Logan holds up a sketchbook in a gesture of peace. “Same as you. Working on designs for the competition.”
I nod stiffly, unsure of how to respond. Part of me wants to engage, discuss ideas, and share the excitement of creation. But the larger part, the part that’s been hurt and dismissed too many times, keeps me silent and wary.
Logan moves closer, his gaze sweeping over the papers I wasn’t able to hide. “May I?” he asks.
I consider the question. It’s polite and professional. He’s curious, and his face is relaxed. Wolves hide in sheep’s clothing all the time. I glance at the images. They’re not my favorites, and that’s why they were so far out that I couldn’t grab them. I’d discarded them. I’m curious, though, about what he’ll do with them. After a moment’s hesitation, I nod. He picks up one of the drawings, his brow furrowing as he studies it. I brace myself for the picking apart.
“This is... interesting,” he says slowly. “Very modern.”
“You don’t like modern?” I blurt out, trying my best to get a read on him. If I know what angle he’s attacking from, my defenses can be fortified before the jabs come.
He gives me a lopsided grin. “What is Christmas without the nutcrackers and toy trains?” His words, though not unkind, strike a nerve.
My throat starts to close off, and I force air through my nose. At one point, I could talk circles around this drawing and make it come to life in a way that would excite even the likes of Logan Brown. But the past year has risen up in front of me, and I’m stuck behind a wall of fear and anxiety. My tongue is heavy, and the words stick together like candy canes left in the sun.
“Not everything has to be traditional,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I intended because I have to push them out with so much force, or they’ll stay inside forever. “Christmas isn’t for old people.” I know what I’m saying doesn’t make sense. I want to tell him that experiencing Christmas is different for each person, and some of them feel it for the first time as adults.
Logan blinks in surprise. “I didn’t mean to offend,” he says quickly. “I just... well, I guess I’m more of a classic Christmas kind of guy.”
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “Well, that’s your perspective,” I say, my voice tight but my throat starting to loosen up again. “But this competition isn’t about recreating the same old scenes we’ve seen a thousand times before. It’s about bringing something new and fresh to the table.” Oh great. Now that I can talk, I’m going to insult his taste. I’m ready for a battle now. He’s going to come back at me, and I need to be ready. I clench my jaw.
Logan’s expression shifts from surprise to something that looks almost like admiration, which is disarming. “You’re passionate about this, aren’t you?”
The unexpected softness in his voice catches me off guard, and my grip on my sketches loosens. They flutter and scatter across the floor like feathers. For a moment, I see past the successful competitor, past the chiseled jawline and perfectly styled hair. I see a fellow creator, someone who understands the drive to bring beauty into the world. Someone who may take as much joy as I do in a freshly sharpened set of colored pencils and the possibilities of a blank sketchbook.
But then I remember who he is, Logan Brown, three-time winner of this very competition, and the person I need to be to get everything I want. He stands in my way. Whether he means to or not, he does. The walls go back up, higher and stronger than before.
“Of course I’m passionate,” I retort. “This isn’t just some hobby for me. It’s my future.”
Logan nods, a strange mix of emotions playing across his face. “I get that,” he says softly. “More than you might think.”
Wait, what? That’s not what he’s supposed to say. I find myself wanting to ask him what he means, but before I can say anything, he shakes his head as if clearing away a troubling thought.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I came across as nosy and critical,” he says. “That wasn’t my intention at all. Your ideas are unlike anything I’ve seen before. And that’s a good thing.”
I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his words. “Thank you,” I mumble, unsure of how to handle this unexpected praise. My eyes drop to my lap, and I keep them there. A feeling of not being worthy of his kind words washes over me. Impostor syndrome. I never had it before and, quite frankly, thought it was silly. Now, I get it because I live it. Thankfully, my mamma raised me with manners, so thethank youwas automatic. At least I got that right.
Logan runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly nervous. “I’m not sure what happened here,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Usually, I’m much more level-headed. It’s possible you stir my soul, Bailey.”
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.Stir his soul? Who says things like that? What man has ever used a poetic phrase to describe me? None. Not one.
Why did I ever go out with those guys? It’s a mystery because now that Logan saidthat, I can’t ever forget it. And now that I know there are men out there who say such wonderful things, I won’t settle for less.
He’s only been here five minutes, and he’s turned my world upside down.
I wonder what other wonderful things he can say. My heart does a strange little flip, and for a split second, I allow myself to imagine what it might be like to let my guard down, to let someone in.
But then the memories come flooding back, the dismissive comments from my family when I told them I wanted to become a designer, the cruel words from my ex. The pain is still too raw, too real. I can’t risk being hurt again.
“I’m sure you say that to all the designers?” I snap, my voice cold.
Logan’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back as if I’ve physically struck him. “I... I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just trying to...”
“To what?” I interrupt. Now that I’ve let the tornado begin, I can’t turn it off, and I’m swept up in the emotions. “To throw me off my game? To distract me from the competition?”
“No, of course not!” Logan looks genuinely distressed now. “I was just... I don’t know. I guess I was trying to...”
I don’t let him finish. “Save it,” I say, gathering my sketches. He stoops down to help me, and as we both stand up, I snatch them from his hands. “I’m not interested in your games, Logan. This is a competition, nothing more.”
