“And if it wasn’t your birthday, I’d be some random, lonely guy renting out a carousel for himself,” he adds.
I imagine it and a very small laugh escapes. “No, you wouldn’t.”
Logan’s eyes brighten. “No, I wouldn’t. Because this is for you. It’s all for you. And that smile right there is exactly why I’d rent a hundred more carousels a hundred more times.” He shuffles closer to me, balloons bouncing off his legs. “But I do hear you, and I’m going to cool it on the big gestures.”
Now I’m full-on smiling at him. I don’t know how he does that. How he turns my mood around and works through what it is I feel. He gently pushes back, but ultimately, he listens.
“Thank you,” I say, deciding to go with whatever it is he’s planned. The money’s spent. There’s no use wasting a perfectly good carousel.
Logan grins and opens his arms for a hug. “Happy birthday, Hazel.”
I can’t get into his arms fast enough. I squeeze him back as I continue to take it all in. Against the curved far wall is a table with candy boxes shaped like a cake next to three chocolate pizzas covered in M&Ms.
Logan notices me looking. “Since I burned dessert the last time we cooked, this time I made several but set them at different bake times, just in case.”
I open my mouth in surprise. All that comes out is a puff of air. I’m actually speechless.
Logan takes my hand and guides me through the river of balloons to the setup. There’s spaghetti in glass containers, premade tomato sauce in a Mason jar, and a block of Parmesan.
“You mentioned something about noodles, so I went in thatdirection,” Logan says, shaking the jar and twisting off the lid. Steam rises from the top. “And it’s red for, you know, good luck.” He lifts his arm, showing off the cast I picked out that night he fell.
He looks a little nervous, like in a way where there’s some percentage of doubt in him that thinks I might not like this. Like in a way where he wants this night to be special for me.
As he stirs, the veins in his forearms swell. Tonight’s shirt is dark green and blue. It’s like he’s worn his fanciest tie-dye for me. The fabric hugs his chest and back in all the right places.
It makes me want to do the same. I come up beside him and wrap my arms around his waist, my cheeks squished against his chest. “Longevity noodles symbolize a long life,” I say. “It was something my dad taught me when I was a kid.”
It’s only now, in my first day of being thirty years old, that I realize how superstitious that tradition is.
“In that case, you get more,” Logan says, transferring noodles from his container into mine.
I never got stuff like this for my birthday. These big gestures, it’s exactly what Dad made promises about. The ones that never came true. I needed Dad in the small ways. To make us dinner, to keep the heat on. Flashy gifts don’t mean much when the important things are forgotten.
But Logan didn’t just do flashy. He also cooked.
The way he’s looking at me heats all of me up, my adrenaline, and anticipation, and desire a slow simmer bubbling just below the surface.
I don’t want to feel this. It’s too happy. Happy things like this don’t last.
I glance around, looking for something, anything, that will make this experience less shiny. But it’s not cold in here, it’s not noisy, and the carousel is so artfully done I can’t help but be mesmerized by thescene. In fact, the underwater sounds are set so low that it’s peaceful. As is the shimmering light flickering across the space to make it feel like we’re underwater. And there’s Logan wearing his usual—navy hat included. Strands of hair stick out from behind his ears, windblown from standing outside.
It’s a perfect visual. One that I can’t believe is happening in my real life.
I wait and wait some more for the crushing low to hit after feeling so high.
The sensation never comes. Instead, I feel warm inside. And then a tear has the nerve to roll out of my eye and down my face.
Logan brushes his thumb against my cheek to wipe the tear away. Being with him, it feels right. All I want to feel is this.
“Hey,” he says in a soothing tone, “what’s wrong?”
My throat is dry as I swallow. “Every single thing about this, about you… it’s too good. Too nice.”
Logan frowns. “And that’s bad?”
“No,” I say, remembering that his ex had made him feel bad about that exact thing. “No.” I say it twice, so he knows I mean it. “I’m just not used to it.”
“Does it have something to do with why you hate birthdays?” Logan asks.
