Page 41 of The Write Off

“What are they like?” Not only am I desperate to talk about something other than whatever the hell is going on between us, I’m genuinely curious.

“They’re good kids. Polar opposites of one another. Travis has always been the curious type. He needs to understand how everything around him works. When he was four, my sister-in-law came into the kitchen after putting Anna down for a nap to find him sitting on the counter, disassembling the coffee maker.”

“He sounds like a handful.”

“He can be. He’s grown up a lot since then, particularly since my brother passed. He’s got a quick wit that can be devastating though.”

“And Anna?”

“Anna is a sweetheart. Very creative. Falls in love with every animal she meets. She’s generous and kind; she gets that from her mom’s side of the family.”

I don’t know about that, I think to myself. I happened to find Logan to be quite generous in my bedroom last night. My blood surges at the memory and I hope my thoughts aren’t written all over my face.

“But they’re great kids, in my very biased opinion,” he continues. “I think you’ll really like them.” The implication that I’m going to meet them like it’s a foregone conclusion hangs heavy in the air. He clears his throat. “They share your love of pancakes.”

“Of course they do. They’re basically the perfect food.” I cleanse my palate with a drink of black coffee before I start loading another fork full. “You can eat them at any time of the day and they go with everything. Did you know pancakes originated in ancient Greece? One of the reasons I love this diner so much is because they use real maple syrup whereas most places use table syrup. Did you know Canada produces 85% of the world’s maple syrup?”

Once I start babbling, I find it very hard to stop. I take another drink from the standard white mug used in every diner across America.

“How are you feeling?”

The question catches me off guard and I almost do a spit take. How am I feeling?

How am I feeling? Uncomfortable because of this conversation and a bit sore from when you attempted to split me in half last night with your penis. Thanks for asking.

“Good! I feel good.” I don’t. “I slept really well.” I tossed and turned all night. “These pancakes are delicious.” I can’t taste anything but my own nervous energy, which for some unknown reason tastes like burnt plastic. “How are you?”

“I slept terribly,” he admits, rubbing a hand over his face.

Why does he have to be so honest? “Why do you think that is?”

“Three possible reasons come to mind. One, I was nervous about the ‘what are we?’ conversation, that you have thus far dodged spectacularly.” He smirks at me and continues to count on his fingers. “Two, my heart rate was more elevated than usual due to our late night cardio session. And three, I was excited to see you again.”

If this were a classic cartoon, my eyes would turn into big hearts and my actual heart would be comically pounding outside my chest for all to see.

Be brave, Rilla.

“What do you want, Logan?”

“That’s a very broad question with a lot of variables to consider,” he answers without missing a beat. God, he’s gorgeous when he smiles.

I push my plate away and lean forward, my hands resting in front of me on the table. “Alright. What do you want with me?”

His cheeky grin slips and he looks hesitant. Almost boyish. He stares into his coffee cup, like he’s reading tea leaves and hoping for a positive outcome.

“I like you, Rilla. I think about you all the time. I really enjoy spending time with you. Much more than most people. I want to date you. If that’s not something you’re interested in, I’ll respect and accept your decision. But that’s where I’m at. That is what I want from you.”

I’m not sure if anyone has ever given me such a direct and honest answer before and it inspires my own burst of transparency.

“I’ve never really dated anyone. On purpose, anyway. My MO up until this point has been casual sex without feelings. Which are often messy and dumb. So, I may not be very good at it.”

His mouth quirks. “I thought you were good at everything.”

“Let me rephrase; through no fault of my own, this may not work out.”

Logan looks at me. Like really looks at me. Something about the intensity of his gaze always makes me feel like he can see things that other people can’t. Or choose not to. “I think it will.”

My heart stammers in my chest. “And what if it doesn’t?”

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