If You're Out There(33)

Within two blocks, Bee is passed out in her brother’s lap, soothed by the stop-and-start brakes and the bus’s rumbling engine.

“She’s not usually like this,” says Logan. “Quiet, I mean.”

“She okay?”

“She’s been through a lot. And now, on top of everything she’s come up against some, I don’t know, mean girls? They must get younger every year.”

I narrow my eyes. “Do I need to rough up some six-year-olds?”

“She’s been asking Bonnie to take her shopping. I think her old wardrobe isn’t cutting it here. Kids in Lincoln Park are very trendy.”

I nod, understanding now. “Silver light-up shoes.”

“What?”

“All the hot bitches in Harr’s class have silver light-up shoes. I’m telling you. It’s, like, a key component in the little-girl pecking order.”

“You probably shouldn’t call children bitches.”

“Eh.” I wave him off. “Kids are just small people. They can’t all be nice.”

Logan laughs. “I guess we’ve got some shopping to do. Honestly, it’s nice to have a solvable problem.” Bee shifts in his lap, her eyes fluttering slightly. He adjusts in his seat and a little river trickles down onto the floor from his rain-soaked jeans. “Well, this was fun.” He holds my gaze, green eyes glinting.

“Yeah,” I say, and we watch the oversize windshield wipers fend against the night.

Logan’s building is close to the lake. I’ve been to places like it—midrise, prewar, a friendly doorman in the lobby. We take the elevator to the top floor, with Bee still half-asleep, though standing on her own. She and I wait in the hall, peeling off wet socks while Logan tiptoes inside. With the door propped open I can hear him rummaging around. He starts Bee’s bath and comes back to guide her toward the sounds of running water. When I step inside, he hands me a towel, reaching over my shoulder to bolt the door behind us.

“Back in a sec,” he says, leaving me to drip over a welcome mat. He disappears into a bedroom off of the hallway. I hear drawers open and close, and soon he comes back with a pair of satiny pink pajamas. “There’s another bathroom down the hall.”

I run my thumb along the silky fabric. “Wouldn’t have pegged these as your style.”

“My aunt’s,” he clarifies.

When I emerge minutes later, it is painfully clear that I am much, much taller than Logan’s aunt. Holding my wet clothes balled up at a distance from my body, I round the corner from the long hallway. Logan is changed and dry, chopping onions in a big, open kitchen that spills into a living room. He brightens when he sees me, his eyes already streaming with oniony tears. “You look ready for a flood.”

“Oh ha ha,” I say.

He wipes his hands on a dish towel and takes my wet clothes from me. “Hungry?” he asks, careful, I notice, not to pay too much attention to my sopping wet bra as he stuffs it in the dryer.

“Starved,” I say, taking in the place. The open layout is bright and airy, accented with a smattering of antiques and a small jungle of hanging window plants. Logan returns to his post at the stove and I sink onto a bar stool at the kitchen island. I watch him slide the onions into a sizzling skillet doused in olive oil. The smell is immediately intoxicating. He digs out carrots from the fridge next and chops them up small. Then he adds them to the onions, grinding sea salt and pepper before lifting the pan by the handle to give it a hearty shake.

Rain chatters on skylights above us. “So . . .” He unfolds brown butcher paper from a ball of what looks like ground turkey, which he drops into a glass bowl with a thud.

“So,” I say back to him. He laughs, accepting the silence, and I watch contentedly as he adds eggs, bread crumbs, parsley, a squeeze of lemon, and finally the cooked-down carrots and onions from the pan. He mixes the meaty goo with bare hands, balling up pieces to throw back into the skillet.

“Meatball?” He reaches across the island with a raw one in his palm.

I swat him away. “No thanks.” And then, feeling I should contribute something to the conversation, I say, “I’ve never seen someone put carrots in meatballs before.”

He shrugs. “It’s the only way to get Bee to eat her vegetables. I put broccoli in pesto. And mushrooms in hamburgers. If you cut them up small enough she can’t tell the difference.” He glances up from the pan. “What?”

I drop the smile that’s crept up my face. “Nothing. That’s just . . . nice.”

“Yuuum-my,” says a little voice from down the hall. With the skillet still hissing, Logan washes his hands and brings the dirty dishes to the sink. Bee walks up to inspect the stove, her blond hair soaking the back of her nightie.

Logan sighs down at his sister. “Go get your brush. And a towel. You’re dripping all over the place.” She nods obediently and runs off.

Logan turns the meatballs in the pan. “You seem like you know your way around a kitchen,” I say. I noticed his methodical chopping earlier. Everything so neat and even.

“Yeah,” he says. “I like it.”

A thought strikes me. “Arturo mentioned hiring another guy to help with prep before the night shifts. And we could use a sub once in a while now that Priya’s gone. Would you ever want to—”