Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

  “God, Bryn,” Logan half whispers. “I’ve wanted you since high school—before. Before I even understood what it meant.” He sighs. “When your car broke down and I fixed it, it all came back, and I was so pissed. Ashamed with myself, my world. Then—the money came. And I wondered… I didn’t let myself entirely believe I could win you over, but… look at us. Look at this.”

  “Look at what?”

  I feel my blood pressure spike and every hair stand on end. There’s something about his words that are boring down into every single insecurity I have. And I hate it. I take a deep breath, waiting for his next words.

  “I did win you over, didn’t I? With the trip and my style—”

  “Your style of what?” I pull away and look at him quizzically. Is he saying that the money is why I’m here with him, in bed? If Logan the mechanic had asked me to go on a road trip with him to New York, I probably would have done it. He just hadn’t ever asked.

  “Back in high school, you told me to come talk to you when I was in the NFL. Now I’ve done better than that—”

  He laughs. In this moment, I hate that laugh.

  I think of my father, freaking out about my talking to Logan. About his insistence that I never speak to the Chandler family again. Logan doesn’t know that side of the story, and now it’s becoming clear that he thinks I’m the same damn little girl that I was in high school.

  “Is that what you think, Logan?”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that—” He tries to catch my hand, but I don’t let him.

  “You ought to think about what you’re going to say next, very carefully.”

  He gives me a look of confusion, but my anxiety is spinning nearly out of control. Being with Logan—wanting him so desperately—it’s put my entire body on edge, my mind along with it. I want to control the sharpness in my voice, but I can’t. Instead, I bite my lip and sit up, looking at him.

  “What I mean is that—when I got the winning ticket, I had this whole shift in my life and you—I just get it now.” He’s rambling. “I see things clearly. I get it. You and me. It makes sense.”

  “You get what?” I ask, sitting up. “That I’m only here because of the money?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I barely hear the words. “Fuck that,” I spit, pulling away. “Fuck you for thinking it.”

  “Bryn,” he protests as I gather my clothes. “Bryn, I didn’t mean—”

  “No!” I insist. “If that’s what you think of me, then that’s that. Screw you and your money. Your roses and sweet words. I don’t need any of it. I don’t need your Legal Aid grant either. Screw that too. You can keep your money.”

  “Bryn, please…”

  Now he’s begging. And I’m outraged.

  “You think I’m some long-anticipated piece of ass you can order up like dinner?” I ask him. “Son, you need to check your expectations. I am not a tick mark in your catalogue of recent acquisitions. We screwed, but that’s the beginning and end of it. You didn’t win anything.”

  “Bryn, that’s not—”

  “Shut up!” I snap. “Just shut up. We’re done here.”

  Nobody has ever made me feel so cheap, so easily acquired. No one ever made me feel used.

  No one until Logan Chandler.

  I leave him as quickly as I can, a stunned expression seized on his face, at a loss for words he’s better off not speaking.

  I’m an idiot for thinking there was anything more to him than the dumb jock I knew in high school. He’s just as arrogant now as he was then. Now he’s just an arrogant, dumb, jock with enough money to think he matters. He’s wrong.

  Chapter 14

  Logan

  Bryn slams the door on her way out, rattling the furniture, spinning my brain.

  What did I say? What set her off?

  I collapse back onto the pillows, trying to recall words spoken in the swimming aftermath of the most earth-shattering sex I’ve ever experienced.

  ‘I’ve wanted you since high school...’

  She knows that. She’s always known it.

  ‘…I was so pissed. Ashamed with myself...’

  How can she find fault with that, after all we talked about tonight?

  ‘…then the money came… I didn’t let myself believe I could win you over, but…’

  Like she was a prize. Part of the lotto package. And then I kept saying the word over and over again.

  Money. Fucking money. Money, money, money.

  The one thing I’d always wanted after I got kicked out of college and needed to take care of Mom and Drake.

  I guess my brother was right—it is a curse.

  Or it can be, anyhow.

  The money.

  I cringe, thinking how that must have sounded to her. I said it all wrong. That’s not what I meant. I need to fix this. I need to explain.

  I shove the sheets back, putting my feet down. Then I see the only thing that could rattle me worse than what just transpired between Bryn and me.

  When we finished, I slipped the condom off, dropping it to the floor where it lies now. The thing is—it’s shredded. The condom broke.

  Fuck… fuck… fuck.

  I close my eyes on the scene. I’ll deal with that later. I need to talk to Bryn about what she thinks I meant, versus my actual intent.

  I pull on discarded clothes, then go knock on her door. She won’t answer. I hear her inside on the phone. Despite muffled tones and dropped words, I believe she’s talking to the airline, changing flight arrangements.

  “Bryn, please open up. Please talk to me,” I call through the door.

  She doesn’t respond.

  Okay.

  Back in my suite, I pour another whiskey, go out on the balcony, have a seat, and think.

  One idea occurs to me. No one gets that angry, that defensive, that quickly, unless a nerve is touched. There’s an element of truth to what she believes she heard, and it’s rattled her. At least part of her did give me a shot because of my change in circumstance. I’m not offended by that, but maybe it upsets her belief that she’s beyond being swayed by such mean considerations as wealth.

  She thinks I bought her. The only thing purchased was confidence. The money bought me enough guts to take the risk and make the play.

  That’s what I need her to understand, but she won’t talk to me.

  She has email, and I know she checks it every thirty minutes, just like every other attorney in the world.

  I fire up my laptop. I’m a terrible typist and no wordsmith, so it goes slowly, trying to find the right words.

  Dear Bryn,

  As you know, I didn’t quite finish college, so I’m not sure how much sense I’m going to make, but here I go.

  First, I’m sorry.

  I was so happy in that moment that I wasn’t sure what I was saying, but I think you heard something different than what I meant to say.

  I’m not much of a writer, but I think my whole speaking words thing is way worse than my writing. So hopefully I can get my point across here. I’m going to try.

  I think the money gave us a chance to get together, finally, after so many years. I was trying to tell you that, but I think you heard, “You’re with me for the money.”

  What I meant was this—for me, this money means security. It means not choosing lotto tickets over pizza. It means getting in-home care for my brother and helping him get independent, like he deserves to be. It means taking care of my mom as she gets older, and giving her the very best things in life. I can finally reward her for being a fantastic mom. I can finally drive my car without wondering how to pay for gas. I can finally afford the medical bills for my brother, and I can take care of everyone just like I’d always wanted.

  It means I’m free from all the worries I had before.

  It means I’m confident that I can love someone. That I can be with someone, for real.

  And the someone I always wanted—that was you, Bryn Beckett.

  Ju
st so I’m perfectly clear: I love you. I want you in my life. I want to be with you, for real.

  I’ll make a couple of other things clear, too. I’m still funding your legal aid. I will continue to do so. I think it’s a damn good cause, and I love to see you excited about it. I’ll get someone else to oversee it since we’re entangled now, but my money will be there for everything you need.

  Also, I love you. I think I already said that.

  But it’s your choice if you want to be with me. I’m not some dick like Charles, who would probably appoint you with the title of “girlfriend” and start introducing you to his family before he gave you the news.

  I don’t expect a response, but I’d love one if you have the time.

  Logan.

  I read my words carefully, double checking my intent and how I’ve stated it. There can’t be any confusion in this. Reasonably satisfied that I’ve made my best effort, I hit send, then close the laptop.

  It’s almost three in the morning. I doubt she’ll see the note until tomorrow. Maybe then we can start again.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry Mr. Chandler,” the desk clerk states without expression. “Miss Beckett checked out several hours ago.”

  Hours?

  “I see,” I respond blankly. “Thank you.”

  I called her. I knocked on her door again this morning. When I called her cell, I couldn’t hear it ringing. I knew then she was gone.

  There’s nothing for me to do.

  Chapter 15

  Bryn

  The plane lifts into the air, rising above the concrete maze of streets, buildings, houses occupied by sleeping people. I see the first inkling of sunrise off to the east, rising above the hazy blue-green line of the Atlantic.

  “The captain has turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. Feel free to move about the cabin,” a flight attendant announces. That’s my cue.

  My laptop is waiting. I haven’t looked at anything on email or social media since Friday afternoon, before I headed out on this ill-advised excursion with Logan Chandler. I should have stayed home. I have no idea what I was thinking but whatever it was, it was poorly considered.

  He’s easy to look at. He’s easier to talk to. He’s charming. He’s also an arrogant son-of-a-bitch who thinks—just because he’s got money—that I’m an easy score.

  I turn on the laptop, dreading the raft of unanswered mail in my inbox. I didn’t tell anyone but Bonnie and Claire where I was going or what I was doing. I have an idea that half the office is waiting on a response from me on some time-sensitive filing or notes on a deposition.

  When my inbox finally loads, I’m pleased—perhaps a shred disappointed—to see that my absence hasn’t been felt as keenly as I feared.

  There’s a note from my father asking me to lunch today. It’s entirely possible I can still make it.

  There’s a note from Bonnie, my admin, reminding me of a 10:00 appointment on Monday morning. I’m good with that.

  There’s a note from Claire asking how things are going. I’ll answer that shortly.

  And finally, the last note in my inbox; subject line, ‘Please don’t delete this. Hear me out.’

  It’s from Logan.

  I sit back hard in my seat, peering out the small cabin window, considering the ribbon of islands to my right that make up the edge of the Mid-Atlantic seaboard.

  What could he possibly have to say that I might want to hear?

  I click on the note.

  Dear Bryn,

  As you know, I didn’t quite finish college, so I’m not sure how much sense I’m going to make…

  … I’m sorry.

  I was so happy in that moment that I wasn’t sure what I was saying, but I think you heard something different than what I meant to say…

  I love you…

  What am I supposed to do with that?

  I’ll give him this; he’s capable of writing a good note, even if he’s self deprecating about it. I find myself calming, even laughing a couple of times. It feels like I’m listening to him, like I’m in the room with him.

  I’ve known a lot of dumb jocks in my life, and none of them could write their way out of a wet paper bag. He’s got a knack for this. And he’s sweet. Funny. Masculine. Charming.

  ‘…and I love you…’

  What is it my father says?

  Never put anything in writing you wouldn’t want used against you in court?

  He put it in writing. He’s owning it.

  What am I to do with a declaration like this?

  The truth is that Logan Chandler has made me aware of my own vulnerabilities. I recall a conversation about my lack of love-life months ago with Claire. She joked that Logan was ‘the perfect man for the job.’ I dismissed the idea.

  I knew I’d been a bitch in high school. I knew I had told him I wanted something more than he could give me. I knew he’d been so hurt and so broken. And he seemed… out of my world. Out of my league. Beyond me, separated.

  I thought there were worlds separating us. That he wouldn’t want to know—wouldn’t care—about what I was doing.

  And the other thing. He was a mechanic. Deep down, I wasn’t sure we’d have anything to talk about.

  A few months ago, he would still have been able to discuss the cynicism in Twain’s Letters from Earth, or the way that Charles Dickens’ works were seminal in bringing radical change to the legal system, to labor conditions, to the wages workers are paid. Of course, I didn’t know that.

  That he would be interested in what I’m doing.

  I’m insecure.

  I was too focused on my job to see the man right in front of me. And too shy to make a move.

  And I thought, because he was a mechanic, that we were literally worlds apart.

  …I’m a snob.

  * * *

  “You know,” Claire says, consoling me. “You can just accept his apology and let it go from there. You don’t need to humble yourself and admit all your failings. He’s not an idiot. He’ll figure those out soon enough.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I respond. “I think he’s probably already well-aware.”

  “That you’re a snob? Yeah,” she says. I hear the grin in her tone. “That you’re as insecure as the rest of us? That may take a little longer for him to puzzle out.”

  There’s a knock at my office door.

  “Hang on, Claire. Somebody’s at my door.”

  “Come in!” I call out.

  Bonnie pokes her head in, flashing a beaming smile. “More flowers,” she says. “At the front desk. Somebody sure does like you.”

  “I gotta go, Claire,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Fine,” she replies. “Don’t leave him hanging too long.”

  I walk with Bonnie to the main reception area. Another crowd has gathered, this one smaller than the one on Friday, but no less curious or enthusiastic.

  Today the roses are blue, and countless. Perhaps three dozen, maybe more. They’re beautiful and fragrant, and I’m starting to feel terribly ashamed of how I behaved towards Logan.

  I pluck the card from the center of the arrangement, slipping the thing from its envelope. It reads,

  “I miss you. —Logan.”

  * * *

  Good lord.

  I scurry away from the main desk with my unwieldy arrangement wafting a floral scent in my wake. Friday’s roses are still remarkably fresh, so these just add to the greenhouse effect my office has taken on.

  An hour later, while I’m buried in briefings, trying to get up to speed on an important, upcoming case, my father walks through my office door, then stops cold in his tracks.

  “Good grief. Did someone die?” he asks, gazing around at the flowers, his jaw slack with surprise.

  I ignore his comment.

  “What’s up?” I ask, rolling forward in my chair, laying the brief down on my desk.

  His eyes move from the flowers, then to me, and back again. Without preface, he la
ys a thick folder down on my incoming pile and takes a breath. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “Not really.”