Page 117 of Tips and Trysts

“And I have to say how proud I am of my only son for upholding a Logan family tradition of honor and politics,” my father continues, gaze bearing a mere hint of malice only I can read.

All I have to do is leak a video of the two of you, and your political career is done. Try me, Everett. I’ll send one to every major news outlet in the country. Hell, maybe I’ll put it on my own goddamn website.

I face her. “Hey,” I whisper, “you know I love you, right?”

“I’ve heard the rumors,” she replies before tilting her head closer to me. “I love you too.”

“Good.” I squeeze her hand before I bring it to my lips and kiss it. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

There’s a gentle tremble of applause in the room. People are looking at me.

“Everett,” my father urges, stopping short of glaring.

“Right,” I mutter, letting out a sigh as I stand. “My toast. Time for my toast.” I clear my throat, rest a hand on the back of my chair, and raise a glass in the other. “Thank you to my father for that riveting introduction,” I begin, staring at him while I speak. “As you all know, my father is an important influence in my life—maybe the most important influence. I’m the product of Warren E. Logan. I’ve done everything he’s ever asked of me and everything he’s ever expected.”

I take a sip of the drink I’m holding: Cora’s gin and tonic. It’s the same drink she dumped on my head the night we met. That was the night I fought every base instinct in me—base instincts that have warred with Warren Logan’s expectations for the last twenty-eight years.

It’s been twenty-eight years and I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.

Breathing out, I look directly into my father’s eyes when I say, “But I’m done. Tomorrow, I’m formally withdrawing my candidacy for congressional representative.”

Forty-Two

EVERETT

The room is soquiet that a toilet flushes audibly in the bathroom down the hall, and I actually think it’s an apt metaphor for this dinner party: a complete shitshow.

A few seats over, Dalton starts clapping, but he’s tipsy and his hands are big, so it sounds slow and sarcastic until Alyssa jabs him in the ribs with her elbow. “Ow, fuck,” he hisses.

“Get your shit together, Dalton,” she snaps, shooting him a pointed glare. He rights himself immediately.

Then I look to my side where Cora is sitting with her jaw lowered. When our eyes connect, she presses her lips together, but she’s obviously stunned.

So, I smile at her.

It’s not a big smile. It’s not even a real one. It’s just a small lift at the corner of my mouth before I say the words again: “I’m withdrawing my candidacy for congressional representative.”

And Cora smiles back—a real smile—and I know this is right.

I’m not sure what Sisyphus would have done if he ever reached the top of the mountain, but I’m certain I just did. Now, all I want is to be with Cora.

“So,” I go on, realizing I’ve been standing and gazing at this woman for, like, fifteen seconds too long. “So…” I scan the room and come to an abrupt halt when I lock eyes with my father once more.

I was wrong before.Now, he’s going to murder me.

“So, I guess we’re done here. Drive safe. Parking validation is at the bar,” I finish before chugging my drink.

When nobody moves, I place my glass on the table, take Cora’s hand, and lead us out of the room. It’s the catalyst. As we’re retreating, I hear the hushed whispers, the scratch of chairs against hardwood, and footsteps.

Cora and I barely make it into the paneled hallway when my father says my name: “Everett.Everett. Everett Carlisle Logan, if you don’t stop right now—”

“Jesus Christ, Warren, give it a rest,” Alyssa orders.

When I turn around, she’s emerging from the private room, leading the pack of our friends and glaring at my father.

“Excuse me?” he demands, drawing his head back in surprise. “Alyssa, I’ll talk to my son—”

“He’smyson,” she interrupts, jabbing her slender finger directly into my father’s chest. Her tone makes it sound as if she’s been dying to say those very words for decades.

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