He rolls his eyes. “Stevie, you’re three drinks into the weekend and your room looks like a hurricane blew about thirteen hundred miles off course and hit right here. I don’t think a run is going to happen.”
I stumble to my feet, chagrined. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
He sets his bag down with a heavy thump. “C’mon, let’s get this mess cleaned up.”
When he looks at me, something like pity—or is it disgust? —suffuses his face. I stiffen. It’s one thing for me to pity him for having to live with me. It’s another for him to pity me for being, well, me.
“No thanks,” I say. “I’ve got it. You go for your run.”
Logan grabs a dust cloth I’d brought in hours ago to clean the desk with but never got around to using. “It’s okay. Let me help.”
“No.” I take the cloth out of his hand. “But thanks.”
His lips thin, something they do when he’s annoyed. And he’s rarely ever annoyed with anyone but me. Who can blame him?
“Stevie. Don’t be an ass.”
“I’m not being an ass. I’m trying to clean my room. Thank you for offering to help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few years of crap to clean up.”
He closes his eyes, muttering something. “Fine. See you later.” He snatches his bag off the ground, turns, and stalks out.
I groan to myself. Five hours ago, I had such good intentions. What happened?
What usually happens. I happened. I always happen.
Most people’s bucket lists are full of cool, exotic trips or once in a lifetime experiences. Mine consists of cleaning my freaking room and occasionally the spaces between my teeth. And I can’t even do those things without getting buzzed and triggering a pity response in my best friend.
Stupid Stevie. Stupid, stupid Stevie.
With a rush of anger, all aimed at myself, I take another swig of wine, prepare the dust cloth and take it out on the years of dust piled up on my desk.
Two hours, and two more glasses of wine later, I finish. My desk is clean and organized, every sheet of paper and writing utensil has a home, my keyboard is free of smudges, my monitor sparkles, my bed is made with clean linens, and I’m . . . exhausted.
As I’d worked, I heard Logan call for Bean to take her on his run, they’d come back, he’d showered, and he’d banged around in the kitchen. He hadn’t offered to make me anything to eat like he usually would.
I’d had plenty of time and enough grapes to get my guilt juices flowing. Logan had offered to help. He hadn’t said one critical word. Then again, he hadn’t needed to. I can read my best friend’s face perfectly well, thank you.
My whole life, I’ve been very sensitive to criticism. I know every fault I have. Could catalogue them for you at any moment. I don’t need anyone to point them out. But Logan hadn’t pointed anything out. He’d only looked disappointed.
I creep out to the living room, empty wine bottle and glass in one hand, a fistful of apologies in the other. He’s on the couch playing a game, back to me, headphones on. After a quick detour to the sink and recycle bin, I pad into the living room, Bean on my heels, and sit on the couch beside Logan. She curls up in her dog bed by the gas fireplace that doesn’t work.
My housemate doesn’t look at me or even acknowledge me. He’s playing one of his first-person shooter games, and he must be playing by himself, because he’s not talking to anyone through the headset.
I watch for a while, and then I slide a little closer and put my head on his shoulder. He doesn’t make room, doesn’t even move. It’s like I’m not there.
For a second.
Then, he pauses his game and slides an arm around my shoulders. I wrap my arms around his torso and hug him fiercely.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his chest.
Logan has a very nicely toned chest. I’m trying to ignore that fact as my face is pressed against it with merely his thin white cotton T-shirt between us. He squeezes my shoulder. His way of telling me it’s okay.
“I don’t deserve you as a bestie,” I say.
“I know.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t, so I poke him hard in the ribs. He yelps, puts me in a neck hold, and rubs his knuckles against my scalp, something he’s done since we were kids arguing in the backyard.
“Stop!” I yell. He does, and I push him away. “Jerk.” I don’t mean it and he knows it.
“Room done?” He restarts his game.
I nod. “I was going to do the whole house by the time you got home, surprise you, but . . .” My voice trails off. I don’t have to explain, not to him.
“Why wouldn’t you let me help?” He sounds hurt.
“Because, Logan, I’m almost thirty years old. I should be able to handle cleaning my room by now. Shouldn’t I? I mean, seriously. Shouldn’t I?” I swallow hard. “Number six on my bucket list is to clean the whole house and keep it organized. I can’t even clean my own room. What’s wrong with me?”
Logan listens quietly, his face grave, then squeezes me again. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Stevie. Nothing at all.”
He’s lying, but for once, I don’t argue. It’s not his problem to figure out. It’s mine.
And I swear I’ll do it.
Chapter Twelve
Logan
Despite my overwhelming desire not to see Stevie on what sounds suspiciously like a date with Jude, somehow, I’m still walking to the zoo with her on Saturday evening.
First, I don’t like zoos that much.
Second, I don’t like Jude that much. Okay, that’s not fair. Jude’s fine. The problem is that Stevie seems to like him too much.
And third, I’m not interested in Emmy or vice versa, as far as I can tell. Any Emmy-Logan pairing seems to be a figment of Stevie’s well-developed imagination.
I rub my face. This zoo date is exhausting, and we aren’t even through the gates and smelling the exquisite fragrance of animal dung yet.
“What?” Stevie asks.
“What?” I look at her.
“Why did you rub your face and groan?”
Crap. I didn’t know I’d groaned. I glance around looking for a groan-inducing excuse and spot a car in the zoo parking lot that we’re passing. “That, uh, Mercedes has really cheesy rims.”
“Rims?” She eyes me.
Did I use the right word? I’m not exactly a car guy. Aren’t the things inside the tires called rims?
“Yeah, the rims.” I point at the offensive car, which, now that I look more closely, has perfectly normal rims as far as I can tell. “Why?”
“I’ve never heard you use a word like rims. You aren’t a car guy.”
Exactly. Luckily, she’s even less of a car girl. “Anyway, what are we doing at the zoo again?”
“Meeting Emmy and Jude.”
“But, then what? Walk around, look at animals . . . flirt?” I can’t resist throwing that in.
Stevie shades her eyes and looks up at me. “Why? Planning on doing a lot of that with Emmy?”
No! I want to yell. But of course, I don’t. After a long look at my flat expression, she answers, “It’s Safari Sunsets tonight. The zoo is open until nine and it’s adults only. Which means no to kids or families and yes to adult bevvies.”