If You're Out There(61)

“Why does anyone help anyone?” he says, like a reflex. But after a minute, he walks over and sits down next to me on the bed, the mattress dipping. He’s so close I can feel the rhythm of his breath, our arms and legs just barely touching. I’m so distracted by the smell of soap and the warmth of his skin that I almost forget to listen.

“At first . . .” He frowns, like he’s really thinking about it. “I guess it was curiosity mostly. With the way things were going in my own life, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to throw myself into something. To get swept up. And . . .” A tiny smirk. “It didn’t hurt that it meant I got to hang out with this really cute, ferocious girl in the process.”

I smile into my lap, my face heating up.

“But now . . . It’s more than that. Priya’s important to you.” He shrugs. “Which means she’s important to me.”

When I raise my eyes to his, he’s looking at me with a quiet intensity I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before. “You’re . . .” I swallow, my heart pounding. I can hardly catch my breath. “You’re such a surprise, Logan.”

“Most good things are,” he says, raising a mock dashing eyebrow.

“Shut up,” I say, giving him a look. “I’m trying to be real here for a min—”

He ducks down and kisses me, lightly, and I feel a jolt pass through me, from his mouth to every part of me.

He pulls back and I touch my lips, a little stunned. I think I may have just gotten my first clue as to why people willingly go and lose themselves, and I am decidedly more amenable to the idea.

He looks at me, his eyes like a question, and before I can think, I close the space between us, kissing him again. I touch his cheek, and his fingers trace the freckles up my arm. I catch a glimpse of his crinkling eyes and it strikes me that I want to make his face keep on doing that. Again and again.

We break apart, only to come back to each other. Our lips are locked and smiling, like we’re sharing a perfect secret. I climb into his lap and wrap my arms around his neck. His hands graze my waist and a shiver runs through me.

A rap on the door makes us spring apart.

“Jesus!” Logan works to catch his breath and I begin to snicker.

Whit calls from the other side, “Hey, uh . . . You guys alive in there? We’re prepping dinner. Is Logan sticking around?”

“Oh, um . . .” I meet his eyes, still a little light-headed. “Yeah. I think he is.”

We listen as she walks away, the energy between us quiet but not awkward, tinged with something like happy relief.

“Can I ask you something?” I say after a moment.

“Anything.”

I straighten up, emboldened. “Would you like to go on a date with me, Logan Hart?”

“What’d you have in mind?” he asks. “Tracking down Priya’s social security number at some government archive, perhaps?”

I glare. “I was thinking the Art Institute, actually. The museum. You can show me your natural habitat.”

“I’d like that.” We’re both grinning like fools.

He glances at the clock by my bed. It’s nearly eight here, so six in California. “Crap,” I say.

Logan ticks his chin up toward the Post-it wall, and if it’s possible, I like him even more. “Where were we?”

“The California address,” I say, already reaching for my laptop. I scan the Bellevue property report until I land on the number for the management company. Logan hands me my phone, settling in next to me. “Okay, here goes,” I say, suddenly anxious again. “Let’s hope they’re still open.”

“ABC Management, this is Kimberly.”

I exhale, smiling. Thank you, Kimberly. You overzealous worker, you.

“Hello,” I say. “I uh . . . I’m trying to get something to one of your tenants, but it keeps returning to sender. Ben Grissom, 418 Bellevue, apartment C?”

The woman makes a smacking sound and Logan leans in to listen. “Apartment C, apartment C . . .” I hear typing. “Okay, ma’am, well, mystery solved! Mr. Grissom broke the lease back in July.”

“Oh?” Logan’s eyes meet mine. “Did uh . . . Did he say why?”

“I wouldn’t have that information, ma’am. Plans changed last minute, I would guess. It happens.”

I squeeze Logan’s arm. “But . . . So he never moved in?”

“No, ma’am.” A pause. “Who did you say you were again?”

“A friend.”

She laughs. “Well then, silly. Sounds like he’s the one you should be talking to!”

“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, Kimberly. I think you might be right.”



Back again. And, ugh . . .

I don’t know.

I think I’m running out of silver lining. What’s the word for restless, furious, and sad all at once?

No. (NEIN!) Enough with the wallowing.

Always have a plan. PLANNING IS LIFE! There have been hiccups, yes, but I have to remind myself: there were successes on that To-Do list of mine.

Firstly: Um, what? Dial-up internet is a thing. I should have documented the glory sooner. It was a good moment. Doing recon in the basement, finding those forgotten boxes in the closet marked “office.” When I swiped the dust from that massive monitor I thought, “Checkmate, fucker!” Then I remembered I knew nothing of computers. (Despite everything TV would have us believe, my South Asian heritage did not bestow upon me any innate tech-wizardry. But fortunately it turned out to be more a matter of plugging things in.)