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Which is, of course, exactly what I tried to do.
I’m not an actor. As I’ve previously established, all my feelings show on my face. I know Logan has to suspect how I really feel. Not fake feel.Reallyfeel.
And I can’t be mad he didn’t actually kiss me or protest when I ended the night with a handshake. I can’t be hurt he didn’t knock on my door instead of going into his apartment. Logan did exactly what I asked of him. The consummately perfect fake boyfriend.
Finally, after spending way too long in the same position, I peel myself off the door, drop my purse, and head to the bathroom to wash off my makeup.
I am such a baby, I think, scrubbing my face maybe a little too hard. The cowardly lion looks like a dashing hero compared to me. Because when faced with how to end what was a really great night, I just ran. Metaphoricallyandliterally.
Mr. Eds growls from under my bed as I kick off my shoes and unzip my dress.
“Are you chastising me or trying to tell me it’s going to be okay?” I ask. He hisses in response. “Chastising me. Got it. So, you think I should have gone for it? Either telling him how I feel or, like, reallygoingfor it and kissing his face off?”
Mr. Eds doesn’t respond to this, which I’ll take as a sign he wants to hear more. I hang up my dress, running a hand over the soft pink fabric, thinking of all the times tonight Logan’s hands touched it.
Maybe I should take it to one of those places that preserves wedding dresses. I could make a little plaque for it:This is the dress I wore the one time I dated Logan Barnes. The night that ruined me for all other men forever. This dress is the reason I’m an old spinster cat lady.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I say out loud.
People can live perfectly fulfilled single lives. And those who choose to have cats are of superior intelligence, in my opinion. Cats are independent and brilliant and can display very human emotions.
Except for mine, who displays demon emotions.
As if to illustrate this, Mr. Eds takes a swipe at my ankle while I’m pulling on my pajama pants. “Hey!” I protest. “Knock it off.”
He only growls in response. It’s then I hear something on the other side of the wall and freeze. It was a dull thud, like the sound of someone dropping something heavy. Or falling down?
Logan. I’d been so caught up in rehashing my stupid mistakes that I forgot about his bedroom being next to mine. Feeling like a total creeper and not at all sorry about it, I press my ear to the wall.
If this were a newer building, I might be able to hear more. But these walls are plaster. It makes hanging pictures a pain and eavesdropping almost impossible. I can only make out quiet, unidentifiable sounds. But Logan is definitely over there.
How am I going to sleep with him however many inches of plaster (and possibly some asbestos) away?
I’m not. That’s how.
Also, what is he sleeping on? These hardwood floors are original and in need of a good refinishing. More than once, I’ve gotten splinters from walking barefoot. Logan cannot sleep on splintery floors!
I’ll have to offer him my couch. There is simply no other choice. It’s a moral imperative, to quoteReal Genius—one of my favorite movies and one of Val Kilmer’s finest works, only beaten byTombstone.
Val Kilmer quotes aside, the point is—even if I screwed up my chance for more than friendship with Logan, friends don’t let friends sleep on hardwood floors. I think I saw that printed on a welcome mat in the home section of the General Store.
I’m shuffling to the door in my slippers, all set to invite Logan to sleep on my couchas a friendwhen Mia calls. I answer as I reach my door.
“Can’t talk. I’m about to—”
“Ohmygoshdidyouseethisyet?” Mia, despite being super composed most of the time, has a habit of speaking in one long multisyllabic word when she’s super excited.
“Slow down. You’re doing that fast-talking thing.”
“Sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m … fine?” Other than berating myself for being too dumb and scared to be honest with the man I think I’m in love with.
The man who is standing outside my door, hand raised to knock. My heart careens through my chest, landing somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. Logan smiles, a little sheepishly, looking practically edible in joggers and a fitted tank top that is arguably sponsoring the best gun show this side of the Appalachians.
And that’s when Mia practically shouts in my ear, “You’re all over the internet. As Logan Barnes’s new girlfriend.”
* * *
