It was Sunday night and you were looking forward to getting home after a night with the girls at the local bar. Hannah had decided to stay over at her boyfriend’s and Allie joined her, how those two managed to get partners who lived in the same house- you’d never quite understand. But you weren’t even bothered. Just looking forward to the relaxing night you were about to treat yourself with, a nice hot shower that involved your favourite berry scented soap and a blow-out that contained too many hair products, each of them as sweet smelling as the rest.
You rolled your eyes when the rain started pattering against Cherry’s windshield, the cherry-red chevy was your baby, and she was very resilient in all types of weather, but the water droplets just banged against her vintage exterior too aggressively for your liking.
You rubbed along her steering wheel, “Almost there baby,” the squeak of the wipers was answer enough and you decided to flick on the radio, hopefully the soft melodies of you mother’s fleetwood mac CD would drown out the echoing of the torrential downpour, a significant increase from the initial patter.
For about one picturesque second , the vehicle was filled with Stevie Nicks’ vocals and you sighed, the song reminded you of when your parents would dance in the kitchen, your dad tickling your mothers sides in a way that would make her screech and slap his shoulder playfully- you and your siblings would cringe and run out into the backgarden, ignoring her calls for dinner in 10 minutes.
The next, the song gave one tragic little crackle and died.
You stared at your dashboard.
Cherry continued rolling down the road through the rain, wipers dragging water from the windshield in uneven arcs, the headlights turning the wet pavement ahead of you into a long black ribbon of reflected streetlights.
“No,” you said.
The radio did not respond.
You pressed the power button once, keeping your eyes on the road.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
A third time, because sometimes persistence was the answer to everything.
You were still being assaulted by the hollow banging of the sheets of water splattering outside. Taking a slow breath, you remembered what mama always told you- a big deep breath before making expensive decisions or replying to emails sent by people who used, “just circling back” unironically.
“Cherry,” you said, very calmly. “Do not do this to me.”
The car gave a faint, worrying cough.
Not a human cough, obviously. You were not insane. You understood machinery. You had dated enough emotionally unavailable boys and owned enough temperamental objects to know that sometimes things made sounds without meaning anything dramatic.
But still, any reasonable person would agree that she coughed at you, a little, wet, mechanical throat-clear that vibrated beneath your feet and travelled straight up your spine.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“Absolutely not.”
Rain battered against the windshield hard enough to make the world outside blur at the edges. The road was mostly empty, which should have been comforting and was instead deeply insulting. Of course Cherry would choose an empty road. Of course she would not have the decency to make her point in front of a café or a supermarket or somewhere with lighting that did not make everything look like the opening scene of a horror movie.
The speedometer in front of you flickered, the little pointer rotated wildly before it settled on the big, red, zero.
Your stomach dropped.
“Cherry.”
Another cough, this time it wasn’t ignorable. Unlike the suspicious little shudders Cherry had been doing whenever you slowed down at traffic lights for the past three days, which you had been ignoring in a deeply optimistic way.
“Baby, no,” you whispered.
The engine stuttered beneath you.
You flicked your eyes toward the side of the road, searching through the rain for somewhere to pull over that did not look like the sort of place people disappeared in true crime documentaries. The headlights caught the edge of a sign ahead, blue and white and half-hidden behind rain-slick branches.
A garage.
Not even a proper one, at first glance. More like a family shop tucked off the road, with two wide bay doors, a small office light still glowing despite the late hour, and one battered truck parked outside beneath the awning. It looked open, though that might have been wishful thinking. Cherry lurched again.
“Okay,” you said quickly. “Okay, okay, I see it. We’re going. Don’t be dramatic.”
Cherry ignored you and rolled toward the garage with the exhausted dignity of someone arriving at the hospital after insisting all day that they were fine.
By the time you managed to pull into the small lot, the rain had turned violent. This wasn’t romantic rain. Not soft, rom-com, dramatic reunion with undying love confessions rain. Not like the rain you and your cousins would watch on TV, gathered around on the living room floor at your grandparent’s house, tummy first in the plush carpet, sharing a bag of crunchy baby carrots.
This was the type that slapped against the roof and pooled around tyres and turned every light into a smear. You parked beneath the edge of the awning, though not far enough beneath it to avoid the rain completely because you were stressed and Cherry had chosen that exact second to make another noise you never wanted to hear again.
The engine died before you turned the key.
You sat there for one long second, “Oh my God,” you breathed.
The rain answered.
You leaned forward and rested your forehead lightly against the steering wheel, careful not to smudge your lipstick because if everything else was going to fall apart, your mouth was not. The car smelled like your perfume, old leather, and the faint strawberry air freshener you had bought by mistake because the store had been out of cherry and settled for the next best option. Your hair was already frizzing from the humidity despite the fact you had not even left the car yet.
This was fine. This was a normal evening. Girls broke down outside strange, off the highway garages all the time.
Right?
You lifted your head and looked toward the lit office window.
There were people inside. Thank God.
You grabbed your purse, cursed when the strap caught on the gear shift, apologised to Cherry because none of this was her fault emotionally even if it was absolutely her fault mechanically, and shoved the door open.
The rain hit you immediately. Rude in the way it shoved you in its unforgiving momentum, thrusting against your clothes and drenching you down to the core. You wobbled on your feet against its forceful bullying.
By the time you crossed the short distance from Cherry to the garage office, your cardigan was soaked through, your hair was wet at the ends, and your ballet flats had made the deeply unfortunate discovery that puddles existed. You pushed open the office door with far more force than intended, stumbled inside, and brought half the storm with you.
Two men looked up.
One older, sitting behind the counter with paperwork spread in front of him and a pair of reading glasses low on his nose.
The other younger, standing near a workbench with a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, dark hair slightly messy like he had been running a hand through it all night.
A third voice came from what you can only assume was the office, “Who the fuck is coming in at this time?”
You winced, biting your lip and wisely made the choice to look at the pair in front of you. The older man rolled his eyes at the remark, whilst the younger was more focussed on you.
Probably the state you were in, the chill had settled into your bones and goosebumps had erupted across your skin. The dress you had worn for girl’s night was not built for the weather and you wished you had bothered to look at the forecast before pulling the baby-doll peplum one piece out of your closet, but the length was just right and the white ruffles at the top were accented perfectly with the ruched red and white gingham against your chest. It didn’t help that Allie had hyped you up so much that you broke out your favourite ballet flats to finish off the outfit.
You felt like a little-girl’s barbie doll that somehow ended up in the washing machine as you stood in front of these two confused men, who were probably looking forward to closing down for the day.
“My car is dying,” you said.
Both men stared.
You stood there dripping onto the mat, clutching your purse against your chest, rainwater sliding down your jaw, red lipstick somehow still intact because at least one thing in your life had loyalty.
The younger one blinked.
“Dying?”
“Yes.”
The older man’s mouth twitched, “Mechanically?” he asked, folding his glasses off his nose and setting them down on the newspaper he was hunched over.
You gestured helplessly toward the window.
“Emotionally, mechanically, spiritually. I’m not sure yet. She coughed.”
The younger man looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“She coughed,” he repeated back to you, his arms folded over his chest.
“Yes.”
“Cars don’t cough.”
“Mine did.”
The older man leaned back in his chair, now openly amused.
The younger one looked past you through the rain toward the lot. “Which one?”
You turned and pointed, though the rain made Cherry look less like a car and more like a tragic red blur beneath the awning. “Her.”
“Her?”
“Cherry.”
The younger man had followed your finger, but turned back to you when you said her name.
“Cherry.”
You nodded.
“That’s the model?”
“That’s her name.”
There was a pause, perhaps this was the moment where a normal person might have realised they were giving a very strange first impression. However, you were cold, wet, and worried about your car, so self-awareness had been postponed.
“She’s a Chevy,” you added, like that cleared everything up.
The older man coughed once into his fist, badly hiding a laugh.
The younger one finally smiled. A crooked pull at one corner of his mouth that immediately made him look more dangerous than a mechanic in a rainstorm had any right to look.
“Right,” he said. “Cherry the Chevy.”
“Cherry the cherry-red Chevy,” you corrected, rolling onto your heels and back.
His smile got worse, but he brought a hand up to pretend he was running it down his stubble, he nodded as though you had just stated the sky is blue, “Of course.”
The older man stood, sliding his glasses off. “Logan, grab the umbrella.”
Logan.
So that was his name, it suited him. Wait what?
The younger man-Logan-tossed the rag onto the workbench and reached for a large black shop umbrella leaning by the door. “You drive her here like that?”
“She drove herself,” you said, then blinked, realising you sounded insane. “I mean, I drove. Obviously. But she made the decision for us both.”
Logan opened the door, and the sound of the rain surged in.
“You always talk about your car like she’s a person?”
You stepped toward him, trying not to drip directly onto the floor any more than you already had, "That feels a little unkind to say in front of her. She’s having a very hard night."
The older man laughed from behind you.
Logan looked at you, smile still lingering, “Fair.”
He opened the umbrella before stepping outside, and you followed him beneath it, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his arm. The rain hammered against the fabric above you, loud enough to soften the world into something smaller. The garage light spilled across the lot in a pale yellow wash, catching on wet asphalt, on Cherry’s red paint, on the strands of hair stuck to your cheek.
Logan was taller than you had realised inside. Which was not important. At all.
He held the umbrella more over you than himself, which you noticed despite trying not to, and by the time you reached Cherry, his shoulder was wet from rain blowing sideways.
“You’re getting soaked,” you said.
He glanced at you.
“You’re already soaked.”
“That doesn’t mean you should join me.”
“I’ll survive.”
“That sounds like famous last words.”
“You always this dramatic?”
“Yes,” you said immediately. “But only when my loved ones are in danger.”
He looked at the car, and pointed at Cherry, “Loved ones.”
“She’s family-adjacent.” Nodding, you patted her slippery bonnet, immediately regretting it as the frigid water numbed your hand. You shook it away, ignoring the amused expression Logan pinned you with.
“Family-adjacent.”
“My nana picked her out, and my parents bought her after Strawberry died.”
Logan had already crouched near the front of the car, but he paused at that.
“Strawberry?”
“My old Beetle.”
“Your old car was named Strawberry.”
“She was red too.”
“Was she also family-adjacent?”
You looked at him like the answer should have been obvious.
“She was my first car.”
Logan stared for half a second, then shook his head, but he was smiling as he moved toward the hood.
“Pop it.”
You leaned inside to pull the latch, immediately regretting the way cold rainwater dripped from your hair down the back of your neck. Cherry’s hood released with a dull click, and Logan lifted it, securing it with practiced ease. The garage light caught the line of his forearm as he reached inside, and you looked away so fast you nearly bumped your hip against the side mirror.
You busied yourself by smoothing one hand over Cherry’s door, “Don’t worry,” you murmured. “He seems competent.”
“I can hear you,” Logan said.
“I know.”
“Competent?”
“So far.”
He glanced at you over the engine. “That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“You brought me a coughing car and called her Cherry.”
“I know. She makes a strong first impression.”
The rain kept falling hard around the edges of the umbrella. Logan leaned over the engine, focused now, and for the first time since you had burst into the office, he stopped looking amused and started looking entirely serious. His hands moved confidently through the engine bay, checking, adjusting, pausing. He asked you questions every so often-what happened before she stalled, how long the shuddering had been going on, whether any warning lights had appeared-and you answered as best you could, though it became significantly harder when he reached for a flashlight and the movement made the muscles in his forearm shift.
You forbade yourself from developing a crush in a parking lot.
Especially not on a man who had known you for seven minutes and already thought you were insane.
“You said it started with the radio?” he asked.
You blinked, grateful for the question because it gave your brain something to do besides betray you.
“Yes.”
“The radio died first?”
“Very dramatically.”
“Then the shuddering?”
“Then the emotional coughing.”
He gave you a look.
You shrugged.
“I stand by the description.”
His mouth twitched again.
The older man had come out at some point and was standing near the garage door, watching with the expression of someone who had seen enough late-night car emergencies to know when one was about to become entertaining.
Logan checked something deeper beneath the hood and muttered under his breath.
You leaned closer. What was in front of you was a whole lot of car, and you were subtly impressed that Logan could make sense of it.
“Is she going to live?”
He looked over.
You were close enough now that the umbrella barely covered both of you. Rain dripped from the edge between you and the scent of wet asphalt rose warm from the ground. Your perfume had shifted in the rain, less pungent than when you had sprayed it hours ago. Cherry and vanilla, yes, but softened now by cold water and damp wool and whatever impossible thing happened when perfume met skin and weather.
Logan noticed it. It hit him when you leaned in, one hand still resting anxiously on the car, your hair wet at the ends, your lipstick bright despite the storm, your eyes wide and serious as if he was examining a wounded animal instead of a temperamental Chevy. You smelled like rain and cherries. Like something sweet made sharper by the cold. Like something he was not supposed to be thinking about while working.
He looked back at the engine immediately.
“She’ll live.”
Your shoulders dropped with relief so quickly he almost laughed.
“Oh thank God.”
“But you’re not driving her far tonight.”
Your expression changed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can get her stable enough to move, but she needs a proper look. Alternator maybe. Could be wiring. Battery’s not loving life either.”
You placed a hand over your heart.
“Don’t say that in front of her.”
“She knows.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“She stalled in a parking lot.”
“Because she was overwhelmed.”
The repair took longer than you expected and less time than you feared. Logan worked in the rain and the garage light while you stood nearby, occasionally asked questions, and made deeply unhelpful comments whenever Cherry made a noise you disliked. At one point, you offered to hold the flashlight and then immediately aimed it at the wrong thing because you were telling him a story about the time your mother made you transport a lamb in Strawberry and forgot what your hands were doing.
“A lamb,” Logan said, voice muffled as he leaned under the hood.
“Yes.”
“In the car.”
“She was small.”
“The lamb or the car?”
“Both.”
“And your mom made you?”
“She didn’t make me. She strongly requested with maternal authority.”
“That’s making you.”
“You don’t know my mother.”
“I’m starting to get a picture.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Logan, still half-focused on Cherry, caught it out of the corner of his eye.
But he re-focussed on the engine in front of him just as quickly, this was going to be a problem if he didn’t get a hold of himself.
You were pretty when you walked in.
Obviously.
Soaked hair, red mouth, wide eyes, ridiculous car name. That had been easy to notice, but pretty was usually not enough to distract him in the way you were right now.
The problem was everything else.
The way you spoke to your car like she might feel neglected if you stopped. The way you apologised when you stepped in a puddle and splashed his boot. The way your laughter kept surprising him, bright even in the rain.
And the perfume.
That was definitely a problem too.
By the time Cherry started again, the engine turning over with a rough but steady sound, you looked at him like he had personally performed a miracle.
“She’s alive.”
“For now.”
“Don’t ruin this.”
“I’m being honest.”
“You’re being pessimistic.”
“I’m being a mechanic.”
“Mechanics can have bedside manners.”
He leaned one hand against the open door, looking into the car while Cherry idled. “You got someone who can pick you up?”
Your smile faltered slightly, barely slipping from almost-stencil like posture. But he noticed.
“I can call a cab.”
His father spoke from the garage doorway before Logan could answer.
“I’ll call one from the office. Weather’s bad.”
You turned toward him immediately, both your hands wrapped around the handle of the umbrella as your skirt billowed across your thighs.. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
Jesus, had you just fallen out of a black and white film, or had Dean finally smashed him hard enough into the boards to do serious damage?
“I know.”
The older man smiled.
You smiled back, softer now.
“Thank you.”
Logan looked away.
There was something strange about watching you smile at someone else, even his father, because your whole face changed when you meant it. Like warmth arrived before the expression did.
He closed Cherry’s hood and shook his head, his curls now fallen from the weight of the rain into his eyes, , “You’ll need to leave her here overnight.”
You looked wounded, pressing your lips together and somehow barely smearing the perfect red paint that he somehow kept glancing at every few minutes. One of your hands came to rest against your heart,“She’ll be inside?”
Logan glanced toward the bay.
“Yes.”
“Not out here?”
“No.”
“And nobody will be mean to her?”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Logan sighed. “Nobody will be mean to Cherry.”
“Thank you.”
“You realise she’s a car.”
“Yes. But she’s been very loyal to me, and I think that should count for something."
His smile returned before he could stop it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m getting that.”
When the cab arrived fifteen minutes later, you were mostly dry from standing under the lukewarm garage heating while still wearing wet clothes. Your cardigan clung uncomfortably at your sleeves. Your hair had started to dry into waves you were not sure you had approved. Your lipstick, by some act of divine intervention, had survived.
You thanked Logan’s father twice.
Then turned to Logan, handing him a small piece of paper from your purse. He looked at it curiously, the cardstock seemed to be perfectly ruffled at the edges, in the centre was looped handwriting that had your full name and number, along with a doodle of a… was that a goat?
He recalls seeing something similar in a vintage shop in town, tucked away from the general college crowd, the old lady at the till had chirped at him when he picked up the reminiscent stack of cards, “those are calling cards sweetpea, people used to leave ‘em for each other before all of this here, tikkytoky business.” Logan had smiled at her and left without a rogue thought.
For a second, the two of you stood in the garage bay beside Cherry, the rain still hammering against the roof, the air smelling of motor oil, wet asphalt, and your perfume lingering in the warm shop air. You noticed how comical he looked in front of you, studying the calling card in his hands, which looked more like doll’s furniture between his fingers.
Nana had started your interest in them, bringing down a large, oak box of what she called, “tinder on paper”. You fashioned the one in his hand by yourself, taking joy in the crafts project- and ended up with a hefty amount of them in your bag at all times.
“Someone will call tomorrow,” he said, blinking out of his stupor. He flicked the calling card and ran his thumb along the waved edges.
“About Cherry?”
“About Cherry.”
You nodded, then hesitated, eyes dropping briefly to his hand,“Will it be you?”
Logan looked up.
“Calling, I mean,” you added quickly, as if the distinction mattered. “Only because you’ve met her now. And you were very nice to her. I think she’d prefer continuity of care.”
His mouth twitched. “Continuity of care.”
“Yes.”
“For your car.”
“For Cherry.”
Logan nodded slowly, thumb still moving along the edge of the card like it needed his full attention,“I might be in class,” he said.
“Oh. Of course.” You nodded immediately, too quickly, like you had not felt the smallest pinch of disappointment.
You’d only known each other for 45 minutes. There was a very slim chance he'd consider calling you in the middle of his presumably busy day, just to give you an update about your chevy, “That’s fine. Someone else can call. I’m sure elder Mechanic is very capable.”
Logan scratched lightly at his brow, poorly hiding his bashful amusement, “Elder Mechanic?”
“Your father,” you clarified. “I didn’t want to be rude and call him old Mechanic.”
“Thoughtful.”
“I try.”
He turned the card between his fingers once more. “I’ll call if I can.”
Your face brightened before you could stop it, “Good,” you said softly. You looked at Cherry one last time, reached out to pat the side of her hood, then seemed to realise Logan was watching and immediately straightened. “She’ll like that.”
“Obviously.”
“You’re laughing at me.”
“A little.”
“That’s okay.” You smiled then, bright and sudden and unfair. “I’m very funny.”
You were. Unfortunately for him.
The cab driver honked once outside, impatient as he waited in the cold, and you startled slightly.
“Oh. Right.”
You stepped backward, then stopped.
“Thank you, Logan.”
It was the first time you had said his name. It sounded different coming from you, in your voice, from your pretty, painted lips.
He did not like how much he noticed that.
“No problem.”
You hesitated, then added, “And sorry for dripping on your floor.”
“Our floor’s seen worse.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is.”
You smiled again.
Then you were gone, ducking under the umbrella his father had insisted you take, hurrying toward the cab in the rain with your purse clutched against your chest and your wet hair bouncing against your shoulders.
Logan stood in the open garage doorway and watched until the cab pulled out of the lot.
He had no reason to.
Cherry was still in the bay behind him, ticking softly as the engine cooled. His father had already gone back inside, he could hear him and his brother chattering. The rain was blowing against his boots, and he was tired, and he had practice in the morning, and there were at least six logical things he could be doing that did not involve staring after a girl whose car had coughed dramatically into his life and then refused to leave quietly.
Still, he stood there, rotating the calling card long after the lot emptied again and the cab’s taillights disappeared into the rain. It was when the only sound remaining was water against concrete and the faint hum of the shop lights behind him, that his father’s voice came from the office.
“You coming in?”
Logan blinked.
Then he looked back at Cherry.
The car sat under the shop lights, red paint glossy from the rain, ridiculous little strawberry air freshener still hanging from the mirror.
He should have been thinking about the alternator, or the wiring, or the fact that he had an early morning ahead of him. Instead, for some morbid reason, he brought the card to his nose- curious if it was the entity still emanating the scent of cherries around him. Sure enough, the sweet scent enveloped him once again.
In fact, he was sure the entire garage still smelled faintly like rain and cherries.
Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.
Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader
Word count: 5.1k
Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)
Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!
i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates
the divider
“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”
Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever.
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”
Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”
“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”
“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.
“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.
“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”
Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.
“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”
“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes.
Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you.
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.
He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class.
You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic.
“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says.
Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”
Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.
“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes.
You lost your silica gel.
It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.
But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that?
And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach.
Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm.
Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.
She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away.
Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting.
Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper.
If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do.
Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up.
“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”
You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”
“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”
You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”
“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.
She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”
But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers.
“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”
“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”
She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”
You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.
Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.
Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely.
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”
“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”
He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.
“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”
“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”
He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.
“Hey.”
You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always.
“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”
“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”
“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”
“Can I see?”
You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”
“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”
“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”
“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”
You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”
“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.
“I was sick.”
“That sucks, I’m sorry.”
You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”
“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention.
“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”
“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you.
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”
“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say.
“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”
“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”
“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”
“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”
You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”
“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.
“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”
“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”
“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.
You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing.
“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.
Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that.
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want.
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.
You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork.
“Not a fan of the bun?”
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.
“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”
“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”
“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”
Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”
“I zoned out.”
“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”
“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”
You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus.
“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”
Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”
“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.
“Wait, go back,” he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering.
It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.
“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles.
“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”
“How?”
“Do you have Instagram?”
“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”
“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.”
“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”
“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”
You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”
“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”
He lights up. “Same here.”
You type your number into his phone.
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒.
“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.
“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”
“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.
“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”
You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.
“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”
You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”
“So what? You’re really good.”
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”
“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”
You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.
And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—
“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.
“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”
“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled.
“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.
And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.
“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”
You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.
“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.
“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”
“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”
“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”
Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out.
“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.
“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.
“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”
“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”
You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”
“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”
“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.
Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”
“A win is a win.”
“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”
All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed.
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck.
“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop.
“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”
Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”
Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften.
“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.
“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.
You smile. “They’re of you.”
“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”
You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.
“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.
“Stop by anytime.”
“See ya around,” says Tucker.
“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods.
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you.
Once outside, you take out your camera and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
“Hey, wait up!”
You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you.
“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.
“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”
You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”
“What? You didn’t—”
“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”
“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”
“Nerds?” you finish.
“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”
“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”
His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”
No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.
“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”
“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”
You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning.
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”
“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”
“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”
He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”
“It’s on the plaque.”
“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”
“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”
“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”
“History is cool.”
Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”
You smile. “I guess so.”
“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”
“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.
“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”
“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”
You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”
“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
“I really do like talking to you,” you say.
“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.
There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.
"We shall wed her to MOROZKO, the lord of winter. Can any maiden ask for a finer or richer bridegroom? Why, he is master of the white snow, the black firs, and the silver frost! [...] Some say he is naught but a cold, crackling breeze whispering among the firs. Others say he is an old man in a sledge, with bright eyes and cold hands. Others say he is like a warrior in his prime, but robed all in white, with weapons of ice. No one knows."
The cold man—the frost-demon—stood in the center of the room, and at least she could look at him. His dark, unruly hair hung to his shoulders. The sardonic face might have belonged to a youth of twenty or a warrior of fifty. Unlike every other man Vasya had ever seen, he was clean-shaven—perhaps that was what gave his face the odd note of youthfulness. Certainly his eyes were old. When she looked into them, she thought, I did not know anything could be that old and live. (x,x)
areudirty
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
dededos
romaincrisis
