by West, Harper
After a minute or so, Logan shifts off of me. He ties off the condom and throws it in the trash before tucking himself back into his pants and righting the rest of his clothes.
I figure I should get dressed too. I excuse myself to Logan’s private bathroom and clean myself up before getting re-dressed. I look in the mirror, a little astounded with myself.
Here I’ve hooked up with both of these guys in less than twenty-four hours. I mean, I knew that having them back in my life would be tempting, but I figured I had a little more self-control than that.
I finger-comb my hair and wipe off the ruined makeup from my eyes before returning to the main room of the office to face Logan.
“I’m sorry Ivy,” he says, “I got a little out of control there.”
I shake my head no. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” I assure him, “You didn’t do anything that I couldn’t handle. You never do.”
“Good,” he says. Then he gets kind of quiet, which is strange.
Logan is normally a quiet guy, but it’s an intimidating, sort of reserved quiet. He speaks selectively and chooses his words and his moments very purposefully. But now, in this moment, he just looks small and scared.
“Are you okay?” I ask him.
Logan still doesn’t say anything. Actually, he looks kind of hurt.
“Last night, I called my lawyer,” he says softly. Before I can tear into him with anger and fury, he continues, “I wanted to get custody. But then I realized that the only reason I wanted to do all that was to hurt you.”
I’m quiet. I want to know where he’s going with this.
“Then I started reading. And listening to parenting podcasts. And it got really overwhelming,” he explains. He starts pacing. “I want to see him, Ivy. I want to meet my son.”
“Okay.”
“But I’m not ready. Not yet,” he confesses. He looks at the floor, almost like he’s ashamed of himself. “You know about my family.”
I nod. I do. Logan rarely speaks about his upbringing, but he has told me his story in bits and pieces.
“It’s not that I hate children or don’t want Oliver around,” Logan says, “It’s that I’m pretty sure I’ll be a shitty parent. It’s in my blood.”
“You are not your family,” I tell him. I’ve told him this at least a dozen times throughout our relationship, but I don’t think he’ll ever stop needing to hear it. “You’re a good man, Logan. Thick headed, stubborn, and a terrible listener. But a good man.”
He looks up. “Thank you, Ivy.”
Chapter 14
Logan
She gestures to the books on the table. “Been doing some reading?”
I nod. I have. When I found out about Oliver, I immediately started panicking, so I decided to combat that feeling of helplessness the only way I knew how. Buckets of research. I filled my Amazon cart with every parenting book I could find and had them all shipped here overnight. I was halfway through the first one when I realized that it was useless.
Reading about parenting, I mean. No book could prepare me for being a part of my son’s life.
And that made me feel even worse.
I’ve never been more terrified of anything in my life.
“You don’t have to meet him today,” she assures me, “It can be tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. Or never.”
“Never?”
“You don’t ever have to meet him,” Ivy says flatly, “He’s got me. And Tyler said he’d be around.”
That strikes me. Hard.
“Tyler met him?” I ask.
“Yeah. He came over last night after we got home from the hospital,” she explains.
“Explains why he left for the gym at three in the morning,” I say, remembering that Tyler had come home last night, a bundle of nerves and pent-up stress.
“We hooked up last night,” she tells me.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Just thought you should know,” she says, “But we stopped before it got too serious.”
“Did you?”
She nods. "He wants to be a part of Oliver's life, and we agreed that it would be best if we didn't complicate things by getting…"
“Naked?”
“I was going to say involved,” she explains with a big eye roll. “But yeah. We have to think about what’s best for Oliver. And that means not complicating our relationship with sex.”
“Agreed,” I tell her. I can’t however, keep the regret out of my voice. Putting my hands on Ivy again, getting inside her, watching her unravel, and coming with her made me feel more alive than I’d been in a long time. Immediately after that rough fuck, I felt relieved and easy in a way that I hadn’t felt since before Ivy left us.
It’s gutting me that I might not ever get to feel that way again.
“I mean, it should be easy, right?” she asks.
I narrow my eyes as I look back at her. Is she serious? On what planet does she think that keeping my hands off of her would be easy?
“You don’t even like me, Logan,” she adds, very matter-of-factly, “That there, on the desk, that had hate fuck stamped all over it.”
“Are you stupid, woman?” I ask her.
She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. Ivy’s not stupid. That was an asshole question. But it was fair too. Being around her makes me feel like I’m dying inside. Having her near and not being able to touch her is fucking torture.
She waits for a follow-up.
“I like you just fine,” I finally say.
I’m still in love with you is what I really mean, though. It's on the tip of my tongue, and I'm dying to say it out loud. Maybe it'll help. Like, in the first step is admitting that you have a problem kind of way.
But I don’t. I hold my tongue.
Telling Ivy how I feel isn't just going to complicate things, but it'll give her the upper hand, and I'm not ready to do that yet. I've already admitted my fear of fatherhood to her. I'm not ready to appear even weaker.
“How are you adjusting to the new place?” I ask, abruptly changing the subject, “Do you have enough room?”
“It’s lovely. Thank you.”
“And the job?” I ask, “Are you comfortable at reception? No one’s giving you a hard time?”
“Logan, we don’t have to do this,” she says, “Everything is fine. Work is fine. Life is fine. Let’s not make this more awkward by exchanging pleasantries and making small talk.”
“Okay.”
Ivy gathers her things.
“You’re leaving?” I ask.
She nods. “There’s nothing else to discuss here.” She heads for the door. “You keep me posted, okay? Call me when you’re ready, but until then, we’re good. Maybe when Tyler comes over, you’ll feel more comfortable and tag along.”
I nod. Okay. That sounds reasonable.
“I just wish that there was a way to meet him without meeting him,” I admit in a very small voice, “Like… something smaller than that.”
Ivy thinks for a minute, then picks up her phone. She fiddles with it for a second. Then my phone goes off, indicating that I have a text message. I open it. It’s a picture.
Several pictures, actually.
Oliver in the hospital, the day he was born. A nurse or someone must have taken the picture. He's pink and wrinkly, and his mouth is open like he's screaming and wailing. He's in Ivy's arms. She looks wrecked, her face flushed, and her wild, red hair stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat.
I can’t believe I missed that.
Then there’s another. Oliver in a little onesie with a cartoon turtle on the butt. He’s asleep in a crib, wearing a tiny little cap. His mouth is open.
“He never closes his mouth, does he?” I observe.
Ivy giggles. “No, he doesn’t,” she says, “He’s very talkative.”
“He talks already?” I ask, flabbergasted.
Now she laughs loudly and shakes her head no. “Of course not, Logan,” she says, “He just makes
a lot of baby babble. And he smacks his lips a lot. Like this…” Ivy smacks her own lips, imitating him.
I smile and get to the last picture. Oliver sitting up in his stroller, a big smile on his face.
His eyes are blue. Just like mine.
“I should have been there, Ivy,” I tell her firmly, hating myself for not knowing what she was going through.
She shakes her head. “No use dwelling on the past,” she says.
She leaves without saying goodbye. I stand there, empty.
After I’m sure she’s left, I pack up my briefcase, find my suit jacket and long-forgotten tie and head back to the penthouse.
“What’s gotten into you?” Tyler asks me when he gets home an hour or so later.
I don't answer. I'm sitting in a reclining chair wearing a loose pair of track pants and an NYPD tee shirt. I'm sipping brandy, and it's not my first glass.
“How did you do it?” I ask him, “How did you just go there and see Oliver like it was no big deal?”
“I just wanted to see him,” Tyler answers, “He’s mine. Ours.”
I let that sink in. Ours.
“Didn’t you meet him today?” he asks, “Isn’t he cute. I mean, he’s so fucking tiny. I can’t wait to teach him how to play ball and how to pick up women. I mean, when he’s old enough of course.”
I still say nothing.
“What’s wrong?”
Tyler sits on the sofa and turns off the television. I didn’t realize I’d turned it on. I don’t know how to tell Tyler that I chickened out of meeting our son. He doesn’t get it. Tyler has a good relationship with his family. Sure, they’re typical country-club wasps, but he and his sister were always cared for and loved and had everything they needed.
My family, on the other hand, let me down. My parents are nowhere to be found and had no interest in raising a child. My foster families were a mixed bag, some were okay, some weren’t, but I was never a part of those families. I was an extra body at the table. Sometimes, an extra burden.
How was I supposed to be a part of a child’s life and make him feel wanted and loved when I’ve never felt that myself?
I mean, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family was when Tyler and I were with Ivy. And we all basically lived here together. In this penthouse.
“Logan?” Tyler asks again, “What’s wrong? You look a little shaken up.”
I look into the third bedroom. It’s been pretty empty since Ivy left and Tyler and I mostly use it for storage. At the moment, it’s a very simple beige color, but I’m starting to imagine it in a pale blue.
Maybe with a few toys in it. And a tiny crib. And one of those little mobiles overhead.
“I’m thinking about that extra room,” I tell Tyler, “I think we need to do something with it.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want to make it a baby’s room,” I tell him. I pick up my keys and shove my wallet into the pocket of my track pants. “I’m going to the hardware store. I want to get some blue paint.”
Tyler pushes me back into the chair. “We can hire a painter, Logan. You’re drunk. Sit back down.”
"I’m not drunk,” I tell him, walking back and forth without stumbling to prove it. “And I don’t want a painter. I want to do it myself.”
“You're not very handy. You know that right?" he reminds me.
“I know,” I admit, “But I want to make a room for my son. Our son. And I want to make it myself. With my own two hands.”
“Okay.”
“It’s symbolic, Tyler,” I say, explaining, even though he didn’t ask. “I’m hoping to make space in my home for our son.”
“And by doing so, you’re symbolically making room for him in your life,” Tyler supplies.
“Exactly,” I conclude.
Tyler looks at me strangely.
“What?” I ask.
“Logan, you’re really fired up right now,” he points out. He’s kind of right. My heart is racing and, despite the brandy, I feel really energized. Like I have to go run a couple miles or take a session with my boxing coach or something to get it out of my system.
“Yeah. And?”
“This might not be the best moment to take on such a big project,” he says, rationally.
“Why not?”
“You've known about Oliver for less than forty-eight hours. You spent the entire night brooding and stewing in your animosity for Ivy for not telling you about him. Then you go meet with her to yell at her and, clearly, you fucked her," he starts.
“How do you know that?” I ask. I mean, I haven’t showered yet, but I didn’t exactly advertise that anything had happened with Ivy.
“You smell like her perfume,” he says flatly.
“Oh.”
“And you’re not still raging mad,” he says, a little more animated, “Actually you sound pretty happy.”
I can't help but let a little grin creep across my face. It was the first time I'd been with anybody in eighteen long months, and it was her. Ivy. Sliding inside her felt like coming home after a long trek through the wilderness. Or like stepping into a steamy shower after being caught in a cold rainstorm. She was submissive when I needed her to be, and I know it excited her too.
Tyler clears his throat, reminding me that he’s there and that we were in the middle of an important conversation.
“I’m saying that you need to wait at least another day or so before taking a wrecking ball to our apartment,” he says.
“But I still want to do something,” I say.
Tyler nods, understanding. “I have an idea. Grab your jacket.”
I do so and follow Tyler into the garage of our building. He leads me to his car, and we climb inside. Good call. I’m steady on my feet, but I definitely shouldn’t be driving right now.
He pulls out of the garage and onto the street. It’s rough getting through traffic, but after about twenty minutes, I realize that he’s taking me out of the city.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Alpine,” Tyler answers, indicating the wealthy New Jersey suburb where some of his family lives. “I think you need some practice.”
“Practice for what?”
“Being around kids,” he answers, “We’re going to visit my sister. Zeke is out of town on business, so she’ll welcome the company. I’m sure the little fuckers are driving her insane.”
“That’s a terrible way to talk about your nieces and nephews,” I say, not bothering to hide my laugh.
“I love them,” Tyler insists.
“When you actually make the effort to go and see them,” I tease him.
Tyler shrugs. "Okay, maybe this trip is a little bit for me too," he says, "I haven't exactly been uncle of the year, and I definitely could use a little more practice around kids myself."
I scoff. “Oh, stop it. Those kids love you.”
Tyler lets out a long sigh. "Sure, they love me. I'm fun uncle Tyler, and I bring presents and ice cream and stuff. But I get to go home before the sugar crash, and the noisy toys run out of batteries. I don't have to deal with them when they're throwing tantrums and keeping Tammy up at night."
“So, what’re we going to do?”
“We're watching them this afternoon," he answers. We pull over for a second so that he can use his phone without being distracted from driving. "I'm sending Tammy to a day spa, and you and I are going to watch the kids."
“She’ll like that,” I say, nodding.
His phone goes dings as Tammy presumably replies to the text.
“Yeah, she’s completely on board with this plan,” he chuckles.
“How many does she have now?” I ask, figuring that was probably the first question that I should’ve asked. I think back, remembering sending gifts for at least two christenings.
“Three,” Tyler replies.
“Fuck,” I blurt out.
“Anders is six, Karen is two and Brendon is six months,” he adds, “So no ‘fucks.’ You know what?
No cursing in general. If the kids learn any new swear words, Tammy will kill me.”
“Noted.”
After a little while more in the car, we pull into the driveway of Tyler’s sister’s sprawling home in the New Jersey suburbs. The Pearson family is extremely wealthy, that’s no secret, but Tammy’s husband, the father of her third child, is even wealthier, believe it to not.
While I like Tammy as a person, she's used to a life of privilege, and I have a hard time relating to her in that respect. But I know that she's more involved in their lives than most of the country club women I've met in my life.
Tyler uses his key and lets us into the house. It's a gorgeous and tastefully decorated home with a grand staircase and stylish furniture. It is in a state of disarray, though. There's a big juice stain on one of the taupe colored sofas that's going to take a professional to get out. There are toy buckets overturned and Legos, and stuffed animals were strewn around the room.
And then I hear the whining.
“Mom, I’m bored,” a child cries.
And that sets another one off screeching.
“Anders, you’ve woken up your brother,” a woman grimaces.
I cringe inward. That noise. Kid noise. Babies crying and toddlers whining. It just does something to me. Makes my breath catch in my throat and sends ice through my veins.
“I don’t think I can do this,” I tell Tyler.
He pats my shoulder. “Too late to back out now,” he says.
I hear footsteps coming towards me. Tammy barrels in from the other room with a baby in her arms, a screeching toddler right behind her, and a precocious kindergartener a few steps behind.
The oldest kid, Anders, I presume, is playing with a smartphone. I do a double take. Things have changed since I was a kid. Is he even old enough to know what to do with a smartphone? I shake my head in disbelief.
But, I think to myself, at least he’ll be quietly entertained while we deal with the others.
“But I’m still bored,” Anders whines, returning the phone to his mother. “There’s nothing to do.”
Damn.
Tammy looks tired and frazzled, her hair shoved into a ponytail, and face free of makeup.
