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I lifted my glass and picked up a lemon wedge. “To Logan Crowne.
Who tried to get me to change my name, but wouldn’t change.”
We clicked. I downed the vodka and sucked the lemon. Everyone did
the same, except Logan, who waited, watching me before he followed suit,
cringing at the bite of cheap vodka. No lemon for him. Just the stare,
holding me in place.
Silence, except for the music and shot glasses hitting the table.
“This song sucks,” Irma said, getting up.
“Don’t put on that merengue shit,” Liddy objected, following her to the
living room. Somehow, it was just Logan, Amilcar, and me left.
“Fance.” Amilcar snapped his fingers between Logan and me, breaking
the tether between us. “You cool?”
“I’m cool.”
“All right.” He put his hand on Logan’s shoulder as he passed, patting it
hard twice.
We were alone in a crowded house.
“You cool?” I asked. “Logan? Are you cool or no?”
“No. I am not cool.”
True. He was hot. Very hot.
“You want another shot?” I picked up the bottle, but it was empty.
“I want to talk,” he said.
“It’s all still about what you want.”
“It is. And I want my wife back.”
“You gotta find her first. The real one. She’s out there somewhere.”
He got up and turned Irma’s seat to straddle it, facing me while I looked
forward. “Her name’s Ella Papillion. Have you seen her?”
“Don’t know her. Thought I did, but no.”
“I miss her.” His hand drifted along my arm. “We met up every
morning, in the kitchen. She wore fuzzy socks and had her hair up. She
called me at lunch to see how my day was. When I got home, she put
slippers out for me. I never wore slippers until I lived with her.”
“It was an act.”
“When I made her come, her whole body twisted like she was
possessed, and one time, she came so hard she cried in my arms. Tell me
that was fake and I’ll walk out right now.”
Lying would have been easy, but I was done with lies.