“Try me.”
He winces. “It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud.”
“I promise I won’t think it’s ridiculous.”
“I’m one of of five kids, yeah? And my other brothers were all born in February and March. It’s wildly consistent. I’m the only boy who was born in December, and that’s because I’m the only kid who was conceived after a season where my dad didn’t make the playoffs.”
I stare at him.
He’s serious.
So I don’t laugh.
Because it’s not ridiculous, but it is very detailed and specific.
“So…” I try to remember his brothers’ names. “Camden was conceived…”
“After my dad went to a conference final. And he has gotten as far as a conference final.”
“Forrest?”
“First round playoff exit, which is as far as he’s gotten. And Wyatt, that lucky fucker, was made in the weeks after my dad won a Stanley Cup. And he’s the only brother to win a Cup.”
“Wow.” I press my hands to his never-going-to-make-a-playoff-beard and exhale slowly with him. “That’s a lot of coincidences. It’s remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Am I laughing?”
“No.” He kisses my forehead. “But on the inside?”
“I’m marvelling on the inside. Because when you make the playoffs this year, and you are going to, you’re going to be the first brother to break the chains of this coincidental?—”
“Curse.”
I nod. “Yeah, breaking a curse. You’re going to be so powerful when you do that.”
“God I love—I love your confidence.” He exhales and smiles.
“It’s the same thing as you reminding me that I need to believe I’m going to match with UCLA, right?”
“Okay, use my hype strategies against me, I see how it is.” He glances past me. “That house is for sale.”
I twist around. It’s a house right on the canal, tall and narrow, with big windows on the third floor, similar to the apartment that we’re staying in. I know right away that it’s preposterously expensive, even though it needs some work. It wouldn’t have shown up in my searches, but I don’t want to talk about money right now in this moment where he was just so vulnerable about his professional dreams. “It’s gorgeous.”
As we look at it, the front door opens and a woman steps outside, carrying a recycling bin.
“Excuse me,” Logan says, lifting his voice. “Hi!”
I whisper his name, but he just squeezes my hand before he quickly makes his way down the bridge to the walkway.
“I noticed the for sale sign. We just had dinner a few blocks away, and were walking through here. I’m moving out here in the summer, and my wife and I are looking for a house. Would you mind—we don’t need to look at any rooms you aren’t ready to show or anything—but could we have a brief tour?”
I fully expect her to shake her head and slam the door in his face. She doesn’t know us from Adam.
But Logan Granger has a certain charm to him. I’m fully aware of it. And just like he talked a ring onto my finger, he gets us inside the house.
“Please ignore the dishes,” she says. “And I’m in the middle of a project…”
