
Hmm. I took off my own blazer and hung it carefully over the back of a chair, smoothing the wrinkles. I was acutely aware of how much this jacket had cost the Democratic Party. “It’s an intriguing proposal.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. In the flickering candlelight, I could see the muscles flexing in his forearms. “What prize are we playing for?”
What did I want most from Logan? The answer came easily: I wanted to climb inside his head, know what he was thinking. But I couldn’t say that, so I said the next best thing: “The truth. Whoever sinks their dart gets to ask the other a question, or two in my case. Honest answers only.”
“Truth darts. A politician’s nightmare.”
“Oh, you’re no politician.” When he raised his eyebrows, I added, “I mean, not a very typical one.”
“I see the honest thoughts are coming out already. Putting my ego on notice.” Logan dropped the red darts into my hands. “Losers first.”
Cheeky. I eyed the dartboard and made a silent plea to my arms: We want this. We are highly incentivized. If ever there was a time for a miraculous showing of athleticism, it’s now. I pulled back and let the dart fly.
Right into the triple ring.
“No way.” My hands flew to my mouth. “I didn’t think that would actually work.”
Logan stared at the board. “You hustled me.”
“That was one hundred percent beginner’s luck. Now pay up.”
He dropped into a chair. “Man, Nora would kill me for agreeing to this. She says sorry for missing your speech, by the way. The campaign got invited to another event tonight. We had to tag team.”
I sat down in the chair facing him. “I guess you drew the short stick?”
“Actually, I traded her to go to yours.”
I blinked. He smiled, looking down at one of the candles as he cupped his hand over the flame. “It was this dental association gala. Black-tie. I hate the penguin suits.”
Right. Logan trading to avoid putting on a tux made more sense than Logan trading because he was dying to watch my speech. I studied him from across the table. It was unfair, really, how beautiful he was. Moody lighting only made it more obvious, made his strong features more pronounced, showed that his lashes were so long they cast shadows. The candlelight flickering over his skin lent him a sense of motion, an outward restlessness that matched his mind inside. I could look at him forever and never grow tired of it. “Is this what your whole life is like? Double-booked on weekends, never any time for yourself?”
He shrugged, still watching the candle. “We’re only two months out from election day. And I’ve been working on this for so long, can’t let up now. Besides, I get little pockets of freedom.” His eyes lifted. “Like tonight.”
“It doesn’t seem like anyone here recognizes you.”
“I would be very surprised if Jimmy’s regulars knew who the president was.”
“So that’s why you like it—the anonymity?”
“No. I like it because this place reminds me of home.”
“The old-school cowboy vibes?”
He bent over his drink and pulled out the little black straw, sticking it in his mouth. “Simple, unpretentious. Like Odejo. Which is far from perfect, but I do miss it from time to time.” He chugged the rest of his drink and dropped it on the table, ice sloshing. “Were those your two questions?”
“Oh, no.” I shook my head. “You gave that away for free.”
He winced. “All that media training and I’m still making rookie mistakes.”
Wordlessly, Jimmy walked up and dropped two fresh drinks on the table. “Thanks, Jim,” Logan said, as he returned to the bar.
“Did you order those?”
Logan shook his head. “Clairvoyance is one of many reasons Jimmy’s great. Hit me with your questions.”
“Okay. First one.” Something that would crack Logan wide open. “What’s your favorite childhood memory?”
I waited for his expression to change—a look of contempt, a groan, anything—but he stayed motionless. Finally, he said, “I can’t tell you. You’ll laugh.”
“What? No, I won’t. You can trust me.”
He was quiet again, looking at me steadily across the table. Then he said, “Okay. My favorite memory is winning first place in the 4-H livestock competition when I was in eighth grade. With my pig Wilbur. Who I raised from a piglet.”
My God. An image of him at thirteen flashed into my mind, clad in overalls and a red bandana—I assumed that’s what farm kids wore—hugging a pig as someone handed him a blue ribbon. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. I’d promised not to laugh.
“You can ask a follow-up,” he said gruffly.
“Oh, thank God.” The questions flew out of me. “How often did you compete—was it like, a regular part of your childhood? What did you wear to the shows? How did you train Wilbur? Obviously, you’ve read Charlotte’s Web. Was that your favorite book as a kid?” Knowing his favorite childhood book would be a Logan Information Holy Grail.
His eyes lifted to the ceiling, as if asking some higher power to lend him strength. When he spoke, he did it quickly, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid. “When I was young, my parents tried their hand at pig farming. I hated the idea of raising animals to kill them, so the first time one of their sows had a litter, I put my foot down. My parents were planning to raise the piglets to sell to a slaughterhouse, but I convinced them not to. Truthfully, I was a pretty big shit about it, and I don’t think they’ve forgiven me to this day. But I wore them down and they stopped. In exchange, I promised I’d take care of the piglets. Ended up getting close with one named Wilbur. Yes, I know naming a pig Wilbur is unoriginal, but in my defense, I was nine and I had just read Charlotte’s Web and I was very emotionally invested. Pigs are smart and I taught Wilbur a few tricks that made him popular at fairs, and we began winning money. My parents made their expenses back, I proved I was right about not killing the pigs, and Wilbur lived a long and happy life. The end. It’s not a big deal,” he added brusquely.
I blinked. “Your best friend was a pig.”
“You promised not to laugh.”
“Your first political victory. You should tell that story to everyone, all the time. Like, every reporter.”
“So they can go all moony-eyed like you?” Logan slumped in his chair. “No thanks. Let’s have your next question. I want to make my bull’s-eye and get out of the hot seat.”
I looked at him shifting uncomfortably and grinned, deciding to go easy this time. “Favorite song.”
He straightened. “They’ve got it here, actually.”
“They’ve got Rage Against the Machine in the jukebox?”
“Hilarious.” He took a sip of his drink and strode over to it. I watched him pull a dollar out of his wallet and slip it in. Within seconds, a song started, the melody low.
“Nice one,” said Jimmy from the bar.
I could barely hear it. Was it a country song? Something old-school like George Strait? Actually, it barely mattered, because Logan was walking back to me, strumming an air guitar and looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. And that was worth listening to anything, even “Amarillo by Morning.”
Just as Logan reached our table, the guitars and drums came crashing in, the singer’s voice soaring so I could finally hear the words: “I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world, just to find her.”
“Your favorite song is by Wreckless Eric? That’s so romantic of you.”
Logan ignored me, strumming his invisible instrument. “Watch this. I’m going to make it.” He grabbed a black dart as the chorus climbed. Logan threw it expertly and it landed in the triple ring, missing the bull’s-eye by a centimeter. “Shit,” he groaned.
“Condolences on sucking,” Jimmy said, sliding a pitcher of beer onto our table like some sort of magic bar fairy.
Universe, don’t fail me now. I grabbed a dart and lined up my shot. The jukebox sang “I’d go the whole wide world just to find out where they hide her,” and I grinned at the image of teenage Logan belting the words in his bedroom, then threw.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Logan gaped at the board. The song finally faded, and in the quiet he glanced at me. “Oh, you have a bad look in your eyes. I’m going to hate this next question, aren’t I?”
I summoned my courage. “You told me you didn’t want to be in a real relationship with anyone. Why?”
We were standing only a few feet apart, candlelight drawing the room closer, but still it felt like a mile. As he looked at me, his dark eyes were impossible to read.
“Because,” he said finally. “I don’t want to get my heart broken again.”
My own heart beat too fast. For the second time tonight, our intimacy felt dangerous. A warning bell echoed in the back of my mind, but I ignored it. “Who broke it the first time?”
Logan’s gaze cut away. After a beat, he said, “Tinsley Westcott.”
I folded into a chair, searching my memory. I couldn’t remember a Tinsley from Google. “How?”
He rubbed his jaw, looking at me doubtfully. “You really want the whole story? I don’t come off well.”
I nodded and he sighed, sinking back down and pouring us both beers from the pitcher. He slid one to me. “I met Tinsley in grad school.”
I sipped. “At Harvard.”
“Right. Most of the people who went to Kennedy grew up pretty different from me, but Tinsley was the most extreme. She was from this old Connecticut family, generations of Harvard legacies. I was the first in my family to go to college. She fascinated me, and for some reason, I fascinated her. Wrong side of the tracks allure, I guess. We were inseparable through grad school.”
I tried to let go of the soreness that bubbled up. It wasn’t from picturing Logan in love—though that was a little tender. It was the easy way he spoke about grad school. I’d wanted to go quite desperately, to keep following in Lee’s footsteps. The plan had been to get my master of library sciences at UT, then apply for one of those higher-paying library jobs that only took people with advanced degrees. But I’d been rejected. The only person I knew who was. All of Lee’s friends had gone to grad school. In fact, her friend Mac, who did something important in finance (no one knew exactly what), had what, nine degrees by now?
My mom had assured me life simply didn’t go our way sometimes, but I’d always attributed the rejection to the lacking in me that I couldn’t put a finger on. I felt the pang every time budget cuts rolled around and I was reminded it wasn’t only Muriel’s experience but her MLS degree that made her more valuable. Now, looking across the table at Logan, who’d gone to Harvard twice, all I could think was, boy are we cut from different cloths. He’d said this story didn’t show him in a good light, but I couldn’t look at him and see anything but a top-quality human. Golden-auraed, in Zoey-speak. Laurel-ringed, in Harvard. We were so different. What a comedy of errors for our paths to have crossed the way they did.
“After graduation,” he continued, “Tinsley followed me back to Texas. We had all of these plans. She wanted to work politics behind the scenes, and I was going to be the person out front. She was gunning for me to run for a state position right away, but I didn’t think I was ready. When I found the race for Harris County commissioner, I thought it was perfect. Tinsley cared about elections, but I was more worried about doing the job right if I won. I thought commissioner would give me good executive experience, but she was disappointed. I asked her to be part of my campaign, one of my advisors like we’d planned, but suddenly she wasn’t interested. Commissioner wasn’t ambitious enough, I guess.”
I didn’t say it, but Tinsley sounded like a real Lady Macbeth.
“I’m not proud of this, but I started to shut her out. She didn’t want to be part of my campaign, so I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of hearing about it, or invite her to events. And you know how time-consuming a campaign is: pretty soon we were living two separate lives. The week before the election, she told me she was leaving me and moving back to Connecticut. It crushed me. Thank God I was so far up in the polls, because I could hardly function the last week of the race. We barely edged it out. The night I won, after all that work, I couldn’t summon a flicker of happiness. I just kept thinking, I won, but I lost.”
“Where is she now?”
“Married to a US senator. Lives in a big house in Greenwich with two kids. She got what she wanted.” He gave me a hesitant look. “That whole...playboy thing. You might remember.”
“It rings a distant bell.”
“The problem is, it’s true. After Tinsley left, I threw myself into flings. It was...misguided, but it felt better than being sad. I had a string of meaningless hookups and got a reputation. When I started eyeing the governor’s seat and hired Nora, the first thing she told me was my personal life was going to undermine my career, and I needed to get it together. I thought, wouldn’t that be the kicker, if Tinsley left me and then my dumbass reaction was the reason I lost my dream. So I quit dating cold turkey. It makes sense anyway. I barely have time and it’s hard to trust people. Right now, I’m focused on my career.”
The message couldn’t be clearer: even if I’d wanted it, Logan’s heart was unavailable. Broken, then closed. But because I was a masochist, it took all of my willpower not to reach out and brush his hair off his forehead. It had curled in the rain, and he looked boyish and nervous sitting across from me, waiting for my reaction. I didn’t know how else to assure him his story was safe with me other than sharing one of my own.
“You were right about the night we met. I was looking for someone to have a one-night stand with. That was the plan. Meet you, use you, ditch you.”
Logan’s eyes grew darker.
“The reason—and this is mortifying, but I’m going to say it anyway—is because when Chris and I broke up, he told me I was bad in bed. Too timid and boring.”
Logan’s eyebrows shot so far north they almost touched his hairline. But he didn’t say anything, just waited for me to continue.
“So that...rattled me. And I started thinking he might be right. That night at the Fleur de Lis, I’d promised myself I’d be bold for once, act outside my comfort zone. It was supposed to be the start of a new chapter. And then you came along, and...the storm had other ideas.”
I looked at him anxiously. After a long minute, he blinked. “Is that all?”
“Yes?”
“Good.” He stood up. “Because I have to go punch a man in the face.”
I tugged on his wrist. “Sit down.”
“Call Nora and tell her we’re going to have a crisis comms situation. And bail me out, please.”
“Logan,” I groaned, pulling his wrist so hard he had no choice but to fall back into his chair.
“I can’t believe he said that to you. First of all, what a dick. Second, for whatever it’s worth, and not to make things awkward, but he’s wrong.” Logan’s voice grew husky. “You are—well, you’re the opposite of boring. Trust me.”
I could feel myself turning red. “Thank you. But I’m not mad about the way things turned out. There are some things I need to be more adventurous about. As for relationships, our whole—” I lowered my voice “—fake dating thing has made me realize I need to work on some of my toxic patterns. Casual relationships aren’t the answer. I’ve got some growing to do, but once you and I are over, I’m going to look for someone real. No offense,” I added, chancing a look at him.
His jaw was tight. “Yeah.” He idly crushed his cup. “That makes sense.”
There was a beat of silence, then he finally dropped his ruined cup. My throat thickened. No fair, a small voice whispered. His whole face is simply unfair. “Do you want to keep playing darts,” he asked, “or we could just...talk. I could get you something different to drink. Whatever you want.”
What I wanted was to stay here with him, in this tiny, candlelit bar in the middle of a blackout, asking questions and inching closer to him until Jimmy kicked us out. I wanted it so bad I knew it was exactly what I shouldn’t do. Toxic patterns and all. “I should go.”
“Really?” Logan straightened. “I mean, of course. If that’s what you want. Let me text Nigel.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Don’t be silly. He’s just around the corner. I’ll take an Uber.”
I smiled and swallowed my protests. Good that Nigel would get me home fast, actually. Then I’d go to bed fast, and fall asleep fast, and this warm, delicious night would be over before I could spend too much time luxuriating in alone time with Logan. I could rest easy knowing I was exhibiting the wise decision-making skills of a woman maturing.
I watched him thumb a quick message to Nigel, biting his full lower lip.
This ache in my chest was simply growing pains.