Logan juggled his carryon bag with his camera case as he boarded the escalator, hating the “off-balance” feel from being in a plane for so many hours. His legs were cramped and his foot had that prickly feeling from falling asleep.
“Papa Gino’s?” Scott inquired.
“Yup.”
They managed to stop at one on their way to the subway tunnel for the Red Line. Logan wolfed down a thick slice of sausage and olive pizza, folding it in half to catch the drippings before they could land on his favorite coat. The freezing air bit into them as soon as they stepped outside.
Good morning, Boston.
The odors of the subway assaulted his nose; that much he hadn’t missed, but it was so much more convenient than taking a car. Logan and Scott boarded their train and sped past stop after stop, plunged into darkness each time they hit an unlit segment of the tunnels. Scott wasn’t particularly chatty after keeping his friend a captive audience on the plane, so at least Logan could be alone with his thoughts.
She said she was from New York. Manhattan. She was an underwriter.
He almost didn’t know why he cared. She made it loud and clear by her hasty exit that they were done. Hoping for anything else was a pipe dream Logan wouldn’t entertain. She left him with another nice memory of his vacation. End of story.
He didn’t even know if Tory was her real name. She at least looked like a Tory, he mused.
They emerged from the tunnel and parted ways at the bus stop; Scott was headed back to his overpriced apartment in Cambridge. It was only four o’clock, and the sky above them was already changing from pearl gray to oppressive black. Logan was already settling back into the doldrums, but he was still relieved to be home.
“Give me a call to let me know you got home all right.”
“Whaddya think? We came all this way without a hitch, and someone’s gonna snatch me off the street before I make it another mile home?”
“Humor me,” Scott nagged before clapping him on the back. He waved back as he disappeared onto the bus. Logan waited in the glassed-in shelter for the next one headed south, watching a drizzle of rain hit the panes.
The bus’ smell wasn’t much of an improvement from the subway. The various street lights and neon signs looming in the dark as they rode past hypnotized him, making him drowsy. He nearly missed his stop but jerked the window cord just in time. The driver looked annoyed as he peered back into his large rearview mirror. Logan stumbled off the bus through the rear exit and dodged the rain as he ran down those last several blocks toward his home.
His first stop was his mailbox. It was stuffed full of bills and junk mail, and there was a small yellow slip stating “Sorry We Missed You” from the post office. He wasn’t expecting a package.
Logan stomped his feet on the welcome mat outside his door to beat off the dirty slush from his boots. As soon as he unlocked his door, the smell of his unaired apartment wrapped around him but confirmed that he was home.
Minutes later, the heat was turned on and his cold toes were beginning to thaw, stuffed into clean wool socks. He opened every letter, whether it looked like junk or not, and laid them into separate stacks. His kitchen was meticulously clean, at odds with his upbringing. His mother kept a shamefully messy house. Despite an exhaustive trip home, Logan’s insomnia claimed him, giving him his second wind.
His voice mails were next.
Beep. “You didn’t call me. I’ll assume you were abducted by aliens or that you fell asleep. I’m putting out an APB if you’re not at the meeting.” Friggin’ Summers…
Beep. “Logan, it’s Sara. Call me. Let me know if you got the box.”
Logan’s stomach twisted as soon as he heard her voice. He eyed the yellow slip on the table and picked it up. From the date, they tried to reach him yesterday. Sara must have forgotten his itinerary and when he’d be back. He took the slip and tacked it up on his bulletin board by the refrigerator.
He felt numb. That hadn’t changed.
Beep. “It’s John. Thought I’d call and talk. You left me a message. Catch you later.” Logan sighed and sank into his chair, brooding. He scrubbed his face with his palms. Why?
The rest of the calls were hang-ups, no doubt telemarketers who missed him at home; his caller ID blinked “Unknown Caller” as he toggled through the numbers, deleting them one by one. That left his email.
He didn’t even bother flicking on his bedroom light as he booted up his desktop, bringing his cocoa with him. His Dilbert screensaver blinked on and his PC made weird cranking noises; he either needed more memory or a new friggin’ computer. Either option made his wallet ache.
His Google inbox wasn’t that full. There were about a half a dozen “FW:” emails from Scott’s brother Alex. He scanned the subject lines and deleted them without opening them. His Classmates subscription was almost up; Logan contemplated canceling it, since he hadn’t found anyone he knew from school after having it for over a year. His cable bill was due. His phone bill was due.
John sent him some attachments, big ones from the size indicated in the message index. His PC made more grinding noises as it tried to download the files.
Thought you might like a copy of these. I can send more of the ones that I have, once I scan ‘em.
John
His screen flashed, then expanded, revealing a large image a few centimeters at a time.
His breath caught as his mother’s eyes came into view. Then her smile. It was his smile, or so he’d been told. And it was rare.
He leaned back in his chair and released a long, shaky breath, bowing his face and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
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