7
A Sip of Euphoria
No one in the history of the world had ever googled anyone as furiously as I was googling Logan Arthur. I’d assembled all the essentials for a deep dive: my favorite matching pajama set and fuzzy socks, a chenille blanket, and one of those fancy chocolate bars from the grocery store I told myself I would eat slowly, one square at a time, until the next thing I knew the whole thing had mysteriously vanished. I’d already spent a full hour down the Logan rabbit hole and showed no signs of stopping. In my defense, he was everywhere: there were endless articles, Twitter threads, and YouTube videos mentioning him. (Begging the question, once again, of how I’d failed to register his existence.) That, plus my formidable librarian research skills, meant I had plenty to chew on.
The term mixed bag was invented to describe Logan’s press coverage. No doubt, there were some great profiles, particularly among the more left-leaning outlets, with headlines like “Logan Arthur Speaks Truth to Power” and “Meet Mane’s Bold Challenger, Guaranteed to Give Him a Run for His Money.” He’d even gotten a few lifestyle media hits, articles like “Rounding Up the 10 Hottest Politicians” and “Meet this Texas Political Dreamboat,” which had in turn spawned some enthusiastic Twitter threads full of eggplant and peach emojis. But the vast majority of pundits didn’t seem to know what to do with him. “Young, Brash and Ballsy: Is Logan Arthur a Nightmare or a Godsend?” was the most obvious, but the confusion was also plain in competing headlines like: “Out of His League: Young Arthur Can’t Play the Game” followed a few days later by “Refreshing: Logan Arthur Refuses to Play Politics as Usual.” Then there was the half admiring “Logan Arthur: So Young But So Angry.”
YouTube was its own treasure trove. I watched “Logan Arthur Caught Yelling at Heckler,” which was a thirty-second clip of Logan walking out of some restaurant at night, doggedly followed by a man in a baseball cap. The guy kept saying something the camera didn’t catch, until Logan finally snapped, turning to him with a loud “Fuck off—you got nothing better to do than chase me around?” The heckler ran off, which, good call, because the way Logan had raised his shoulders reminded me of a cat hunching up to pounce. That video naturally fed into watching “Dem Candidate Caught Dropping Impressive 12 F-bombs in 10 Seconds,” which was exactly what it promised. And then my attention was snagged by “Logan Arthur and NBA Rockets Cheerleader.” That video was the oldest I’d found, dated over a year ago. In it, a bearded Logan—my heart skipped a beat—stumbled out of what looked like a bar or a club with his arm around a gorgeous, leggy blonde. He helped her into a waiting car and rolled his eyes at whoever was filming before running to the other side and hopping in. As the car sped off, I thought, Well, that sheds light on those playboy rumors.
The most recent video was from The Watcher on the Hill’s channel, and it was titled, “Arthur Buttons Up.” The text accompanying the video read: “This latest town hall marks a clear turnaround for the once-brash candidate. Obviously, someone has started listening to his PR team. Good for his career, I suppose, but this pundit for one will miss the old Arthur. Calling out corporate sponsors. Gut-punching his own party. The memorable time he called Mendax Oil CEO Sam Slittery a cockroach who would sadly survive the destruction of the planet he helped engineer. Never a dull moment.” The still image was of Logan standing behind a podium, wearing a smile that was passable—unless, like me, you’d seen the real thing. The dazzling, full-toothed grin of Logan Arthur cracking up across the table because, miraculously, you’d said something funny.
I looked up and caught my reflection in the hall mirror. If I agreed to pretend I was Logan’s girlfriend, it would be me in those videos. As in, the girl in the mirror. My brown hair was currently hanging limply over my forehead, since I hadn’t bothered to brush it before settling in, and I’d stuck on my nerdy blue-light glasses to stare at the laptop screen. Even my pajama set, originally the height of glamor (the pieces matched! Unheard of.), looked dowdy next to the sleek minidress on the leggy cheerleader. I’d gotten so caught up in the Logan of it all, I’d forgotten to consider what else saying yes would mean: namely, heaps of attention. After a lifetime of being invisible, I’d come full circle and now tried to avoid attention at all costs. Reporters, Twitter followers, all the people Logan hobnobbed with—not only would they know my name, which was bad enough, but I’d have to persuade them I was his girlfriend. Would anyone buy me after the women he’d been with?
I was tilting my head to check if I had any sleeker angles when a knock sounded at the door. I lived on a sleepy street in a neighborhood full of older houses split into duplexes and triplexes. It was popular with teachers, single-parent families, and grad students, basically all of us who needed peace and quiet for a steal. No one ever knocked except at Halloween.
It’s Logan, my brain shouted, though that made zero sense. Still, I fluffed my hair as I ran to the door. And wrenched it open to find...Zoey Carmichael?
“Lexy!” She raised a six-pack of what I assumed was beer, though the cans were tie-dyed. “Can I call you that? It’s what I call you in my head.” She grinned disarmingly, which wasn’t surprising, given disarming charm was her whole vibe. Even though she was my age, maybe a year older, Zoey was one of my sister’s friends, engaged to Lee’s grad school bestie, Annie Park. Annie’s proposal to Zoey at a lovely Italian restaurant was one of the top five most romantic experiences of my life. (And yes, all of my top romantic experiences were, strictly speaking, other people’s.) Zoey was a talented painter who seemed to be doing well for herself. I’d always thought she was nice, but given she hung with the art crowd and I hung with the...over fifty and under thirteen crowd, there wasn’t much overlap between us.
“Hi,” I said. “Um...what are you doing here?”
Zoey’s smile grew wider. She was super pretty—kind of a hipster mermaid—and rotated hair colors according to her mood. Today her long, wavy hair was a faded green, like she’d spent all summer in the pool. “Your sister said it was the anniversary of when your ex-boyfriend cheated on you, and you might need emotional support. Or, technically, she told Annie, because Annie’s a licensed therapist and all. She was hoping Annie would swing by and talk to you since Lee’s been so swamped. But I overheard and volunteered.”
Ouch, Lee. I hadn’t realized we’d reached the outsourcing-sisterly-duties phase of our relationship. I understood Lee had new responsibilities now: she’d just gotten elected, and was working hard to staff up and set her policy agenda. But Lee no longer having time for me reminded me of the period a few years ago after our dad died, when she retreated and it felt like I’d lost both my father and my sister in one fell swoop. That was an achingly lonely time I hoped to never repeat.
“Can I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, Zoey nudged her foot in the doorway and peeked inside. “Oh, it’s cute.”
“Right. Of course.” Remembering my manners, I ushered Zoey inside. “You can put your beer in the fridge.”
“It’s not beer.” When she got to the kitchen, she dropped her six-pack on the counter and twisted a can free. “It’s a euphoric beverage. Nonalcoholic. Want one?”
I accepted the can and studied it. Tie-dyed, with Happy written in large script...and that was it. “What’s in it?”
She shrugged, opening her own can. “I don’t really know. They’re mood enhancers. My friend Andromeda introduced me to them when we did Lee’s alcohol cleanse with her.”
“Is it...drugs?”
She laughed. “Of course not.” Her face grew thoughtful. “I’m like ninety percent sure.”
Well, today was a day for entertaining new possibilities, apparently. I cracked the can and took a sip. “Gingery.”
“Wait until the happy hits.” Zoey wandered past me into the living room. I followed, trying to discreetly fluff pillows and straighten things while her back was turned. “I’ve always wondered what your place looked like.”
“You have?”
“Of course.” She ran her hand over the back of my teal couch, draped with soft blankets, then moved to study my bookcases, so stuffed with books they were stacked vertical and then horizontal. I saw my place through her eyes: the shabby old furniture and abundance of plants on the windowsill, candles, and romance DVDs stacked in a tower under the television. She nodded. “It’s cool.”
“Cool?”
She ran a hand over the DVDs. “Kitschy.”
“You can be honest. I have the apartment of an eighty-year-old spinster. Or Cathy from the cartoon strip.”
She gave me a frank look. “You don’t have any cats. If you did, I’d be worried.”
I nudged my laptop screen so she couldn’t see my open tabs, a mixture of Logan Arthur Google searches and Austin SPCA kitten profiles. “Hadn’t crossed my mind.”
To my surprise, Zoey toed off her shoes, dropped onto the couch, and reached for one of my folded blankets, wrapping it like a cocoon so only her small heart-shaped face and green hair peeked out. She leaned back and sighed happily. In under five seconds, she’d made herself more at home on my couch than I’d felt anywhere.
I sat down on the other end. “I’m really happy to have you here, but why exactly did you volunteer to come over?”
“Because I want to be friends,” she said matter-of-factly.
I blinked. “You do?”
“For sure.” She wiggled an arm out of her blanket cocoon and reached for her drink. “I’m going to be a married woman soon.” She waved her left hand, her gorgeous emerald engagement ring sparkling. “And I need chiller comrades. Don’t get me wrong, my current friends are awesome. Some of them are artistic geniuses. But they want to go out until five a.m. every night, and that’s not my lifestyle anymore.”
“Five a.m.? Do bars even stay open that late?”
Zoey laughed like I was joking, so I took a bigger sip of my drink. Come to think of it, there was a nice little buzz of pleasure tickling the corners of my mind.
She waved a hand at my apartment. “The point is, you seem like the kind of person who enjoys a Friday movie night, if you catch my drift. That’s who I’m in the market for.”
“Uh...thanks?” Is this really how adults made friends? You just chose someone, invited yourself to their house, and curled on their couch? I’d been doing it all wrong.
“So.” Zoey rested her chin on her hands. “His name was Chris, right? Or do we prefer The Asshole Who Shall Not Be Named?”
Oh, right. In all honesty, I hadn’t thought of Chris since...well, Saturday night. “I’m really fine,” I told her. “He’s not even on my mind.”
“Well, something is.” She leaned closer and squinted. “Your aura’s all out of whack. Fireworks everywhere. You’re stressing.”
Aura? I rolled with it. “I mean, there is this thing I’m dealing with. It’s a bit of an...unusual situation.”
“Ooh,” she drawled. “My specialty. Weird, wacky, déjà vu, hauntings, existential crises. Hit me.”
Maybe it was the euphoric drink shaking up my brain chemicals into a cocktail of trust. Or maybe it was Zoey’s open, eager face, and the fact that she’d put herself out there first. Because even though I was normally a private person, I found myself spilling the whole Logan debacle, from the moment he’d interrupted Carter at the Fleur de Lis to his campaign team’s bewildering proposal.
“So,” I said, wrapping it up. “Now I have to decide whether I’m going to say yes to this bananas idea and turn my life into chaos—not to mention work closely with Logan, who’s either very kind and chivalrous or very terrible and rakish, I honestly can’t tell. Or I say no and the fact that we hooked up becomes a news story that could get me fired. Because I just had to try to sleep with the political playboy on the night a hotel caught fire. And because society is still so backward that an elementary school librarian caught with her boyfriend is fine, but with a stranger—oh no, a woman who likes casual sex, bust out the pitchforks!” This speech would probably be more effective if I was in fact a woman who had ever experienced casual sex, but still, the principle stood. “You see my dilemma.”
“I do not.” Zoey was buzzing, which I worried for a second was a side effect of the drink that I’d catch next. But when she dropped the blanket and scooted closer to me, I realized it was simply excitement. “I see a very clear and obvious choice.”
“Say no?”
“Say yes! Good lord, you’re lit up like a Christmas tree just talking about it. Your aura’s gone haywire. And it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Romantic?”
“Um, this guy steps in to help get rid of some creeper at the bar—”
“Out of self-interest, he said.”
“Then spends all night listening to your life story—”
“Completely made up.”
“Then kisses you within an inch of your life and puts down big money for a suite—”
Okay, that part was technically true.
“Has to run off tragically when he sees photographers, practically Cinderella fleeing the ball—”
I snorted. “Hardly.”
“And now he wants to date you—”
“Fake date. He made it clear he has zero real feelings for me.”
Zoey rolled her eyes. “That’s what I’d say if I was trying to convince a woman to fake date me without coming across as a creep or scaring her away with the intensity of my emotions.” Suddenly her face scrunched up. “Wait a second. I got so wrapped up in the romance I didn’t ask if you liked his politics. Lee would kill me.”
Right now, Lee could suck it. Nevertheless, I groaned, because of course she’d trained me well. That had been the first thing I’d googled, and the answer was annoying. “His platform is great. Really thoughtful, super progressive, just like Lee’s. In all honesty, I don’t know if the state is ready for him. Lee’s environmental bill gave me hope, but...”
“It’s still Texas outside this Austin bubble,” Zoey finished. “Or so they claim. I refuse to explore outside of Marfa.”
“Right. The Texas of it all. So I admire Logan. He’s really economics-focused, has all these proposals to strengthen the security net for middle-and working-class people. Which, as an elementary school librarian, obviously I’m for.”
Zoey sighed. “Tell me about it. A career as a painter sadly doesn’t come with things like health insurance.”
“Logan was born in Odejo, this rural farming town down south,” I said, warming to my subject. “He went to Harvard for undergrad and grad school—got a master’s in public policy from Kennedy. Then he came back to Texas and became one of the youngest Harris County commissioners in history. Those are the people in charge of Houston, by the way. He did that for four years, built a solid reputation, then announced his run for governor. He’s young and hungry, that’s for sure.”
Zoey whistled, which I assumed was in appreciation of Logan’s résumé until she said, “What’d you do, memorize his Wiki page?”
My cheeks heated. “I can’t help if I’m good at retaining information.”
“Why don’t you ask your sister for advice?”
I shook my head. I’d relied on Lee too many times. Besides, this one was embarrassing. When I’d decided to go to the bar alone so I didn’t fall flat on my ass in front of her and her friends, I hadn’t even imagined this level of blunder was possible. I loved Lee, but I didn’t want her to have to rescue me yet again.
“Well, then,” Zoey said. “What I’m hearing is, the decision’s up to me. So that settles it.” She ticked off her fingers. “A, you like Logan’s politics, which means you’re actually pulling for him to be the next governor. B, he needs you in order to stand a chance. C, it’s terribly romantic. And D, best of all, it’s the adventure you’ve been waiting for.”
“It is?”
“You just told me you went marching into the Fleur de Lis determined to shake up your life. And look what the universe dropped in your lap. You must have some very good karma, Alexis Stone.”
Well—I hadn’t thought of it like that. Saying yes and stepping into the spotlight, shedding my inner mouse. It would mean embracing a wild adventure. A Lee-style shenanigan. Something old Alexis wouldn’t have done in a million years.
“Besides,” said Zoey, draining her drink. “You’re in the power position. Logan and his team need you. You could make or break him. That means you can ask for whatever you want.”
Back to that infernal question.
“The truth is,” I said, feeling ashamed, “I don’t have the foggiest idea what I want.”
To my surprise, instead of giving me a pitying look for being an undriven, wishy-washy woman with her head in the clouds, Zoey shrugged. “No problem. Just ask for a blank check to be cashed whenever you figure it out. You’re holding all the cards. They won’t say no.”
My mouth dropped open. Was Zoey a secret political genius?
She stood up and neatly folded her blanket. “I should probably get back. Annie’s making eggplant parm tonight.” She nodded at the kitchen and grinned. “You keep the drinks. Get a little drunk on happiness, ya crazy kid.”
I followed her to the front door, sliding my fuzzy socks over the wood floor. “Thanks for coming over. It was really nice of you.”
She stopped in the doorway and turned to give me an appraising look. “You know, I might’ve been wrong about you. You might just turn out to be my wildest friend yet.”
Timestamp: 7:48 p.m., Monday evening. If later this whole thing blew up in my face and people were searching for answers, I’d point them here, to the exact moment I knew that, God help me, I was going to say yes.
I closed the door, found Nora’s business card on the counter, and picked up my phone.