Page 16 of Fate, Interrupted

Logan’s attention moves to me, patient. Waiting.

I exhale. “Norah.”

Henry’s grin arrives completely and immediately, the way his grins do, without the management that Logan and I put on our faces as a matter of routine. “Norah,” he repeats. “Old-fashioned. I like it.”

“It’s a name,” I say.

“Sounds like you didn’t happen upon her by accident this morning,” says Logan.

Henry looks at Logan. “Was there ever a question about that?”

“Not really,” Logan says.

I put the marker down and turn to face them both, because this conversation is happening whether or not I facilitate it, and the dispatch board is not where I want to conduct it from. “I met someone. She runs the bookshop on Norwood. It’s not complicated.”

Henry tilts his head. “You’ve driven past that shop for three years.”

“Correct.”

“And now it requires two visits in one week.”

“It required a book the first time. This morning was coffee.”

“At the shop next door to the bookshop,” Henry says.

“At the coffee shop next door to the bookshop where I got my coffee,” I confirm.

Henry does the math and arrives at a result he finds suspicious. “But you always get your coffee from the place on Merchant. By the dry cleaner on the east route. You’ve gotten coffee there for years.”

I don’t say anything.

Henry’s expression goes from interested to delighted, a huge grin spreading across his open face. “Oh. Oh, that’s good.”

Logan picks up the clipboard from the workbench and looks at the remaining routes. Apparently, he’s heard enough. “Keep your head clear,” he says, in a tone that sits below a direct order without pretending to be anything else. “Briggs account review is Tuesday. I need you on that.”

“I’m on it,” I say.

Logan doesn’t give warnings casually. He said what he needed to say, and now it’s on me.

He nods once and moves off down the dock, reading the clipboard, finished with me.

I watch him go.

That’s the thing about Logan. He doesn’t need to wait and see how his words affect me because he already knows. He calculated it before he said it. The keep your head clear wasn’t a warning, it was a placement marker, now cleanly in the record so that whatever happens next, he said it.

I’ve never decided whether I find it impressive or exhausting. Or devious.

Today it’s all three.

Henry watches him go, then looks at me, his grin fading. “She good people?”

Simple question. Henry means it simply. Underneath the easy grin there’s a directness that surfaces when it matters, and people who don’t know him well tend to miss it.

“Yeah,” I say. “She’s good people.”

He nods, satisfied. “Then stop standing around the dispatch board thinking about her and go do something about it.” He picks up his wrench and heads back into the warehouse, whistling off-key.

I turn back to the board.