Page 18 of Here We Go Again

Antonio leans back against the sink and stares right through her attempts at apathy. “I think you should do it,” he says firmly. “I think you and Rosemary should drive Joe to Maine.”

“Oh, so youwantme to commit first-degree murder?”

“I want you to get out of this one Taco Bell town.”

She hears Rhiannon Schaffer, asking if she’s going to stay in this disgusting town forever. Joe, asking about her sense of spontaneity and adventure. A list of places she hasn’t seen and a tarot card about endings. “But don’t you need me here, Dad?”

“I love having you here. But no, Chicken. I don’t need you.”

Neither of them speaks for a minute as Antonio fries another batch of the donuts and Alexa switches from Martina McBride and Tricia Yearwood. “She’s In Love with the Boy.”

No amount of coffee or whiskey could quell the ache inside her that always comes from hearing this song. As girls, she and Hale would jump on her bed and sing it into hairbrushes and water bottles, and secretly, in her head, Logan would change the lyrics.

She’s in love with the girl.

“Alexa, stop!” Logan barks. Her dad turns to face her again.

“I think you should do this, Chicken,” he says firmly. “I think youneedto do it.”

While her dad finishes his baking, Logan pulls out her phone. She types Vista Summit, Washington, and Bar Harbor, Maine, into Google Maps, and thinks about all the new places between here and there.

The sound of the doorbell echoes through the house. “Who the fuck rings the doorbell at nine thirty on a Saturday?”

Logan strops out of the kitchen and when she wrenches open the front door, she finds her answer. Hale, standing there with two coffees from Java Jump and a binder tucked under her arm.

She’s wearing a pleated skirt, a frilly shirt with some kind of silk neckerchief, nylons, and a pair of three-inch black heels. On aSaturday. Beforenoon. InJune.

Logan wants to tell Hale to fuck right off—that whatever demented impulse led her to this doorstep should be promptly squashed. But then Hale stares up at her, purple bags framing her pale blue eyes and pale blond lashes, her pink mouth turned down into the perfect frown. She looks sad, and there it is again, that buried instinct to comfort this person from her past. Logan wants to make Hale smile and laugh and tell fantastical stories like she did as a kid.

In a moment of weakness, Logan hesitates.

“I have a proposition for you,” Hale blurts, her cheeks flushing pink.

Then, she thrusts one cup forward. “But first, I brought you coffee.”

Chapter Six

ROSEMARY

Rosemary stands in front of the Maletis household and considers her odds.

There’s about a 50 percent chance Logan can still be bribed with white chocolate mochas, a 17 percent chance Antonio will chase her away with a broom, and a 92 percent Logan will laugh in her face once she sees the contents of this binder.

Still, she has no choice but to try.

Rosemary shifts the binder under her arm and tries to work up the courage to move. It’s just a short paved walkway through the grass up to the front porch. Ten steps, tops.

She can take these ten steps, past the tire swing suspended on a rope from the thickest branch of the oak tree out front where they used to sit with their knees pressed together, spinning in dizzy circles. Up onto the porch where Logan used to wait every morning until Rosemary walked past, so they could finish the journey to the bus stop at the end of the street together. The porch where they sat outside on warm summer nights just staring at the stars.

The memories crowd her, filling in the spaces between her ribs like a too-heavy meal. It was only three years of friendship, an entirelifetime ago. Why does it feel like she is still grieving that loss?

She inhales four times, takes the ten steps, and rings the doorbell.

Something loud thumps inside, then heavy footsteps, then the door opens violently to reveal Logan, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants low on her hips and a Nike tank top that drapes low beneath her armpits, revealing the sides of her orange sports bra. Her features immediately revert to Rosemary-face. And Rosemary didn’t consider the possibility that Logan could slam the door closed before she even gets the chance to laugh at her.

So, she relies on the only asset she has: the white chocolate mocha. She thrusts it toward Logan, babbling incoherently at the woman who used to keep all of her secrets.

Logan studies the cup, and her nose un-scrunches itself. She reaches for the coffee, taking a long, skeptical drink. “Why are you at my house?” she finally asks.