Page 12 of Speed

At least staying at Logan’s place was a small comfort. I didn’t have to hide here. I could freak out, spiral, and know he’d pull me out of it as he always did. And maybe I could have some Avery time because that little girl and I had fun with the capital F.

Dragging myself out of bed, I pulled on sweats and a T-shirt and followed the faint sounds of clattering to the kitchen. Logan had his head under the sink, tools scattered around him, muttering something about a gasket.

“Where are the girls?” I asked, crouching down beside him.

“Sadie took Avery to the park,” he said without looking up. “No one wants to witness me trying my hand at plumbing.”

I smirked. “Why don’t you just call a plumber? Doesn’t my thirty percent cover a plumber?” I’d wanted to give him fifty; he’d been horrified, but what was mine was his—end of story.

Logan chuckled and returned to work, but something about the easy banter didn’t sit right. The headache, the regrets—they weren’t going anywhere.

“While the girls are out, can we talk?” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

Logan scooted out from under the sink, his brows furrowing as he scanned my face. “What’s wrong? Is it your head? Do I need to call 911?”

“No, Jesus, Logan.” I waved him off, already feeling the tension rising. “I just… I need to talk. I’ll make coffee. Meet me in the sunroom in ten.”

He watched me for a moment longer, his worry palpable, before nodding. “Okay. Sunroom.”

I busied myself with the coffee, the rhythmic motions grounding me just enough to keep the panic at bay. By the time Logan joined me, I was sitting cross-legged on the couch, fiddling with Avery’s Lego scattered on the floor.

Logan ambled in, promptly stepping on a piece. “Son of a—” He bit off a curse, glared at the offending item as if he could kill it with his eyes, and sat down, grabbing a mug from the table. “All right, what’s up?”

“I kissed a man.” I began, not going into full details.

“And you liked it?” Logan sing-songed, then stopped when he saw I was serious.

I hesitated; the words tangled in my throat. Finally, I started recounting the events of the fundraiser—the lounge, the dimly lit room, the voice from the shadows. “His name’s Noah,” I said. “And he plays hockey. In Harrisburg.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, already pulling out his phone. He tapped a few buttons, scrolling through something until he found what he sought. “Hockey player. Harrisburg Railers. Noah Lyamin-Gunnerson. Wow, he’s a type 1 diabetic. Guess that’s why he was there last night.” He turned the phone to a picture, and I nodded, swallowing hard as a picture of Noah’s wide, sparkling eyes and easy smile hit me again.

“I’m straight,” I blurted, running a hand through my hair.

Logan snorted. “Well, clearly you’re not.”

I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest. “Well, I’msupposedto be straight!”

Logan raised a single eyebrow and sipped his coffee as if he wasn’t witnessing me losing my shit. “Who told you that?”

“F1 isn’t ready for a queer driver,” I snapped.

Again, with the eyebrow thing from my brother. “Who. Told. You. That.” he said with exaggerated patience.

“Everyone! The media, the teams, the sponsors… shit, everyone, Lo.”

He waited for a beat and sighed again. “Our grandfather?”

“It’s a man’s sport,” I whispered and closed my eyes when Logan nodded sadly. “He always said… and I always… I’ve had girls–models and actresses–on my arm. I mean Grandfather loved Jemima, said it was the perfect match, and…”

“And?”

“I’ve never even thought about guys like that.” I glanced up at Logan who raised an eyebrow once more. “Shit, that’s not true. I’ve looked before, and I’ve…” I bunched my hands into fists. “I’ve wanted, but I’ve never…”

“But this Noah guy?” Logan prompted.

“I was drunk; I was miserable; I was overwhelmed; and he was kind. He smiled at me, and he has these long curls, and these beautiful, all-knowing eyes, and he made me feel…” I wasn’t sure how to finish the sentence.

Logan studied me before setting his mug on the table. “Happy?”

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