Logan sometimes hated staying in his own room, but it didn’t make sense to stay in a hotel. Amusingly, everything was still almost the way he left it, but it looked like Rose had aired it out, anticipating his arrival. Before she’d passed, his mother had kept it in pristine condition, and her sewing and craft items had been packed away, or perhaps his father had finally given them to charity. That corner of the room felt empty, and Logan longed to feel her presence in it again. The house was beginning to feel more and more devoid of Elizabeth’s warmth.
Even his old posters still hung on the wall, including the macabre, grinning face of “Eddie” from an Iron Maiden print that was curling around the corners. None of them hung symmetrically or parallel with the ceiling crease; when he was seventeen, Logan hadn’t given a damn. It was his room; John was the neatnik and slept down the hall as soon as he’d entered junior high and decided his brother was more of a social handicap when his friends came over to listen to their Pink Floyd tapes and play Pac-Man. When he was ten, Logan had felt ousted and indignant at first, but slowly the contents of his toy box spilled out bits and pieces at a time. GI Joes occupied his desk and dresser, and a pennant and large Styrofoam finger from a Sox game hung from the corner of the mirror. The only difference now was the bed. His mother had replaced the twin with a full mattress that was pleasantly firm. The splashy floral print of the bedspread was at odds with the masculine décor of the room, but Logan didn’t mind.
The smell of the house was familiar, welcoming him when he came back, but it was unnerving to be there while his father was still in the hospital. Logan busied himself with mowing the front and back yards, pulling weeds, and fixing the drip line for his mother’s roses. He’d just found the slightly rusted loppers in the garage and was about to start pruning them when Rose and John pulled up into the driveway. John made a beeline for Logan and took the shears from him in lieu of giving him a hug.
“I’ll do that. Why don’t you head over to see Pop?”
“I wanted to clean up a little first and make it nice for when he got back.” Guilt niggled at him, though. Logan had spent the past two nights sleeping on a cot to keep an eye on his father, but he eventually gave in to the need to get some decent rest and came back to the house. As soon as he set foot in the door, Logan was all about staying occupied, taking care of things that needed attention. Repairs, cleaning, rearranging the garage, anything he could get his hands on; Logan needed to stay busy to stay focused and in control.
He reached for the loppers, but John wouldn’t let go of his side of the handle. “I can do it, Jimmy.” The use of his childhood nickname annoyed Logan, relegating Logan to his “kid brother” status. A warm flush of irritation crept up the back of his neck.
“Where are the kids?”
“Staying with their friends.”
“Pop ain’t in intensive care.”
“We didn’t want to second guess yet.” Logan hated his brother’s tone of voice and the implication behind his words. He gritted his teeth and wrested the loppers from him again. Rose sighed and placed a hand on her disappearing hip. Her pregnant belly negated the remaining hollows and planes of her body, leaving behind only the looming mound that ate up her silhouette and puffed up her cheeks, fingers and feet. Logan knew she was physically miserable and impatient, but she and John still shared the expectant, hopeful glow.
It hurt to watch. Memories that Logan wasn’t in the mood to indulge clawed at his consciousness. Rose saw him eyeing her body and her brows drew together in concern. “You all right, Jimmy?” She reached for the loppers, and to Logan’s own surprise, he let her wrest them from his grip and toss them into the bushes. “Take a break. You look tired.”
“I don’t wanna sit down, or I won’t get up again.”
“Then don’t get up. Rest. This doesn’t all need to be done today.”
“I’ll do it while you’re seeing Pop.” John stood by the front door, holding it open and waiting for his brother to come in. Logan’s exasperated sigh gusted from his lips as he marched up the porch steps, feeling like a chastised child. The fresh air had given him a temporary reprieve and fortified him, but he felt his energy drain away as he took in his surroundings, felt the “gap” left in the house without either of his parents lending it their warmth. He didn’t want to contemplate the day that condition would become permanent.
Logan crept up to the upper story bathroom and drowned out the noise in his head under hard, pelting spray, letting the water rush in runnels through his thick hair as he braced his palms against the tile and bowed his face. Rose was right; he was exhausted, but he meant it when he said that rest wouldn’t help. Logan didn’t have the safety net of his bulging inbox or the clutter on his desk when he was at home, or clients whose concerns about their accounts dwarfed any crisis on his plate. What’s the matter, James? You say you’re bleeding to death and killer clowns kidnapped your lawn jockey? Cry me a river. My employees have a problem with their flexible spending plan. Logan needed well-ordered chaos to lose himself in, in sense, so he wouldn’t “lose himself.” He could thrive in teeth-grinding stress if it was of his own making.
Minutes later he headed downstairs, dressed for a springtime Saturday in a pastel oxford, khakis and deck shoes. Rose beamed when she saw him, and John nodded in approval over the edge of his coffee cup.
“You clean up nice, little brother in law,” she commented.
“Ya like it, eh?”
“No putting the moves on my old lady, bub.”
“Gotta keep ya on yer toes. All right. I’m out.”
“I told Pop you might pick him up something decent to eat.”
“Sounds good. I could use a little something myself, the hospital cafeteria sucks.” And it was overpriced. The salad bar and sandwiches were sold by weight, and Logan paid seven dollars for their meager attempts at both on his last trip. There was a Subway down the street from the hospital parking garage.
Soon Logan arrived at the hospital’s Definitive Care ward dangling two clear plastic bags in his fist, wrinkling his nose yet again at the signature aroma of disinfectant. His father was up and around, surprising Logan with how alert he was.
“Tell me that’s something besides this swill,” he mocked, nodding to the tray of dishes with their covers still slightly askew. Logan winced as he lifted the lid to a cup of watery chicken noodle soup that only had a few sips missing. The vanilla pudding wasn’t particularly promising either, and the string beans looked like they came straight out of a freezer bag.
“Hope it says in yer chart that ya can have ‘turkey and turkey-derived products,’” Logan informed him. He passed him the sugar cookie and unwrapped the six-inch chicken sandwich for him, setting the medium iced tea on the sliding bed table. “You cold?” His father had a few extra blankets draped over his bed and wore his flannel shirt around himself like an open jacket over the hospital gown.
“They blast the air conditioning in this place. By the time I leave, I’ll have icicles growing off my ass. Pass me the mustard. How’s work?”
“I haven’t checked in since I got here.” It was too tempting. His Blackberry was burning a hole in his suitcase. The workaholic in him was restless and chomping at the bit to check his email and voice mails or to shoot Scooter a note. At least he had someone in his corner to keep tabs on a certain underwriter on a power trip about experience ratings and add-ons.
The thought made him smirk. His father paused in taking a bit of his sandwich. “What’s so funny?”
“Eh? Nah. Nothing.”
“That ain’t nothin’. That’s a cat that got the canary look. You used to wear that look when you were ten, whenever I caught you in the middle of something that would have gotten an adult arrested.”
“Eh. Nah. Never mind. It’s no big deal.”
“What’s No Big Deal’s name? Is she a looker?”
“Pop! Geez…” Logan’s cheeks flamed with embarrassment, out of old habit.
“C’mon, now, bub, don’t leave me in the dark. ‘Fess up. What’s she like?”
“She isn’t like anything…it’s complicated.”
“What’s with you young people today? What’s this ‘it’s complicated’ baloney? Sheesh. ‘Complicated,’ he says. Do you like her?”
“No. That’s the problem.” His father grunted and took a bite of his sandwich, leaving Logan a reprieve to do the same. His stomach had been grumbling, but now it was in knots. He sighed and fought back a burp that snuck out anyway. “There isn’t any point in pursuing anything with her. I work with her. I don’t want things gettin’ outta hand, Pop.”
Jonathan snorted. “Last time anything ‘got outta hand’ between me and your mother, squirt, the rabbit died.” This time Logan choked on a sip of his lemonade. He coughed and sputtered, and his father reached over with a grin, whacking him soundly on the back. “Lugnut,” he muttered fondly. “Don’t make things complicated. If you like her, be up front about it. Don’t tiptoe around it.”
“It…*kaff, kaff*…ain’t that easy, Pop. See, it’s…” he faltered.
“Don’t say it’s complicated. I get the impression ya got a little ‘familiar’ with this young lady, and I don’t want the details, God forbid. Again, I don’t get you kids today. All this hemming and hawing about commitment and ‘the right time’ and all that other shit they talk about on Dr. Phil. Ya jump into bed first and think about the consequences later.”
Logan shuddered. His father was clearly feeling better, if this feisty turn was any indication.
“In my day, you met a nice lady. You told her she was pretty. You asked her to go for a walk, then out to get a soda or coffee. Then you took her to a movie. Then, if you got her in trouble, you gave her a ring. That’s not complicated.”
“Sure ain’t.”
“That’s love. You kids call that ‘old school,’ but it made more sense than the crap you do now.” His father sighed. “Jean was a corker. There ain’t anyone else in the world like her, Jimmy. Or like yer mother.”
“This one ain’t like Ma or Jeannie, either, Pop. Far from it.”
“Well, what’s the problem?”
“She’s a control freak. She’s just…bossy. I met her away from work and didn’t know she was one of our counterpart’s people.”
“Where from?”
“New York.”
“A New Yorker, eh? Bet she’s tough. You can’t be soft living somewhere like that, but it builds character. Nice, strong woman. Bet she has spunk. Your mother was bossy.”
“Mom made it work.”
“No argument there, bub. My Elizabeth ran my ranch, and I never regretted it. Ya don’t hafta be a doormat, Jimmy, but once in a while it’s okay to let a woman be a little bossy. That’s what Monday night football’s for. And hearin’ her nag ya sure as hell beats the silent treatment. She could be smilin’ and sweet as an angel and hiding a rolling pin behind her back.” His father broke his cookie in half. “Yep. I don’t mind a bossy woman.” Logan shook his head and sighed.
“Pop, Pop…gads. She ain’t the one for me, all right?”
“Fine. That’s fine. Ya don’t hafta rush right out and get me another daughter-in-law, but keep an open mind.”
“Dunno if I can be that flexible with this one.”
“Whaddya like about her?”
That was a loaded question and evoked images that made it hard to keep tight rein on his facial expressions. “She’s…smart. I guess. Snarky.” He took the lid off his drink and took a hearty gulp, crunching the ice cubes. “Pretty,” he mumbled around a mouthful.
“Does she make ya laugh?”
“Not on purpose.” Her impromptu, unintentional serenade was still fresh on his mind, and Logan’s mouth twitched. Then a low chuckle escaped him. “I’ll tell ya one thing, though, she sure as hell can’t sing.”
“That ain’t the worst thing in the world. Just don’t take her out for karaoke, and yer fine.”
“Pop, when are ya getting out?”
“Change the subject, then; be that way, Jimmy. Yeah, they said maybe tomorrow. Gonna run some more tests. Feel like a pin cushion already; look at all this shit.” He nodded to the IVs and blood pressure monitor. His father squirmed uncomfortably back against his pillows while Logan eyed his sandwich. His father barely touched it.
“Full already?”
“I’m done. It wasn’t bad. M’just not hungry as I thought.” His father coughed and cleared his throat several times; it was a harsh, wet sound.
“Pop…that sounds pretty bad.”
“It’s just a tickle. Quit fretting. Here. See if you can find the game. This ain’t the greatest remote, but at least this place has a little cable.” Logan fumbled with the clunky appliance, which also doubled as a call button. The nurse’s voice came on the tiny intercom when he hit the red one by accident before he got it right. Logan stayed with him and they watched it until he turned to ask his father a question and was greeted by soft snores. Logan settled his father back more comfortably and pulled his blankets up to his neck.
“Bye, Pop. Sweet dreams. Don’t wear yerself out, ‘kay.” He kissed his cheek and clicked off the set. His drive home was contemplative and troubled.
*
Ororo felt fidgety and disconcerted ever since she left the airport and watched Logan’s retreating back disappear through the partitions. She lost interest in the Without a Trace rerun halfway through, sensing the outcome already and smirking nostalgically at the eighties music on the soundtrack whenever they flashed back to the time of the crime. The pickings were appallingly slim at eleven o’clock at night, but she didn’t feel like upgrading her cable package just to have more channels that she’d hardly watch. She flipped absently through informercials, penis enlargement commercials, QVC, CNN, and Adult Swim. None of it was distracting enough.
She was worried about Logan. It made no sense. For the most part, if memory served, she didn’t even like the man. The talk on the way to the garage and the deceptively easy rapport they shared in the car rattled her. He was almost…nice. They couldn’t have that, that wouldn’t do at all.
Ororo paused long enough on her least favorite Extenze ad to recite along with the actor, “…and that increase in size? Well, that can be fun, too.” She sighed, muttering “Sure it can, pal.”
Television wasn’t cutting it. Sourly she clicked off the set and cable box, and her living room fell dark once bereft of the illumination of the large plasma screen. It left her with the impression of a square-shaped patch of glare in her eyes as she made her way stumbling down the hall to her room. Ororo sat at her desk and booted up her laptop. She logged into her Blackberry and synched it with her PC so she could get her work messages. There were already three from Selene, even though it was Saturday night. That didn’t surprise her, but she still had no intention of answering them until Monday morning, like normal people did. Her weekends were her sanity, no manically compulsive bosses allowed. Ororo rubbed the bridge of her nose as she waited for her Windows to refresh themselves and her icons to appear on her desktop.
No messages from Logan. No surprise. When he said he was taking care of family business, he meant it, and she respected that.
Surely it wouldn’t hurt to check on him, would it? Ororo pondered it a moment, then clicked on File/New Message before she could talk herself out of it.
To: Howlett, James
From: Munroe, Ororo
Subject: How are you?
Ororo wondered if the subject was reasonable, in light of the kind of day to day working relationship they shared. Shoot, it’d have to be good enough. She began typing in earnest, puzzling over the strange, nervous rash of prickles crawling over her scalp.
Hi. Just wanted to see if you had a good flight. Hope your dad’s okay. How sick is he?
Ororo was at a loss for what else to write.
I’ll keep you both in my thoughts.
Was that too presumptuous?
Ororo contemplated the keys, drumming her fingers on her mouse.
Logan, about the other day; I’m sorry. Perhaps I came on a little strong about my concerns with the account, and I know you were having a bad day. In hindsight, I apologize if I made it worse.
She mouthed the words to herself, then shook her head. “Nah. ‘Concerns with the account’ will make me sound like a bitch. Probably already thinks that, anyway. Just call me Ororo, Wicked Witch of the West.” She highlighted that line and backspaced. She muttered peevishly and shrilly under her breath, “I’ve got you now, my pretty, and you’re little dog, too…”
I was out of line when I came to your office and way too aggressive.
“Like I’ve ever regretted being aggressive with anyone else,” she mused. She hummed to herself as she continued to compose her note, and in the back of her mind, she visualized what he looked like that day in his suit and coat. It made her miss his guayabera shirt and khakis, walking along with him as they pushed their bare feet through the warm sand, dangling their sandals from their fingertips.
She added a carriage return and paused, staring at the blinking cursor. “C’mon, what else?” she asked it futilely. The remaining, vast block of white space onscreen begged to be filled, but she hated to ramble. She hardly knew the man…platonically, anyway. Scratch that; she was barely civil to him, and the feeling was mutual, as far as she could tell, even though she occasionally caught him staring at her legs. Lech.
She decided to keep it short but sweet. She seldom talked to the man above and beyond a) attempting to tear him a new one when he went over her head with a plan change, and b) letting him kiss her stupid, inevitably when she couldn’t be more pissed off at him. The man drove her nuts. Ororo sighed again and made her mind up quickly; fatigue was setting in, increasing her chances of putting her foot in her mouth.
Take care of yourself. Take care of your dad. Have a safe trip. It would have to do.
As an afterthought, she added Tory. Not “Love, Tory,” not “Sincerely,” not “Your friend.” What they had didn’t allow frippery or pretty phrases that she didn’t mean. Logan didn’t consider her a friend.
Did he?
Her hand hovered over her mouse. Now or never. Plenty of time to hit Delete Message and just go to bed before she got herself in trouble.
The tiny white, solid arrow drifted up, left, and landed on the aqua-gray button, highlighting it; her speaker confirmed this action with an audible click. Send.
Now she’d done it. Ororo prayed she hadn’t just pulled a steaming heap of shit down on her head.
*
Logan lay back on his bed, arm propped on a pillow as he thumbed through the messages on his PDA. John and Rose accepted his excuse that he was turning in early, knowing he would make a beeline for his briefcase as soon as he closed his door, but they made no comment. His small desk light was on, providing a dim, yellowish glow, even though Logan knew the bedside lamp would have been a better choice. By the time he was drowsy enough to fall asleep, he would have to get back up from bed, but the amount of light, not close enough to irritate his eyes, felt more comfortable and matched his mood.
His inbox had twenty new messages in it, just enough for people to get the clue after reading his out of office reply that he wasn’t at his desk, and not to come knocking. He opened the one from Scott first out of habit.
To: Howlett, James
From: Summers, Scott
Subject: hey, buddy
What’s going on? How was your trip down? When did you get in?
That was Scott in a nutshell, always the mother hen.
Logan hit reply, even though he knew Summers had already gone to bed.
Pop might be coming home in a couple of days. He looks a little better. Ornery sonofagun. Got in without any problems that night. I’m fine if anyone asks. Logan hit send, content that he’d have one less unread message in his folder when he got back to the office. He deleted Scott’s original note and scanned through the rest.
Munroe, Ororo?
“Whoa. Hold up.” He opened it out of disbelief and curiosity. Surely she wasn’t chasing him about rates all the way to his pop’s house?
No. She actually wasn’t. Logan’s brows drew together as he mouthed the words aloud, then rose.
To: Howlett, James
From: Munroe, Ororo
Subject: How are you?
Hi. Just wanted to see if you had a good flight. Hope your dad’s okay. How sick is he? I’ll keep you both in my thoughts.
Logan, about the other day; I’m sorry. I was out of line when I came to your office and way too aggressive, and I know you were having a bad day. In hindsight, I apologize if I made it worse.
Take care of yourself. Take care of your dad. Have a safe trip.
Tory
“Sonofabitch…” he murmured incredulously. “The Dragon Lady said she’s sorry?” He reread the message and drummed his fingers on the pillow. This was big. Ororo was a tenacious person, that much Logan knew, but it was a huge step for her to admit she was wrong about anything, if the way she haggled with him about the rates and regulations was any clue.
He remembered how her arm felt looped through his in the street, how she’d easily kept up with his quick strides. Her light fragrance had been close enough to tickle his nose and catch his attention in the noise and clamor of mid-morning traffic. It felt companionable and right, being casually connected like that, as natural as though they’d always done it.
The memory moved his stylus over the tiny touchscreen.
To: Munroe, Ororo
Subject: Re: how are you?
Hi yourself. It was fine; felt like I was being folded in half by the guy in back of me, but no biggie. Pop’s okay, for now. He paused as he wrote that, not wanting to let on too much. She didn’t need to know how worried and fretful he was. Underwriters could smell fear…
Apology accepted. Thanks. Appreciate it.
Okay. I will. I definitely will.
Logan
He kept it short and sweet, deciding not to write a book, but he burned with curiosity over her message. Was this a white flag? He hit send, figuring it was late enough that she’d simply open it in the morning. He was surprised that the timestamp on hers said it was only ten minutes old.
Ororo was just hitting “File/Exit” when the tiny envelope cursor flickered across her screen. “Ooookaaayyyy…?” She hit her inbox folder.
“New message from: Howlett, James”
“Goodness gracious. The man’s an insomniac, or just out of his mind. I wasn’t expecting you to write back yet,” she said aloud, but a smile toyed with her lips. Ororo smoothed a lock of her hair back from her face and tucked it behind her ear as she opened his message.
Apology accepted. Thanks. Appreciate it.
Logan
He skipped his autosignature, which usually said James. It was inconsequential, but it warmed her. Slightly…
Her fingers itched. “What the heck,” she decided. “How…are…YOU…do-ing…” she recited as she hit the keys in a staccato rhythm. “Are YOU all…right…?”
Logan paused in logging off as a new message tiled itself over his existing stack.
Re: Re: how are you?
How are you doing, are you all right? How are you holding up?
“I’m not,” he muttered, but he decided to give her the edited version. He was still surprised she was awake.
Re: Re: Re: how am I? Eh.
Eh. I don’t really know yet how I’m managing, if you want me to be honest. It’s hard. I don’t like watching him be sick. He has been on and off for a while. It’s hard to think about.
Re: Re: Re: Re: Eh? Awwww…
I know how that feels, and I don’t envy you. My own dad’s been a little “off” since my mom passed, and that took a lot out of me. I’m not quite back in the game yet. I miss her. I’ve tried to call my own dad more often, but it just reminds me what a crappy daughter I am that I haven’t visited more often, and now, here I am, out of state.
Logan frowned, then hit reply.
Sorry about your mom. I’m in the same boat. Life isn’t the same without Mom. Parkinson’s. We all just about died when she did.
Maybe he doesn’t think your that crappy of a daughter. Got any PTO? You should visit him. It was the pot calling the kettle black. John wasn’t through lecturing Logan, not by a long shot.
Logan hit send. He felt guilty, wondering if he was keeping her up.
Ororo wondered the same thing, but she pulled the spare throw blanket from her bed and wrapped it around her lap, settling in to her messages again. She went into “File” again and selected New/Conference.
Logan blinked as his screen flashed a window at him asking “Munroe, Ororo wants to chat. Accept this conference invitation?”
Click. Yes. Her user signature appeared in the blank white message in her signature purple.
Munroe: I have a ton of PTO left. I never take a vacation. Mexico was it for me, after three years of not using up any at all.
Howlett: You’re preaching to the choir, kid. Feel like I’m shackled to my desk sometimes, or like my laptop’s hanging from my neck, like a big albatross.
Munroe: Albatross. Yeah. Let’s go with that. I hate that.
Howlett: Me, too.
Munroe: Are you an only child?
Howlett: Nope. Got a brother. John’s older than me. Loves to run my ranch, even though we aren’t kids anymore.
Munroe: Lucky. No sibs for me. Always wanted a kid sister or brother.
Howlett: You didn’t have to share a room with someone who stuff socks in your mouth while you were sleeping every time you snored, or who stuff you into the laundry hamper and piled three phone books on top of it to keep you out of the way when his friends came over.
Munroe: Ouch… poor baby. *chuckle*
Howlett: Brat. :p
Munroe: Okay. I was lucky. So sue me. Lonely, though.
He felt a pang at her admission of getting lonely. She used his pause to type another message.
Munroe: I loved playing with my dolls when I was a kid. A sibling would have been so much better.
Howlett: You don’t seem like the Barbie type.
Munroe: Hey, don’t diss Barbie. In my house, she was a Jane of all trades. Accountant. Astronaut. Doctor. Candy store owner. The Bionic Woman, since I didn’t have one of those dolls.
Howlett: You made Barbie an accountant? :D
Munroe: Yes. :p
Logan guffawed and shook his head. “Man. Wow. Why am I surprised?” He chuckled as he kept texting.
Howlett: Nice.
Munroe: You travel a lot, don’t you?
Logan gave the tiny screen a wry smile.
Howlett: Yup. You?
Munroe: Yup. Yuck. Hate airline seats. It’s like they hate long-legged people. I always get stuck next to the crying baby or in front of the person who hangs on the back of my chair every time they get up. Or next to the one person on the plane who had eggs for breakfast.
Howlett: Nasty.
Munroe: Tell me about it.
Howlett: Or the guy who didn’t wear deodorant. He’s usually also the one who won’t shut up whenever you wanna take a nap.
Munroe: I can never sleep on a plane. Every time I nod off, I wake myself up as soon as my chin hits my chest. The window leaves me with a crick in my neck. I get off the plane looking and feeling like hell.
Howlett: Why do I doubt that?
A tickle of pleasure warmed her belly.
Munroe: Trust me.
Trust me… It was such a loaded statement, obscuring his view of her in a murky fog. That was something they didn’t have. Possibly couldn’t have.
Munroe: Logan?
Ororo’s smile faded as she waited for her screen to tell her Logan was typing, or for more of his sharp, quick wit to ladder itself down the window. She kneaded the knot from her neck uncomfortably and sighed. She was tired, it was getting late, and her unease grew the longer Logan paused. Her fragile ego told her that maybe his access was bad in his service area.
Munroe: Logan?
She tried again, but she knew the conversation was over.
Munroe: Good night.
Before he could react, the screen prompt said “Munroe, Ororo has logged off. Exit conference?”
Click. Yes.
Logan was left with his inbox folder staring back at him and a sense of having missed an opportunity. It clawed at him as he put his PDA back in its case and got up to turn off the light.
*
Ororo was still fuming and puzzling over their chat two days later back in her office as she researched the state regulations for an out-of-network only plan. She sipped her white mocha and did a side-by-side comparison of the plan the client wanted and what could actually be sold. She didn’t look forward to the feedback from regulatory, since getting the plan approved could take months of dialogue and documentation. Her eyes were beginning to swim from looking at two Word screens and oceans of strikethrough text using her “Compare Documents” function. The emails from Selene didn’t help; she kept sending along screenshots of revisions that the customer made when she met with them in-house in bright, obnoxious red.
She planted her elbows on her desk and leaned forward, massaging her temples, then dug in her desk drawer for the bottle of extra-strength Tylenol. A light knock on her door interrupted her just as she shook out two tablets.
“Yes?” Scott gently opened her door and smiled.
“Knock, knock,” he offered. He raised his brows as the painkiller. “Bad day already?”
“I hate flex plans, did I mention that?”
“Aw, c’mon, Killer, suck it up,” he mocked. “You love these plans. You don’t need food or sleep or fresh air. All you need is your inbox, your account manager’s lovely voice in your ear and some caffeine.” Ororo gave him a mock glare. “What?” he asked innocently.
“You’re way too cheerful.”
“Thanks! But in the meantime, here’s a piece offering.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of Dum-Dums. “Pour vous,” he said with a flourish.
“Brat,” she muttered, but her smile was back in place. “You’re forgiven.”
“Goodie.” He sat down at the seat opposite hers without further invitation. “Wanna call in from the same desk? It helps if we’re looking at the same desktop.”
“My desk is a mess,” she indicated. He beamed.
“We can use mine. I like working from mine better, anyway.”
“I’ll be over there in a minute, then,” she said as she unwrapped the root beer-flavored lollipop.
“Cool. Don’t bother to print anything, I already have everything pulled from the database, and I have the emails, too.” Ororo waved to him as he left and popped the Tylenol, chasing it down with a sip of coffee. Breakfast of champions.
She took her PDA, day planner, a couple of pens and her coffee with her down the hall to Scott’s office, contentedly sucking on the candy on her way there, not caring how silly she must have looked with the white stick protruding from her mouth. She looked forward to spending the next hour with someone remotely sane. She heard Scott’s voice before she got there and realized he was already on the call, which quickened her steps.
Shit. Late… She shouldered open the door and was about to greet him when a familiar pair of dark eyes met hers. Logan froze in the act of opening his briefcase.
Ororo spit the sucker out in surprise, sending it flying, barely avoiding choking on it. “Shit,” Logan hissed. Scott glared at both of them in annoyance as he hit the mute button.
“I just told them you were on your way, Tory. Here, take that chair.” He nodded to the one beside Logan that had already been pulled up to his desk. Ororo wiped a fleck of stray spittle from the corner of her mouth. Logan huffed and his brows drew together.
“Got good distance on that one.”
“What?”
“A-hem.” He indicated her sucker, currently stuck to his briefcase. He grimaced as he peeled it away from the expensive leather. Ororo was mortified and tried to act casual as she closed the gap between them.
“I’ll, er, just be…taking that. Thanks.” She plucked the stick from his grasp and moved to through it in the trash.
“Selene, Don, I’ve got Logan and Ororo here.” Scott was talking smoothly into the conference phone’s speaker and typing a mile a minute, clicking on attachments and opening folders.
“Good,” Selene confirmed; Ororo could hear the note of irritation in her voice. “I had wondered where you got off to, Tory.”
“Scott’s office was closer,” she shrugged.
“Sure it was,” Logan muttered under his breath. She glared at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Then he leaned his chair away from hers an inch or so, as though he was afraid she’d spit something else at him.
Fine. See if I’m ever nice to you again, pal. His demeanor was at odds with their last two conversations, in person and online. It irked and disconcerted her. Scott gave them both an odd look, but then he continued talking.
“Okay, let’s get back to the client’s expectations regarding that out-of-network plan.”
“It’s on an old shell; I thought we grandfathered that one back in ninety-six,” Ororo pointed out. “Why on earth do they even want it?”
“Bare bones coverage for their new employees who are just past their waiting period,” Logan shrugged. “It isn’t rocket science. No sense in paying the higher premiums for people who might not be long-term by putting them on the Classic plan.”
“It doesn’t even have the wellness language in it like the newer plans do,” Ororo argued.
“That’s what they want us to add,” Logan pointed out.
“I’m with Jim on this one,” Donald interjected from his end of the line. “What’s to keep us from just inserting the new language?”
“The old language said that coverage was for ‘routine laboratory procedures and diagnostic tests.’ The new language says for ‘medically necessary, routine services.’ They’re legal department could have a field day with that.”
“I don’t see where we’ll have a problem,” Selene cut in. Of course you don’t. You’re an account manager. Ororo suppressed the urge to roll her eyes.
“We’re leaving it subject to interpretation. A member could call our Customer Care desk and scream at us because their foot rub at a health spa was denied by saying it was a routine service.”
“We’d never cover services at a health spa, that isn’t a place of service we even cover,” Donald argued.
“Yes, but that doesn’t stop a business like that from filing a claim, anyway. Anyone can fill out a claim form and mail or fax it in. Anyone can call themselves a doctor and tinker with a few diagnostic codes to make it look like someone came in for a ‘routine service.’”
“We have a list of covered services already in the plan summary,” Selene informed her. “That should cover it.”
“The old booklet doesn’t even reference that table, and it should. That’s why we should build this on the newer shell.”
“That would make sense,” Scott added, “but the client wants what they want. They like the old shell. They said it’s easier to read.” Ororo was beginning to feel outnumbered. She coached herself away from the headache that was brewing in the back of her neck, despite the pills she’d swallowed a while ago. I’m an underwriter. Not a contract writer, she told herself. Let them tinker with it. As long as her rates didn’t change, she was fine with it, but she’d be glad when the plan change was put to bed.
“Speaking of which, Tory, the client was curious as to why their rates aren’t the same on the new policy.”
“The numbers, or the way the rates are described for each tier?” she questioned.
“The language.” Ororo wanted to slap Selene through the phone.
“Ask someone in Contracts,” Ororo snapped, not realizing how harsh her voice sounded until Scott’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline and Logan grunted, leaning back in his seat to stare at her. “I know what I sent the client, so those rates should have been in the policy with no tinkering.”
“The effective dates don’t match.”
“Then again, ask the administrator on the AMT,” she reminded her. “When clerical errors regarding the rates come out of a different department, don’t automatically blame the underwriter.” Scott hit the mute button briefly.
“Take it easy. No one’s blaming you.”
“Sure they aren’t. I know what rate tiers I put into their spreadsheet, and they signed off on it when they paid their premiums. So that means the error on the policy isn’t my fault, if there even is an error.”
“Sheesh,” Logan muttered. “PMS much?”
“Excuse me?”
Scott made shushing motions at both of them as he took the phone off mute. “Can we refer this to Contracts?”
“Fine with me,” Donald confirmed. “They can wrangle with Regulatory better than we can.”
“That’s why they get paid the big bucks,” Scott remarked easily. Ororo rolled her eyes this time and Logan chuckled under his breath.
The meeting dragged on for another half an hour that Ororo spent gritting her teeth.
“When’s our next meeting scheduled?” Selene inquired.
“Two weeks out. We have a standing reminder on the calendar,” Scott reminded her gently. “The alert will go out on Outlook.”
They rang off the call. Ororo got up and stretched, kneading out a kink in her neck.
“Sore?” Scott asked.
“Been leaning over my PC too long,” she complained. “Here and at home.”
“Take a break,” he suggested. “Logan’s got apples in his cheeks from his time out of the office.” Logan threw a pen at him.
“Ain’t like it was a vacation.”
“Beats being here,” Ororo said sourly.
“Whatsamatter? Our neck of the woods ain’t good enough for ya?”
“I miss my old digs,” she admitted. “Boston isn’t New York.” She wouldn’t admit the bigger problem, that she missed her friends and her dad, and that she’d felt adrift since she moved. She’s also felt “off” since seeing Vic at the club that night. Still being single while he was moving on with his life was difficult. This odd…non-friendship she had with Logan was difficult.
She was sick of it.
“I just need another vacation,” she mused.
“Yeah?” Logan was curious. “What makes ya think yer allowed ta leave the dungeon, darlin’?”
“All my saved up PTO. I need a break. I feel buried.”
“Pfftt…fiddlin’ with numbers all day is a walk in the park,” Logan scoffed.
“Sure. I don’t get to schmooze the client over hot wings and make promises we can’t keep about how much we expect to charge them for what they’re asking for.”
“Whoa,” Scott muttered. “There’s no need for that, Ororo, take it easy. You guys wanna get lunch?”
“I’m fine, Scott,” she told him. “Have fun.” She sailed out of his office, glad to leave Logan’s smirk behind. She wasn’t expecting to hear heavy footsteps following her back to her door. She entered her office and tossed her notes on the desk.
“Damn. Looks like a tornado hit,” Logan muttered, eyeing her desk. “And people say I’m messy.” Ororo made a show of organizing the piles of paper on her desk into…neater piles.
“That’s nice. Enjoy your lunch.”
“What is it with you today?”
“Why does there have to be anything with me?” She refused to look at him, seating herself back behind her desk and rebooting her computer.
“Sorry. Guess I’m just used to you being uptight, not an uptight grouch,” Logan shrugged. “Someone piss in yer Cheerios?”
“No. But I’ll never want to eat them again, thanks for the mental image.”
Logan grunted and sat opposite her desk without being invited. “Seriously,” he pried, “what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She randomly clicked open folders and her inbox in an attempt to ignore him, but he made it hard. She’d already gotten a faint whiff of his cologne from being close to him in Scott’s office, and having him now in hers was distracting her. Logan looked relatively relaxed in a simple dress shirt and tie, both in light gray, and he’d omitted his usual blazer, giving her an unhindered view of the contours of his body beneath the polished cotton. His cheeks had more color than usual; she wondered if he’d spent a lot of time outdoors when he visited his family.
“It ain’t everyday someone spits candy at me for no good reason,” he pointed out.
“I choked on it. Sorry. Guess I just swallowed wrong.”
“Riiiiight.” She continued her random clicking and typing, opening a new spreadsheet. He folded his arms across his chest. “Why’d ya seek me out and email me, if you’re just gonna give me the cold shoulder now? Is something on your mind?”
“Not much. Nothing remarkable.” Click, click, tap, tap…
“Nothing remarkable. But that ain’t the same as ‘nothing.’”
“No. It is.” Tap, tap, tap…
Her demeanor was so much at odds with her messages from before. What the fuck was up? Logan decided it was time to break the ice, because he was freezing. He doubled back to her door and closed it with a sharp click. That caught her attention, jerking her chin up and stilling her hands over her keys.
“What are you doing?”
“Having a word with you, since there’s something on my mind, Tory.”
“Can’t it wait til after work?”
“I’d rather clear the air between us.”
She sat back and folded her arms. “Professionally, or personally?” Her eyes were defiant.
“Both.” He sat back down and leaned forward with his hands dangling between his knees; the stance looked slightly defeated and weary. “There’s been something bothering me for a while now. Since Mexico.” Ororo stiffened.
“Just our case of mistaken identity?”
“Nah. More than that.” He exhaled a shaky breath and pushed on. “Why didn’t ya tell me goodbye?” She shrugged, and it chafed him.
“What did you expect? A promise to call? A pen pal? ‘Look me up the next time you’re in my state?’ Get real, Logan,” she tsked. “What would have been the point?”
“It would’ve been polite.”
“Trust me, I was doing us both a favor.” She took a sip of her coffee, then made a face; it was stone cold. She chucked the cup into the trash.
“Ya think? Me waking up alone and hungover, wondering if ya were okay was a favor? I was worried about how ya got back to yer hotel, Tory. If ya were gonna make yer flight home okay. It ain’t like I set ya an alarm, gave ya a ride or called ya a cab.”
“I’m from New York. You think I can’t call my own cab?” she snapped. But his words made her feel guilty. Was he really concerned? Did it really matter to him, when she’d just been a one-night stand?
“Is that how it is? I wasn’t worth a goodbye.”
“I didn’t say that.” She didn’t add that she’d been reluctant to leave him and comfortable nook of his warm body and rumpled sheets. “Why are you making a big deal about this? Men love an easy out.”
“All of us?” he shot back, scowling darkly. “That’s nice. Real nice. Do you always make generalizations like that, Tory?”
“I’ve got a lot of empirical evidence,” she sniffed. “You probably do, too. I’m realistic, Logan. I didn’t expect anything else from what we had but a good time. You never expected to see or hear from me again, admit it; that was even before I left.”
“I’m not every other man you’ve ever been with. Are ya listening to yerself?” He laughed harshly. “Hope I wasn’t too far outside yer usual standards, kiddo. Sounds like they’ve all been real stand-up guys.” Ororo tasted acid and felt heat rise up into her cheeks.
“Don’t you talk to me like that,” she spat.
“You started it.”
“I didn’t come into your office to point any fingers. I was going to leave it alone.”
“Yer the queen of just ‘leaving it alone,” aren’t ya? Yer good at desertin’ guys, aren’t ya? Huh? Do ya love leavin’ ‘em in the cold?”
“It was actually pretty warm that day. You survived,” she smirked, making a dismissive gesture with her hand, but there was something strange in his eyes when he said she’d deserted him. “Just move on to the next girl at the next bar who asks you if this seat’s taken.”
“Because I just do that all the time.” He shook his head. “How’d ya get such a low opinion of me?”
“I don’t have one of you. I don’t have anything to even base it on.”
“So why are ya always so pissed at me?”
“Because you never have anything nice to say!”
“And you do?”
“You always belittle my work and ignore common sense when you kiss clients’ asses, and you act like what I say doesn’t matter! You just do what you want, whenever you want, and to hell with whether it causes anyone any grief, let alone me!” Her voice was angry but hurt, and suddenly the line between “professional issues” and “personal grievances” became very, very blurry. Her voice had risen and was uncharacteristically strident, and Ororo’s cool mask was gone. This was the real woman behind the emails and the conference phone, underneath the slicked-back hair and concealing business suits, the one who plagued his thoughts with questions and what-if’s.
“I’ve gotta go out and sell the company’s image every day to people outside the company. I don’t want to come back to my place of business to people I work with in-house, let alone the people I have any kind of unprofessional relationship with. I don’t want to have to sell myself to you.” Was that vulnerability she heard in his voice?
Did she act like she expected him to sell himself? She dismissed that notion and pressed on.
“You won’t have to,” she blurted out. “In a few months I won’t even be here. I’m heading back to my old branch.” The words hung between them, and Logan leaned back in his seat, unaware until then how much tension had knotted and set his shoulders during their “talk.” She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “We won’t have to worry about our professional relationship growing too ‘unprofessional.’ So there you go. Another easy out.”
“I told ya I ain’t the kinda man who needs one. I don’t just look for an easy escape.”
“Goodie for you.”
“Wish I knew who ya see when ya look at me,” he grumbled as he stood up. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets.
“There are some things that aren’t worth knowing.”
“Like yer real name, or whether ya got back to the states okay, or whether ya’d keep in touch. Sure. None of that’s worth it.”
“You don’t regret it.”
“You’re making me not regret it.” Logan was done. “You’re doing a great job of that. Keep up the good work.” He slammed out of her office this time, and she jumped with the impact, then sighed.
Well. That went well.
Ororo went back to her piles, finally beginning to sort through them and throw out the ones that were duplicates. She needed something to keep her hands busy.
*
The next day went about the way Ororo expected it. Her emails to Logan were only mass mailings to their management teams, with his name in the Cc field. They avoided each other in the halls and break room, even though it made her feel…deprived, on some level, like a smoker on their first day of going cold turkey. She’d worn a groove to his office, and it was hard to force herself off-track. But she managed.
The next day yielded more of the same. She’d even taken to avoiding contact with Scott, since by extension, he was more Logan’s friend than hers, and she didn’t want to invade his territory. The thing that baffled her the most was, why did she feel like she broke up with the man, when they were never together in the first place? Ororo joined her teleconferences with the resolve that she would be civil, ever businesslike, and stoic. She seldom addressed Logan by name, and even then, it was always by James. His voice on the conferences was friendly with everyone else and emotionless with her; she told herself she was fine with that.
What was a little white lie to herself once in a while?
After a week, the lie became routine.
*
It was killing him to see her in the halls, averting her eyes and skirting around him when they nearly collided, or just plain giving him a wide berth. The urge to stop her and pull her aside was strong and instinctive, but that wasn’t an option. He should’ve known better from the start. From that morning that he found himself in an empty bed that still smelled like her, he should have known.
She was still buttoned up, despite the warmer weather, even though her clothing reminded him less of funeral attire. She gradually replaced her precious black with muted business beige and navy blue, her only concession to spring. His fingers still itched to mess her up, to yank down that ridiculous bun and free that temptingly thick hair, to smudge her lipstick with his kisses, but her bitter words still rang in his ears. He didn’t need that, no matter how strong the attraction. He could cope with the fact that they argued, if the reasons were legitimate. People in relationships argued. He and Jeannie argued. It wasn’t the end of the world.
He saw her a couple of times at the gym and studiously avoided her, lingering in the free weights while she gave the treadmill, pounding it with a fast, heavy pace. Then suddenly she stopped coming; he guessed she adjusted the time of day that she attended so she wouldn’t see him. Who cared if he was being deprived of the only time he saw her sweating and disheveled in clingy Lycra and cotton? Fine. Sure.
Wasn’t it?
*
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