My cheeks flush, and a warmth spreads through my chest. I take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart. Then, with a newfound energy, I hurry up to get ready, throwing on whatever I can find and trying my best with my messy hair.
I slip on an old pair of sneakers and some jeans that are slightly too long, but comfortable enough that they don’t drag on the ground. I’ve pretty much just brought ratty T-shirts and tank tops with me, but I manage to find a button-up short-sleeved shirt that isn’t completely off-putting. Finally, I brush some mascara over my eyes—just enough to make them stand out—and tie my hair up into a messy-but-cute bun before grabbing my purse and heading outside.
I open the door to see Logan staring out at the ocean. He turns at the sound, his face brightening when he sees me.
He doesn’t say anything, but he certainly looks stunned. It’s only when I look at him funny that he straightens his face. I attempt to do the same.
“We can head to the lodge—my car’s parked there,” he tells me as he starts walking. I follow, giving one quick glance back at the ocean. I can’t help but wonder what he was thinking about before I came out of the cabin.
The two of us used to be perfectly acquainted with watching the other live in their little bubble like this. We used to spend hours side by side, quietly relaxing in his room or under a tree somewhere; I’d be writing in my notebook while he played on his Gameboy or learned how to code on his laptop. And he knew for a fact that when I had my focused face on, I was not to be disturbed. He never did. Me? Most of the time, I left him alone. But sometimes, I’d tease him and tell him to work on his code instead of playing on his Gameboy.
Soon, we make it to the lodge, and Logan gestures to a black sedan. He makes his way to the driver’s seat.
“So, where are we headed?” I ask as I climb into the car with him. The inside smells nice, which is a change from the constant sweaty smell I had to endure in Jasper’s car. Until now, I’d believed all guys had messy cars by default. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe not all guys leave their gym equipment in their car overnight because they can’t be bothered to carry it back and forth from the apartment.
It doesn’t just smell nice, though. The scent is identical to what I picked up when I had my face against him the other day after my panic attack. I try to think of literally anything else because it’s tantalizing.
Logan turns the key in the ignition, then flashes me a mischievous grin.
“We’re heading to my favourite eatery,” he explains as he pulls away from the curb. “It’s usually missed by tourists, but all the locals hang there.”
“Oh, so you’re a local already, huh? You mean you actually socialize?”
He goes red and chuckles. “I guess so. I’m not sure why. I just feel at ease there.”
We drive for a while before I see what looks like an old house with a sign that reads, ‘The Coastal Kitchen.’ Logan parks on the street and we make our way inside as my stomach is doing flips.
Is this a date?Nah, it’s probably not a date.
So why do I feel like I’m on one?
The overwhelming scent of grilled seafood and delicious baked goods fills the air as we walk in. It’s clear right from my first impression that this restaurant isn’t fancy at all but cozy and warm instead.
The warm lighting of the restaurant casts shadows on the brick walls, while sunbeams peek through the windows, illuminating a few tables here and there. A small bar lined with stools sits in the corner next to a worn piano. There’s the gentle crackling of a fire in the corner, which immediately makes me nostalgic for the evenings spent by the bonfire over the summer with Logan. Soft conversations and laughter rising from the tables make the air feel almost alive.
Iloveit.
Logan leads me to a booth in the corner and we sit down. A short but stout waitress in her fifties comes over and hands us two menus. Instinctively, I put on my social mask and try to sit up straighter.
The waitress winks at Logan. “Don’t tell me you arefinallybringing a date here!” she exclaims, looking straight at me. My face flushes.
Logan goes beet-red. We probably match. “Oh, no, no, this is Avery, an old friend of mine,” he replies quickly. Quickly enough that he almost makes it sound like this being a date would be the worst thing on the planet.
I deflate a bit at his tone. Not that I was absolutely expecting this to be a date, but it does make me feel weird to hear him respond so quickly.
Ugh. I need to get it together. I’m not even supposed to be dating, anyway. Seeing as I can’t write properly, I’m clearly not over my breakup. The last thing I should do is rope someone as sweet as Logan into my mess.
“Well, a friend of Logan’s is a friend of ours here,” the waitress responds with another wink. With her dimples and wide smile, she reminds me of the typical, kind aunt that would squeeze your cheeks if you let her get close enough.
I smile awkwardly and try to ignore my heart hammering against my ribcage. “Hehe, hi.”
Dread crawls through my arms all the way to my fingers. What was that?
“I’ll let ya take a look, then, honey,” she responds, ignoring my weird reply. Before I know it, she’s gone from our table, and I shake off this anxious energy.
Logan explains: “I always order the same thing. And if you’re still a fan of shrimp like you used to be, I highly advise you to do the same.”
“Oh, yeah? What is it?”
