“Exactly.”
Logan turns onto a road that leads to a narrow bridge. After a few more turns, we’re pulling into a gravel parking lot that’s just steps from the harbor. There are picnic tables scattered over the grass and pavement and Adirondack chairs facing the water. A coastline is dotted with rocks in the distance. A small red shack perches on the water’s edge with a sign that reads “Luna’s Lobster Shack.” Below that is a smaller sign with “Last day of the season” and its hours printed on it. We made it right before it closes down for the winter.
“I’m not even gonna say it,” I say.
Logan lets out a humorless huff. “You said when life’s a shitshow, add water. So that’s what we’re doing. We need to talk, but we’re not doing that on an empty stomach. The situation calls for the best lobster rolls, and these are it.”
We take our place in line. It goes fast, and we each order a lobster roll with chips and a blueberry soda. Logan points out an empty picnic table in an ideal spot on the deck, but as soon as he heads toward it, a family cuts in.
We keep looking, but the place is packed and the hunt for open chairs is competitive. Logan heads back to the shack when his name is called for our order. Just as I begin my solo search, two Adirondack chairs on a secluded patch of grass become available.
“These are the hardest seats to get!” Logan says, returning with the seafood-filled tray. He places it on a table connecting the two chairs.
I pour melted butter over thick chunks of cooked lobster as Logan rips open his bag of chips. The toasted bun gives way between my teeth as the fresh lobster, butter, and mayonnaise burst across my taste buds. The salty butter and the sweet lobster are a perfectly balanced and thoroughly satisfying combination.
Once our rumbling stomachs are satiated, Logan angry-wipes his mouth with a napkin. He turns to me. “Hazel, I’m so, so sorry,” he says. “I’ve had to say that a lot lately, and I’m sorry for that, too.”
I set my lobster roll into the food boat. “Logan—”
“Wait, I’d like to say this,” he says, looking more stressed than anyone should be next to this breathtaking view. “Our identities being revealed, that’s on me.” He pats his chest. “This is my fault. At least we get lobster out of it?” He frowns. “Wait, let me try that again. This sucks.”
His attempt at vulnerability kind of works. My face relaxes slightly, but everything still feels too heavy to fully commit to a grin. “It was an honest mistake,” I say.
It’s a knee-jerk reaction. Hearing it out loud in this context startles me. It’s a phrase I use with Dad and Jerry when they apologize for blowing their savings and then ask me for money. When they break promises and try to make excuses. With them, I try to justify their actions. But I say those words without meaning it, without trusting that they are actually sorry. What else am I supposed to do? They’re family.
With Logan, though, when I say “it was an honest mistake,” I realize I actually mean it. In our entire time of knowing each other, he’s never once given me any reason not to trust him. He’s kept every promise to me. He’s remembered the smallest commitments. He’s owned his mistakes. He’s owning it now. Logan is reliable in all the big and small ways.
“It was an accident, but it doesn’t make this okay,” he says. “If I could take it all back, I would.”
I try to resist the immediate distrust that spins up inside of me.
If I could take it all back, I would.They’re words I heard constantly when I grew up. Yet, while I’m sure Dad wished he could redo his actions, could go back in time to get the money he spent back, he never did anything about it. In the future, history would repeat itself. Maybe his words weren’t lies, but they certainly weren’t the truth.
I swallow my bitter skepticism and replace the taste with another bite of lobster roll. I finish chewing and then ask, “Would you really? Take it all back?”
The look on Logan’s face shows me how much this is eating at him. Behind his eyes, I see an entire debate playing out. I envision a positive platitude popping up in his mind and him whacking it down. Pop up. Whack down. Repeat.
He takes off his hat and runs his hand back and forth through his hair. The strands stick up in every direction. “I don’t know. But I do know that… I feel bad,” he starts. “I feel bad that I messed this up for you. I wish I could blame the fortune, but this… this wasn’t about luck. It was stupidity. My own. I failed to think about the details. The masks, wigs, costumes… the accent! It was all pointless because I wasn’t careful enough.”
“We can escape the city, but we can’t escape the Internet,” I say.
I glance down at Logan’s wrist. And right there, poking out from under his long-sleeve shirt is the tail of his red bracelet. Our true identities were revealed because of… string? The whole thing is absurd. The anxiety bouncing around inside of me mutates into amusement.
Suddenly, I bust out laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. “Seriously, don’t beat yourself up about it,” I say, catching my breath. “It’s harder to remember things when you’re eighty.”
Logan starts laughing, too. We go on like this for a minute or two, leaning back in our chairs with food boats rocking in our laps. The laughter feels like a release. Like the sunshine and lobster rolls and water are doing their jobs.
I’m laughing in the middle of my worst-case scenario. No.We’relaughing in the middle of our worst-case scenario. I’m not alone in this.
Instead of feeling numb, I’m tingly and light. I steal a look at Logan, and my heart skips a beat. I hold my hand against my chest, willing it back to a steady rhythm. It speeds up.
I think I love Logan.
Oh god. This is a horrible time to think this.
Which probably means I really do. Love him.
I gasp as though a corset is being pulled around my middle. The tightness in my ribs squeezes harder.
