He nods, his eyes lighting up as he talks about the food. “The shrimp pesto pasta. Seriously, it’s ridiculous how good it is. You won’t regret it.”
I nod, feeling relieved that I don’t have to spend too much time thinking about what to order. I’m already nervous enough as it is, which feels kind of ridiculous. It’s true that I haven’t been out in a while—not since the breakup—but this feels like next-level caveman behaviour. “Okay, then, shrimp pesto pasta it is.” I set down my menu, not even bothering to look through the rest.
It’s quiet between us for a moment before Logan speaks up again. “So, I’ve been wondering about something,” he says hesitantly. “I can’t say I’m completely surprised to know you’re a copywriter. But I have to ask—why copy and not stories?”
I freeze, caught off guard by the question. My heart races in my chest as I try to figure out how to answer him without sounding like a complete failure.
“Oh, you know,” I start, then let my sentence trail off.
He looks at me, puzzled. “Uh, not really, no. You were always the writer. I was the logical one. So I have no idea about anything.”
How do I tell him the truth without sounding completely materialistic? It’s not like I didn’t try. I don’t even remember how many manuscripts I came up with and sent over to publishers, only to hear crickets back. And even when I tried to handle publishing myself, nothing came of it.
There’s a chance I could have persevered if I wanted to. But hopes don’t pay the bills. Copywriting does.
I shrug and look down at the menu, fiddling with it to occupy my hands. “Well, I figured I might as well get paid for writing if no one wants to read my fiction, you know?”
Logan nods slowly, but I can tell he isn’t completely convinced by my answer. “I get it. It’s too bad, though. I remember the stories you used to tell me when we were kids. They always made me laugh, but in a good way, you know.” His eyes go bright. “But mostly, I remember how you looked when you were writing. Your face would completely change. It was like you were gone in another world entirely. That’s one of the things that I loved the most about you.”
My breath catches in my throat. It’s difficult to imagine we spent so long apart when we had been so close. Because we were that close. We did love each other, as friends do. As families do.
At least, that’s what I try to tell myself. But the memory of his body against mine in the dark says otherwise. The sound of his heartbeat against my ear, the feel of his chest, the warmth of?—
Cut it out, Avery.
“Since I still write, I guess I’ve made it more than most,” I continue. “I mean, I could be stuck in some dead-end job typing up reports or whatever. But I actually get to use my creativity and write stuff. So it’s not all bad.”
“You’re the one who knows yourself best.” Logan shrugs. “All I know is, you seem to be struggling a ton with this project. Not that it’s not okay or anything. Obviously, you can’t be on your A-game all the time.”
“Yeah, I?—”
“So, what will it be, honey?” I almost have a heart attack when the waitress creeps back up on us. I was so caught up in our conversation that I didn’t notice her at all.
“We’ll both have the shrimp pesto pasta,” Logan tells her.
“You got it, then. Anything to drink?”
Shoot. I hadn’t even thought about looking at the drinks. Logan looks at me, seeming like he’s detecting my nerves.
“Uh,” I stammer before I frantically grab the menu. “Um, uh … this.” I point at something called Wicked Minx Sour. “Yeah, this.”
“You sure? You don’t need more time?”
“Yeah, yeah, I want this.”
She gives me a side-eye, which seems to be more out of concern than judgement. “Alrighty, then. And for you, the usual?”
Logan nods. “Yup, thanks, Judith.” When she’s gone, Logan turns his attention to me again. “Hey, you okay?”
Seventeen years apart and he still knows how to read me so easily. I wring my hands together under the table. “Sure. I’m just …” I pause. “A little nervous, I guess.”
I’m never this upfront about my social anxiety. I always expect people to question me or ask me why or look at me weird. In the few times I’ve mentioned being nervous in a situation where most people aren’t, I’ve gotten judgy looks. So now, I just bite my tongue.
But Logan doesn’t give me a weird look. Instead, he shoots me a sympathetic smile. And he waits patiently for me to continue if I need to.
It warms my heart. But it also feels a bit disorienting. I’m used to people speaking over me, or at least starting to talk as soon as I take a moment to breathe. So it takes me a moment to get my bearings and keep speaking.
“Social stuff is kind of hard for me.” I keep wringing my hands and avert my eyes from his attentive gaze. “You know about the panic attacks. But talking to people I don’t know … it doesn’t necessarily give me a panic attack every time. It’s more like … it’s…”
