Hazel watches my every move. “So,” she says, amused, “rain check on the goldfish then?”
Chapter 9
HAZEL
The money is deposited on a Wednesday afternoon.
It’s staggering, the amount. One second it wasn’t there, the next it was.
I was certain we’d get a call after the press event about how there was some sort of mistake. A mix-up in the numbers or the winners. A processing error. No metaphoricalbutcame.
Logan texts when he sees his own deposit, his message appearing above Jerry’s latest update:Healing process doing its thing.Ever since Sunday, Logan and I have been texting. I updated him on how smooth my first day at Sweet Escape was, how I’ve already memorized the names of more than 75 percent of the inventory, and progress on the job hunt. Yesterday, I had a call with the recruiter who emailed. The salary for the senior data analyst role was more than I anticipated. If I go for the manager role, it’s even more than that. Milly is moving me forward for both. Logan gave me play-by-plays from the theater. The set piece mix-up was worse than he thought and two of his stagehands quit.
Now Logan’s insisting on celebrating our win. I only agree if we don’t call it a celebration.
Later that night, I meet him on the corner of Varick Street and North Moore Street in Lower Manhattan. Logan’s waiting for me,dressed in medium-wash denim—well-worn, as always—sneakers, and a blue sweater with a white shirt peeking out from underneath. It’s just like the one he wore when he had his very own Mr. Darcy moment in the middle of Central Park Lake.
At the memory, heat collects under my thick gray wool sweater. I couldn’t even be bothered to try averting my gaze after he pulled himself out of the water. The way the wet cotton hugged every inch of muscle on him. The way it revealed the beginnings of a tattoo sprawling up his shoulder. It was blurry through the fabric, though I could tell the design was of the roots of something. I wanted to reach out to touch him. Find out what those roots led to.
Logan smiles when he sees me. He does that a lot, I’ve noticed. Smile. But the ones he saves for me are different. They send my heart into overdrive. I hope that never stops—his smiling or the fluttering.
“Hey,” I say softly.
“Hey yourself. We’ll be here tonight.” He points to the building across the street, which is only three stories tall, the top portion of it brick. On the street level, a giant, arched red door tips me off.
It’s a firehouse. But why does it look so familiar?
I read the words above the door. Hook & Ladder 8. “This is fromGhostbusters.”
Logan tips his head. “Come with me.”
The red door opens, revealing a massive, shiny firetruck behind it. Inside,Ghostbusterssigns, stickers, melted phones, and clocks cover the doorways and walls.
Logan waves to a group of firefighters across the firehouse. Everywhere he goes, he’s like a social butterfly collecting friends. It amazes me how he does that. I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. I don’t even have friends now. I lost touch with everyone from college. I wouldn’t go to happy hours with coworkers because I neededto save money. More often than not, work consumed my weekends. I’ve hardly explored the city.
I follow Logan to the back stairs. They’re a little uneven, and the railing’s wobbly, but it’s a historic old building. There’s a type of charm in the imperfection of these places that I adore.
At the top of the second flight, I grab Logan’s arm. “I’m not lucky enough to break the law, and you’re definitely not in a position to push it more than you have. Are we allowed to be here?”
“It’s okay,” he says. “A buddy I used to work with is a fireman here.”
“And he’s just letting us hang out on the roof?”
“No, of course not.” Logan pushes the door open with his back. “He’s letting useaton the roof.” He smiles. “I made a sizable donation as a thank-you.”
“Not even twenty-four hours into getting the money and you’re already paying people off,” I say dryly. “Money really does change a person.”
Logan laughs as he leads me to a table set for two with paper plates and cups. In the center, a votive candle flickers.
“They’re battery-powered,” he says as he slides out my chair for me. “Though this would probably be the safest place to burn a candle.”
The building’s so low that there’s not a great view of the city. But because it’s on the corner, the entire sky stretches out in front of us. The horizon burns bright orange with streaks of red flickering underneath as the sun moves. It’s a fire no one needs to put out.
Logan reveals a few paper bags filled with an assortment of white takeout boxes. He pops the lids open. “On the menu for this evening, we have egg rolls, white rice, lo mein, Kung Pao shrimp, sautéed string beans, dumplings, sesame chicken, egg drop soup,hot and sour soup, fried rice, beef and broccoli, and General Tso’s chicken.” He rubs his hand behind his neck. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got everything.”
The man literally brought me a feast.
“Chinese takeout. Just like the movie,” I recall.
