I expect updates. Tonight will be veeeerrrryyyy interesting.
She set her phone down and Logan turned to her.
“Work stuff?“
She loved it when people lied for her. “Yeah, nothing major. Done now.”
He rested his elbows on the table, staring her down.
“So, you moved to a new house and you’re a bourbon aficionado now. What else have I missed out on?”
She didn’t expect the question to knock the wind out of her, but it did. Logan was, once again, woefully out of touch with the reality she’d been functioning in for an entire year. It hurt to realize just how much they'd grown apart, and how little he understood.
She swallowed hard, trying to calm the anger welling up inside of her. What else has he missed out on?
Oh, just months of being too depressed to put on anything other than the same two pairs of yoga pants and old shirts of his. A few mental health crises. One particularly bad weekend, where she considered checking herself into one of those fancy facilities that out-of-control celebrities go to just to have someone else who would take care of her for a while. She considered telling him he’d missed thousands of dollars worth of paying someone to listen to her cry about him.
He’d missed memorials, insurance arguments, and estate sales.
Paperwork. He’d missed a fuck-ton of paperwork.
His face fell right about the time she finished tallying up just how many of her therapy sessions were dedicated solely to his bullshit.
“I’m sorry, Hanna. That’s a loaded question, I realize that.” Logan had always been somewhat self-aware, but was never great at apologizing. She welcomed the change.
“Thanks,” she forced out, pushing more air into her lungs, so as not to suffocate.
She was grateful when the server arrived with a tray full of drinks. Logan raised his gin and tonic over the table.
“To Mr. and Mrs. Debrune!” He clinked his glass against hers, and she took a sip, her eyes falling across the table to catch Milo's as he drained his scotch in one go. That's when she saw it.
It was there, swirling in the pained greens of his eyes, written in the crease of his forehead, as he realized it too.
They were never going to be just friends, and there was no amount of therapy that could save him.
That could save either one of them.
After dinner, they watched Sara play roulette and win four hands back-to-back.
Hanna was a terrible gambler, but she loved to watch. Sara dominated the table in her white minidress and silver cowgirl hat with a bachelorette sash that earned her frequent free drinks, well on her way to another blackout.
Hanna waited at the edge of the table for the boys to reconvene after they'd scattered for some post-dinner gambling. She wasn't as drunk as she wanted to be, which became more of a problem with every glance Milo shot at her. His stare rippled through her nervous system in ways Logan could never touch.
She decided to find another bar with Taylor, their arms linked in the way drunk girls were legally required to do when in Las Vegas, no matter how far away they were from twenty-one.
They walked through a smoky hallway, the lights and chimes of slot machines blaring, their heels clicking against the scuff-marked linoleum. She could see a bar just a few feet from them when suddenly she was no longer linked to her friend, but spinning off the ground, two very strong arms squeezing her tightly under her ribs.
“Haaaannnnaaaa!”
She pushed away from her assailant’s chest and immediately flushed with embarrassment.
The only thing standing between her ass and the rest of the world was a very thin layer of black silk, and Logan’s stupid arms shifted her skirt.
“Logan,” she said, thoroughly annoyed. “Put me down!”
“Aww, you’re no fun.” He set her down and she yanked at her skirt hem, half her ass out, the top not faring much better.
They’d only been separated for an hour since dinner, but it was clear he’d put in work at the bars.
