She’s right. With the way things are going for me, I’ll probably get two flat tires.
“It could be good for us to get out of town,” Hazel adds. “The press conference coverage won’t be as intense in Maine as it is here.” She rubs my shoulder. “And I know what it’s like to not want to go home. Maybe it’ll be more… pleasant… if you have someone there with you to get through it.”
I can feel that damn smile again.
“It would mean a lot to have you there. I would really like that,” I say. “But you don’t need to do that for me. I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not asking. I am,” she says with more certainty. She looks me straight in the eyes when she says this next part. “Logan, you’re not alone in this. You’re not alone in any of it. Not anymore.”
I didn’t know I needed to hear that.
“Okay?” she says.
Half of me falls in love with Hazel right then and there, but I keep that part to myself and just say, “Okay.”
Chapter 17
HAZEL
Logan and I meet at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning at the rental car place to begin our journey north.
It’s only when I’m buckling up that it fully hits me that I invited myself—on a whim, of course—to Maine. To meet Logan’s family. It seems I’ll never learn.
I half expected Toffee to be waiting in the car, but apparently Logan gets a break from cat-sitting duties when Mrs. Walker’s back in town. I’m half disappointed by this.
Logan sets a pouch in my lap. I 100 percent didn’t expect to be gifted a road trip kit from Logan. Inside is Advil (for my headaches), more Hello Kitty Band-Aids (just in case), water, a USB car charger, a granola bar (to stave off hanger), and, of course, cherry gummies.
We manage to beat the traffic going out of the city, spending the first hour in a peaceful quiet. We slowly wake up with the help of our cinnamon lattes and bagel sandwiches. Thankfully, my nose acclimates to the rental’s overly strong Fall Spice air freshener as soon as we reach the highway.
I have the heat blasting on my side while Logan has his temperature set in the high sixties. He drives with his hands firmly placed on ten and two, his concentration on the road ahead.
In exchange for the early wake-up call, we’re rewarded with a sunrise that bathes every inch of sky, tree, and road in gold.
I learn that Logan isn’t a big talker when he drives—he’s too focused—but he does like listening to classic rock.
Somehow, an hour zooms by. Logan seems to relax a little more. Now, he holds the wheel steady with his casted hand, his fingers wrapped around the base. Three hours in, he surprises me by grabbing my hand, holding it all the way up until he pulls into a gas station somewhere in Massachusetts and turns off the car.
There’s a bright red neon sign shaped like a hand—palm lines included—just past the gas station’s building. “Palmistry and Tarot Reading,” it says, taunting me. Logan gets out of the car to fill up, clocking the sign only once the pump has been inserted into the tank.
He catches my eye. “No,” he says immediately.
“I’m the one who says that,” I say, climbing out of the car to stretch off the last few hours. “You’re the one who says ‘yes,’ remember?” I peer over at the sign again. Of all the gas stations we could’ve stopped at, it had to be this one.
“Logan, I think we need to check it out.” I tilt my head to the side to work out a kink in my neck. I’m too sore to consider the consequences.
“We’re not going to a gas station fortune teller,” he says.
“That building isn’tinthe gas station. Let’s just see?” I say, using what’s practically his own catchphrase to entice him.
He shakes his head. “There are basic life rules to live by. You don’t eat gas station sushi, sandwiches, or salad. Same rules apply to gas station fortune tellers.”
“It’ll be like a temp check. To see if our efforts are doing anything,” I reason. “More data will help.”
Logan pushes the gas pump nozzle back into its holder. Heglances at me. I must look convincing—or desperate—enough, because he finally nods in agreement.
Turns out, the palmist’s building is attached to the gas station. But in my defense, it has its own front door. The words “Fiona’s Fortunes” are printed on it in swoopy lettering.
It’s surprisingly modern on the inside. Behind a simple white podium, another neon sign spells out “#HighFive” and an @ sign with the business name and a few numbers.
