Page 50 of The Best Worst Thing

What was she going to tell him? The truth?

That some therapist with a pixie cut and black ballet flats and a broken Keurig in her waiting room had told Nicole she’d be her old self again in six weeks, but it had been ten, and every day was worse than the one before?

That Gabe—fresh off a promotion—was working more than ever?

Traveling twice as much? Having dinner with Kyle on the Westside three or four nights a week now?

Or golfing, or in Vegas, or wherever else his awful boss told him to be at any given moment?

That whenever Gabe actually managed to make it home before Nicole fell asleep, she’d walk around the house in a daze and he’d glance up from his laptop or his newspaper or his phone and scrunch his eyes and grit his teeth and say, “It’ll happen, baby,” or just click his tongue and look away?

What was she going to say? That the puppymoon had worn off?

That the cutest, derpiest little fuzzbutt money could buy hadn’t managed to fill the massive hole in her heart?

That it wasn’t even fun anymore, fucking the most beautiful man she’d ever seen?

That she’d just lie there and stare at the ceiling and try not to cry while her gorgeous, distant husband came inside her like she was a task on a to-do list?

That they had nothing in common anymore?

That they’d been trying for thirteen months and she wasn’t anything close to pregnant?

That she was starting to panic? That the pathology from her D her laptop bag, banging against her hip as her suddenly thoughtless feet began to leave a second set of footprints—a second set of impossible divots—in the soft white snow.

They ducked through the diner’s ding-a-linging doors, then huddled into a booth in the back of the restaurant—burnt hash browns, giant menus, maroon curtains faded from fifty years of sky-high rent—and inched out of their wet coats and scarves and hats.

Outside, from the picture window that framed their table, snow swirled like confetti, floating every which way before softly settling onto the silent street.

“Well, what’ll it be?” he said as Nicole considered the suspiciously well-stocked pastry case to her left for the third time.

He’d already warned their weary-eyed server that they had a birthday girl on their hands—that she was a bit of an overoptimizer, that she wasn’t usually his problem and tonight was a special treat.

“Carrot, please.”

Logan, snickering, shook his head. “There we go. I knew you weren’t perfect.”

“What?”

“I’m kidding,” he said, dumping a splash of creamer into his coffee as the now-smirking server disappeared into the kitchen. “So, tell me, what are your real plans for your birthday, once we get home? Anything good?”

Nicole bit her lip. “I’m not going home. Gabe’s supposed to meet me.”

“In New York?”

“At JFK,” she said. “Tomorrow night, after work, assuming all the flights aren’t canceled. We’re going to Paris.”

He tapped his fingers on the table. “You ever been?”

“Yeah, actually. We kind of go every year for my birthday.”

Logan chuckled, pushing his mug around the laminate. “I think I picked the wrong career,” he said. “Maybe that’s my problem. Can’t take girls to Paris enough.”

Nicole tsked, and then the cake came—candle and all—and Logan sang as loud as he could and a couple of servers joined in and Nicole just sat there, cheeks burning as the flame flickered and the snow fluttered and her twenties compressed into a single, finished file.

“Make a wish,” he said.

Nicole looked up at him. “I can’t think of anything.”

And she couldn’t. Not tonight, anyway. Of course, there was the obvious stuff—getting a promotion, getting things back on track with Gabe, getting pregnant as soon as possible.

But those weren’t the kinds of things you were supposed to wish for.

They were too ordinary. They were too tangible.

And so Nicole, wishless, blew out the candles with her mind blank and dug into her very stale birthday cake while Logan stole at least a dozen deeply pained, overly dramatic forkfuls and ranked Australia’s most common marsupials from sunniest disposition to least. Koalas, it turned out, weren’t just remarkably frisky; they were rude little creatures too.

“How do you remember all this shit?”

“My brain’s weird,” he said. “Also, I majored in history. And—please don’t google this, okay?

—but I was a bit of a celebrity on the national debate circuit in high school.

Point is, I’ve ingested way too much information, and now my mind is full of trash.

But I’m very good at Trivial Pursuit, and it paid for college, so … ”

“I am so totally googling you,” she said, rescuing a smear of frosting from their plate and then licking her fork. “Did you like it, by the way? Michigan?”

“Loved it. Best four years of my life. Cold as shit, though. Why?”

“My little brother just got into business school there. I think he’s going to go.”

“Give him my number,” he said. “I know a bunch of people in Ann Arbor. And I have a few friends who got MBAs there, too—mostly living in Chicago now. We all still go back once or twice a year for football games and that sort of stuff.”

Nicole nodded. Logan smiled. And then, coffees refilled, they talked for another hour—nearly two.

About Saint Louis and Seattle and the careers they’d wanted and the cities they’d visited and the million reasons why, according to Logan, carrots and walnuts and raisins did not belong in desserts, despite the fact that he’d polished off her slice of cake nearly all on his own and asked Nicole on four separate occasions whether she’d like some more.

And then, when it was too late to continue, when Nicole’s stomach ached from laughing and Logan’s voice was hoarse from never not talking and snow had piled onto the street by the foot and there wasn’t another soul around, they called it a night.

Logan settled the check and the diner doors ding-a-linged again and they stepped back into the blizzard and New York was a snow globe—white and slow and small enough to hold in the palms of their hands—and Logan managed to hail a cab and they sat in the back seat and Nicole wasn’t sure why, but she kind of wanted to cry.

They were quiet.

They stepped out of the taxi and into the hotel lobby, teeth chattering, noses pink. They hurried into the elevator, its doors so quick to open, so slow to close.

“What floor?” Logan said as Nicole stood in the back of the car, digging her freezing fingers into the pockets of her coat. Her heart was racing. Why was her heart racing?

“Seven, please.”

Logan gulped, then pressed the button.

“Me too,” he said.

Nicole nodded. Snow was melting on her shoes. There was a new scuff on her workbag. The elevator’s permit would need to be renewed next month. The numbers on the tiny black screen changed from five to six to, finally, seven.

The doors slid open.

Nicole exhaled.

Logan—eyes ahead—waved her through, then walked a few steps behind her down the hall. The fifty feet to her room were an eternity, enough time to count every carpet fiber and wall sconce and nanosecond that slogged by. But eventually, they were standing outside her door.

“This is me,” she said.

“This is you,” he said.

She pressed her lips together, then reached for her key, almost expecting it to give her trouble, to make her try a dozen times before it worked, but it was effortless. One quick dip, and the light flickered green. She swallowed, then pushed the door ajar.

“Well, good night,” she said. “Thanks again for the junk food.”

“Least I could do. Nothing worse than a work birthday.”

“It’s actually the most fun I’ve had in months.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then smiled. “Good, then. I’m glad we did it.”

Nicole nodded, and then, just when she’d begun to turn away and step into her cold, clean room, she twisted around to face him. Her pulse, pounding. Her shoulder blades, hard against the cracked-opened door.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. “Any girl would be lucky to have you. Just for the record or whatever. You should know that. You shouldn’t change a thing.”

Logan stared at her, frozen. And then, a second later, he smirked. He leaned against her doorframe, shook his head, and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Can you tell all your hot friends that?”

Nicole laughed.

He did too.

And something inside her—was it her chest? her ribs?—began to tug, began to ache.

She inhaled.

He did too.

He bit his lip.

She did too.

She leaned in an inch.

She didn’t know why. It just happened.

But then, he did too.

His hands were wrapped around her doorframe. They were tense. They were clenched. They were glued to the edges.

And there it was—that same look. Clearer than anything she’d ever seen, ever before.

Strange and dense and unmistakable. She studied him.

His warm brown eyes, the freckles on the bridge of his nose, the way his lips settled across his face so effortlessly.

How relaxed and easy and alive he seemed.

How good it felt when she made him laugh.

How quiet and simple and small the whole world was when they were alone. When it was just the two of them.

“Logan, I—”

“It’s, um, it’s really late.” He peeled back his hands and looked at her again. This time, differently. This time, in the real world. “I’ll see you in the morning. Happy birthday.”

When he walked away, his knuckles were wrung around the nape of his neck, and his head was tipped to the ceiling. She could hear him exhale.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t turn around to see Nicole stand there and watch him go.