Later that night, the house is quiet except for Dusty snoring at the foot of my bed. Logan is back tomorrow, and his birthday is in two days. I lie on my stomach with my phone glowing in the dark, scrolling through Pinterest boards I’ll never admit to anyone.
Balloon arches. Hallways filled to bursting. Strings of Polaroids clipped like constellations.
Logan doesn’t celebrate his birthday, says he never has and doesn’t need to. But I can’t stop thinking about filling his world with color, about making him walk through a tunnel of ridiculous, sparkly celebration. About reminding him there’s something worth celebrating.
I can’t control the PTA, or Eli, or any of the mess waiting to blow up in my face.
But I can love Logan the way he deserves.
And I will.
Chapter thirty-two
Sounds like something Lulu would say
Logan
The Rink Rat smells like stale beer, fried food, and the faintest whiff of despair. Which, judging by the cracked vinyl booths and Gary’s permanent scowl, is exactly how he likes it.
“Call.” Jake tosses a chip into the pile, smirk sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re bluffing, Hutchy.”
Reid doesn’t look up from his cards. Just lifts a brow, slow as sin. “You’d know, Brooks. Takes one to spot one.”
Chase barks a laugh, throwing his arm across the back of his chair. “Christ, Jake, don’t you get tired of losing to him? Man’s got a face like a tombstone. You’ll never read him.”
Gary, wiping down the bar with the same rag he’s had since the nineties, grunts. “Kid’s still prettier than you, Walton. Might explain why his poker face works better.”
“Hey, this face sells jerseys,” Chase fires back, flipping him the bird.
“Yeah,” Reid deadpans. “To grandmas.”
Even Gary wheezes at that one, the sound cutting through the low hum of the bar.
I lean back in my chair, swirling the last inch of my beer, trying not to check my phone for the tenth time. Lulu’s probably still wrangling kids into costumes or fighting with PTA vipers, but all I want is to be across the street, in her bed, hearing her tell me about her day. Instead, I’m here with the boys, celebrating my birthday with poker chips and cheap lager.
Eli cuts me a look over his cards. “So, Millsy. Birthday boy. Why aren’t you out with the single guys? Thought we’d lose you to a bottle service booth somewhere downtown tonight.”
Chase grins. “Yeah, you haven’t gone out with us once, Pookie. Not in Denver, not on the road. You hiding a girlfriend we don’t know about?”
My pulse stutters. I shrug, nonchalant. “Not my thing.”
Jake whistles low. “Not your thing? What twenty-four-year-old hockey player says no to free shots and desperate puck bunnies?”
I shuffle my chips and keep my tone flat. “This one.”
Suspicion prickles the air, but Reid lays down his cards, stealing the pot and the attention. Thank fuck.
The conversation drifts—Gary complaining about inflation, Jake yapping about his plans for his and Charlie’s honeymoon—but then Eli circles back, shaking his head.
“You’re seriously telling me you’d rather sit here with us old married or nearly-married guys than celebrate downtown?”
“Pretty much.”
Chase snorts. “You’re a freak.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, distracted, picturing Lulu’s sleepy smile through last night’s video call, the tired slump in her shoulders. “That tracks for a Gemini.”
Silence.
