Page 63 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

“Hardly. She had to resort to bringing up F.A.R.T.s. She always wanted to be you.”

“It’s not high school anymore.” The words hold depth.

I think of what Logan told me in the elevator at work yesterday.

“We’ve all changed—maybe some of us more than others.”

“And that’s what I’m talking about,” Megan says.

“What?”

“You and Logan. That dance. It looked like the first dance at a wedding far more than a reunion reenactment of a prom dance, one I could tell you were squirming about as soon as you were called up on stage.”

“We didn’t look like newlyweds.”

Megan props her hands on her hips and stares at me. There are perils of maintaining a lifelong best friendship. This is one. Scrutiny. Exposure. The inability to bluff.

“Trust me,” she persists. “The way that man was looking at you—wasnotneutral.”

Megan and I spent hours, especially in high school, entertaining ourselves by imitating Logan the statue, Logan the Mona Lisa, Logan the soldier at attention, so I know she chose the word neutral specifically. She knows how much his seeming neutrality and unreadability bother me. I like to know where I stand with a person. I like to be able to read their emotions on their face. I think most people do. Logan is an inscrutable mystery. And he’s often hiding a plan to outwit me and leave me in his dust.

At least, he used to be.

Now, I’m not sure what lies under that gorgeous mask of detached indifference.

“All I know is I might need some smelling salts and a cool cloth after watching you two.”

“Stop it already,” I scold Megan.

Why my face feels flushed is a conundrum. I don’t get flushed over Logan Alexander—not unless it’s flushed with agitation over his pompous, overbearing, overachieving interference in my life. I don’t swoon when I think about the way he held my hand or how he looked into my eyes or the small smiles he shared with me alone on that dance floor.

If anything, Logan rose to the occasion, as he always does. And he was so good at his performance that he convinced Megan, and he even convinced me—almost. But not really.

Besides, do Iwantto be convinced that Logan and I looked like a couple on their wedding night? Not when I follow that line of thought to its natural end. We aren’t … and we won’t be. So there’s only more heartache and frustration down that road, as always seems to be the case with that infuriating, beautiful, intriguing, aggravating man.

Laney Bridgers walks up to Megan and me.

“What a dance, Olivia.”

“Thank you.”

“So, you and Logan?”

“Work together.”

“Ah.”

Alexis Jensen joins us. “Can you believe Logan?”

“What?” Megan asks, her voice full of premature excitement.

“He donated to help us rent this site for the reunion. He’s amazing.”

Laney nods. “He really is. My neighbor is a therapist at some group homes for people with disabilities. Logan helped pay for all the residents to go to Disneyland. They held a fundraiser for the trip last year. She and I were in our front yards gardening one Saturday, and she was telling me about the trip and how they couldn’t have done it without their sponsors. She started listing off corporations and then said, ‘... and a few private donors. You might know one. I think he went to high school at Sweethaven.’ I was stunned when she mentioned Logan. As far as I know, he doesn’t know anyone living in those group homes. I’m pretty certain he doesn’t have anyone developmentally disabled in his family or his extended circle. A personal relationship is usually what motivates a person to donate to a specific cause. Not Logan. He simply gives, and he does so in such a stealthy way. I’m surprised his name was even made public.”

I know my jaw is on the ground. I make eye contact with Megan. A thousand words pass between us without either of us opening our mouths.

Logan?

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