He was quiet again, looking at me steadily across the table. Then he said, “Okay. My favorite memory is winning first place in the 4-H livestock competition when I was in eighth grade. With my pig Wilbur. Who I raised from a piglet.”
My God. An image of him at thirteen flashed into my mind, clad in overalls and a red bandana—I assumed that’s what farm kids wore—hugging a pig as someone handed him a blue ribbon. I squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could. I’d promised not to laugh.
“You can ask a follow-up,” he said gruffly.
“Oh, thank God.” The questions flew out of me. “How often did you compete—was it like, a regular part of your childhood? What did you wear to the shows? How did you train Wilbur? Obviously, you’ve readCharlotte’s Web. Was that your favorite book as a kid?” Knowing his favorite childhood book would be a Logan Information Holy Grail.
His eyes lifted to the ceiling, as if asking some higher power to lend him strength. When he spoke, he did it quickly, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a Band-Aid. “When I was young, my parents tried their hand at pig farming. I hated the idea of raising animals to kill them, so the first time one of their sows had a litter, I put my foot down. My parents were planning to raise the piglets to sell to a slaughterhouse, but I convinced them not to. Truthfully, I was a pretty big shit about it, and I don’t think they’ve forgiven me to this day. But I wore them down and they stopped. In exchange, I promised I’d take care of the piglets. Ended up getting close with one named Wilbur. Yes, I know naming a pig Wilbur is unoriginal, but in my defense, I was nine and I had just readCharlotte’s Weband I was very emotionally invested. Pigs are smart and I taught Wilbur a few tricks that made him popular at fairs, and we began winning money. My parents made their expenses back, I proved I was right about not killing the pigs, and Wilbur lived a long and happy life. The end. It’s not a big deal,” he added brusquely.
I blinked. “Your best friend was a pig.”
“You promised not to laugh.”
“Your first political victory. You should tell that story to everyone, all the time. Like, every reporter.”
“So they can go all moony-eyed like you?” Logan slumped in his chair. “No thanks. Let’s have your next question. I want to make my bull’s-eye and get out of the hot seat.”
I looked at him shifting uncomfortably and grinned, deciding to go easy this time. “Favorite song.”
He straightened. “They’ve got it here, actually.”
“They’ve got Rage Against the Machine in the jukebox?”
“Hilarious.” He took a sip of his drink and strode over to it. I watched him pull a dollar out of his wallet and slip it in. Within seconds, a song started, the melody low.
“Nice one,” said Jimmy from the bar.
I could barely hear it. Was it a country song? Something old-school like George Strait? Actually, it barely mattered, because Logan was walking back to me, strumming an air guitar and looking more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. And that was worth listening to anything, even “Amarillo by Morning.”
Just as Logan reached our table, the guitars and drums came crashing in, the singer’s voice soaring so I could finally hear the words: “I’d go the whole wide world, I’d go the whole wide world, just to find her.”
“Your favorite song is by Wreckless Eric? That’s so romantic of you.”
Logan ignored me, strumming his invisible instrument. “Watch this. I’m going to make it.” He grabbed a black dart as the chorus climbed. Logan threw it expertly and it landed in the triple ring, missing the bull’s-eye by a centimeter. “Shit,” he groaned.
“Condolences on sucking,” Jimmy said, sliding a pitcher of beer onto our table like some sort of magic bar fairy.
Universe, don’t fail me now.I grabbed a dart and lined up my shot.The jukebox sang“I’d go the whole wide world just to find out where they hide her,” and I grinned at the image of teenage Logan belting the words in his bedroom, then threw.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Logan gaped at the board. The song finally faded, and in the quiet he glanced at me. “Oh, you have a bad look in your eyes. I’m going to hate this next question, aren’t I?”
I summoned my courage. “You told me you didn’t want to be in a real relationship with anyone. Why?”
We were standing only a few feet apart, candlelight drawing the room closer, but still it felt like a mile. As he looked at me, his dark eyes were impossible to read.
“Because,” he said finally. “I don’t want to get my heart broken again.”
My own heart beat too fast. For the second time tonight, our intimacy felt dangerous. A warning bell echoed in the back of my mind, but I ignored it. “Who broke it the first time?”
Logan’s gaze cut away. After a beat, he said, “Tinsley Westcott.”
I folded into a chair, searching my memory. I couldn’t remember a Tinsley from Google. “How?”
He rubbed his jaw, looking at me doubtfully. “You really want the whole story? I don’t come off well.”
I nodded and he sighed, sinking back down and pouring us both beers from the pitcher. He slid one to me. “I met Tinsley in grad school.”
I sipped. “At Harvard.”
