Page 82 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Logan laughs. It’s soft and deep and comforting.

I don’t question the way he’s making me feel. Obviously I’m still riding some sort of chemical response to him being a safe place for me when my apartment revolted. My brain is probably dumping adrenaline, dopamine, and oxytocin. The initial adrenaline boost would be gone by now, but those other two could rise again. I learned all about this in our consumer psychology course and in neuroscience and behavior for business.

Yes. That’s all this is.

Logan is triggering a hero complex.

It will pass.

All the next day at work, I keep picturing ruffled, casual Logan with his disheveled hair, bedroom eyes and soft, end-of-the-day voice. That’s not the Logan I’m working with on the Untethered project. No. At work, he’s buttoned-up, get-down-to-business Logan.

Something keeps nagging at me. And the more I learn about Logan—this new, mysterious, unexpectedly thoughtful side of him—the more I wonder why he went with Gil to pay Lynette’s rent. She isn’t the least bit interested in following up. I brought it up on a phone call with her last night, and she said, “If they wanted me to know, they would tell me.”

I’m not Lynette. She’s always been happy-go-lucky and roll-with-it. I’m more the type who doesn’t rest without all the pieces making sense. Especially where Logan Alexander is concerned.

So, after work, I take a drive to my old neighborhood. I dug a little and found out where Gil and his wife, Maisy, are living. I pull up in front of their traditional Cape Cod-style home—white clapboard siding with black shutters and a dark red door. I park on the street and take the walkway to the front steps.

I ring the doorbell and then wonder if I should have knocked.

Why am I so nervous? I’m just here to get to the bottom of this gift to my sister. And most of all, even though I won’t admit it out loud to anyone, I need to resolve what Logan’s role was in all of it. Was he a ride-along? Or something more?

“Olivia!” Maisy smiles when she opens the door as if we’re old friends and I called in advance to say I was dropping by.

“Hi. Um, I’m sorry I didn’t call first. Or ask if I could come over … I just … I need to talk to Gil about something. Is he home?”

“He is. Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Yeah. It’s fine. There’s just this thing …” I step in when Maisy pops the door open wider.

“My sister is a single mom.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. Of course. Well, it seems like a bunch of parents chipped in to pay her rent.”

“That’s awesome!”

We’re in their entry, which is actually the start of a long, wide hallway running from the front door toward the back of the house. Stairs ascend along one side and the front room off to our right. Gil comes through from the end of the hall.

“Who’s here?” he asks. And then he sees me. “Well, hi, Olivia. What’s up?”

“Come on in,” Maisy says.

“Okay. Thank you.” I step farther into the house, and she shuts the door behind me.

Gil turns around and walks toward the rear of the house.

“I was just dishing up some ice cream. Want some?” he offers.

“I never say no to ice cream.”

Maisy and I follow him into the kitchen.

Gil grabs a third bowl and spoons two generous scoops of ice cream into the bowl. “I hope you like pecan praline.”

“I’m not a heathen,” I joke.

He laughs.

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