She (15 page)

I beam at him. “So, you’re crazy about me, huh?”

He seems a little breathless. He rests his forehead against mine. “What part of my last two years don’t you understand?” he smiles.

I smile even broader, in a state of total euphoria. “I’m crazy about you, too, Logan.”

He gives my lips another quick peck.

Then I warn him, “Completely, entirely, wholeheartedly...like, full on cray-cray.”

He laughs, and says, “You’ve never sounded more American!”

I giggle, and then tap into my best French. “Je suis fou au sujet de vous, mon chéri.”
I’m crazy about you, my darling.

“Oui?”

“Absolument.”
Absolutely
.

Logan looks at me warily and when he speaks he’s tentative, as if fearful he might say too much. “Je suis heureux d’apprendre cela… parce que vous, Gemima, êtes mon tout.”
I
’
m glad to hear it…because you
,
Gemima
,
are my everything
.

His words register somewhere very deep within me, and I feel a different type of pulling inside. Not an erotic one, but one that makes me want to dance with joy. He loves me, I know he does! And I love him, too! That knowingness and exquisite feeling of wholeness is more satisfying to my heart than anything we’ve done before now.

“Oh, Logan,” I smile, throwing my arms around him, and holding him tightly. I feel like I could cry, I’m so happy. My mind fumbles in a state of shock, unable to explain what I’m feeling, and unable to account for how I got to this feeling so fast. The rest of me rejoices. How could I not? What could possibly be greater than opening my heart, and feeling, fully, the love that another has to give me? What more precious gift could I give myself than to allow myself to accept that love? And what could be more bestowing than to return that love with equal sincerity?

We stand there, motionless. Logan’s face is buried in my hair, and mine is pressed against his neck, one of my hands stroking the back of his head. He feels relaxed, and because of that I know he’s relieved by my response. He’s very forward with me, which can be strange sometimes, because I’m used to being the blunt one in any given conversation. But Logan needs to tell me how he feels; probably, I realise, because he’s held those feelings in for a long, long time. Time-wise I may fall short of him, but intensity-wise my feelings are a match for his. I know they are. My heads given up its quest for sense, and all I can comprehend now is: how blessed am I?

*

A short while later, we take the M12 metro line from Assemblée Nationale across the river and into the heart of Montmartre. The metro is busy with commuters. Logan and I huddle around a pole, and spend most of our journey making out, without a care in the world that we’re surrounded by others. After all, this is Paris, people probably see this kind of thing all the time!

In Montmartre Logan leads me through the crowded, bustling streets, and we settle into a dark corner booth of a bistro that Logan has eaten at several times before. He vouches we won’t end up with food poisoning again! The bistro has a relaxed ambience, the food is delicious, and while I’m aware that there is probably a lot more to take in from my surroundings, my attention remains where it’s been for days: on Logan.

I watch him closely; learning his mannerism, his expressions, and liking everything I see. I listen to the nuances in his voice as he talks animatedly about his work, his passion. He talks with great gusto, which is why I am surprised when he reveals he’s considering selling his company.

“But,
why
?” I ask.

“It’s doing really well,” he says, making no sense to me.

“Uh, isn’t that a good thing?” I grin, trying to understand.

“Well, yeah, but I think it might be kind of fun to start again. You know, build something from scratch?”

“Huh…Cool,” I say, adding, “If you like that kind of challenge.”

“You don’t?” he laughs at the perplexed look on my face.

“No. I’m exactly where I want to be professionally.” I feel a little something niggling at me, and say, “Except…”

“What?”

“While I love interior design, and I’m at the best company for it, under the best mentor a girl could ask for, there’s a part of me that wants to branch out into landscape design.”

Logan chuckles. “
Branch
out into landscape design?”

I grin, unaware of my pun. “It’s something I think about from time to time. Maybe I’ll look into it when I’m all grownup?” I shrug. Then I remind him, “You can’t sell Leary Constructions yet, you promised me we’d work together.”

“That’s right, I did,” he smiles. “I guess I too will have to wait ’til I’m grownup. Maybe for my next company I’ll change my name back.”

“
Back
?”

“Oh, yeah, uh,
Leary
is my mother’s maiden name. I was born Logan George, but I changed it when I moved here.”

“George…” I test the sound of it. Gemima Leary…Gemima George…Gemima get your head out of the clouds! I shake my head.
Refocus
, I tell myself.

Our dinner arrives, and I eat light, not wanting to feel too full when I’m zooming down Parisian streets later. I steal a quick glance out to the street and worry that it seems to be getting busier. How on earth can we go-kart through masses of people?
“Are there too many people out tonight?” I ask Logan.

He glances up to the crowded street as well, but then, surprisingly, he shakes his head. “There are specific streets we use. Quiet, unoccupied, and unlit ones.” He looks at me seriously and says, “The first rule of convert go-karting is that we never go down the same street twice.”

“OK,” I grin. “And I take it we’ll be climbing a lot of steep slopes?”

He nods. “A
lot
.”

“My buns are going to get a workout,” I blurt out.

“Oh, Gemima,” Logan groans, his voice aflame with sudden desire. He takes a long sip of wine, never taking his eyes off of me. “What a delicious thought to end our meal on,” he muses.

I grin again, and then eye his wine glass and before I can stop myself, I say, “Can I ask a probing question?” Suddenly my heart starts to race.

“Sure,” he chuckles.

Really, Gem? Do you
really
want to bring this up? He’s staring at me, waiting for me to speak.
Fuck it
, I think, just ask… “When you were younger…were you an addict?”

I survey his reaction carefully. He’s not angry, or embarrassed; he looks considerate. “To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t
think
I was, I think I was just an extremely self-indulgent teenager,” he tells me. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you still drink,” I point at his wine glass. “And you’re so casual and cool about it,” I hasten to add, “it’s obviously not a problem, if it ever was.”

“No, it’s not a problem,” he guarantees me. “I like wine; it’s delicious.”

“I agree.” I smile at him, happy with his reaction and response. He evidently didn’t mind my probing. My heart beats fast again but for an entirely different reason: I love him, I know I do!

“I would never smoke pot again, though,” he says thoughtfully. “Not because I think I’d get hooked, but because I think I’d throw up.”

“Some boys in high school used to smoke it; the smell always made me nauseous, too,” I tell him.

He nods his agreement, and then shudders slightly, saying, “Nope, I wouldn’t do that again. But alcohol?” he thinks back. “I did stop drinking when I first rebooted my life…maybe two or three years without a drop. But as I grew up it somehow reintegrated into my life. It hasn’t been a problem, just a pleasure.”

I nod. “Thank you for answering my question,” I say, with a smile.

“You’re welcome,” he laughs. “Am I allowed to ask about you, now?”

“Of course,” I allow.

“Have
you
ever done anything illegal, Miss. Samuels?”

Without hesitation, I remember, “I stole a packet of gum once from my local convenience store.” My face flushes, and I can’t believe it! How come I
still
feel bad about it? Time for a little self-forgiveness, Gem, I tell myself, especially considering I was only eight at the time!

“Wow…what a bitch,” Logan jokes, sending me into peels of laughter. He watches me for a long moment, before saying, “Can I ask you something else?”

“Anything,” I tell him. I want to be as open with him as he is with me.

“Well, uh, you said that you were young when your father died…” he reminds me. “How young?” he asks.

I’m caught a little off guard by the topic. I suppose he’s bound to be curious, I tell myself; I would be if one of his parents was dead. “I was four,” I reveal.

“Oh…that’s
really
young!” he says, shocked.

I nod. “Too young to know him myself, but my mom told me things growing up…I feel like I know him better through her words,” I say affectionately.

“So, she wasn’t closed-off about it?”

“No,” I shake my head. I can’t keep from laughing then, and I tell Logan, almost as a warning, “My mom’s not closed-off about
anything
.” The thought of her being so, is so bizarre to me that it’s humorous.

He smiles, enjoying my mirth. “Neither are my parents,” he confesses.

“Maybe that’s where we get our forwardness from?” I wonder.

“Maybe,” he chuckles. He clears his throat. “Now, another serious question…”

“OK,” I say, a little tentatively.

Before I can begin to wonder what he’ll ask, his face blossoms into a breathtaking smile, and my tension dies.

“Are you ready for go-karting?” he asks.

I giggle.
A serious question indeed
, I think sarcastically. “Abso-fucking-lutely!”

Logan insists he pays for dinner, playfully inferring that whenever I pay we end up with food poisoning. In our light-hearted, playful manner we take to the streets, making our way, lead by Logan, to Buddy’s apartment. It’s an unsuspecting building from the outside; only three stories high. Buddy lives at the top in his converted abode. There’s no lift and Logan offers to retrieve the go-karts by himself to give my muscles a break before the real work begins.

“Also,” he tells me, “if you come up with me Buddy will talk your ear off and we won’t get out ‘til next week.”

He leaves me with a parting kiss and I wait on the stairs. Above me I hear Logan knock and a few moments later the door creeks open.

“He’s alive!” Buddy cries enthusiastically.

“Hey, Bud,” Logan laughs.

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs, safe from your prying eyes,” he teases.

“But I
need
to give her the once-over to make sure she’s good enough for you. What if she’s a total harlot?”

“She’s
not
a harlot,” Logan insists.

Their voices become quieter as they retreat inside, and I laugh to myself on the stairs. I like the sound of Buddy; he is to Logan what Amber is to me: a true friend. Protective and loyal.

“When have you ever seen me with a harlot?” I just hear Logan say.

“I’ve barely seen you with
any
women. When can I meet her?” Buddy enquires, and then the door closes and I can hear no more.

Three minutes later the door opens and there’s a commotion as Logan leaves carrying the two go-karts.

“See you on Sunday,” he says to Buddy.

“For the last supper.”

“Yeah, thanks for that morbid thought, man,” Logan says sarcastically.

Buddy laughs. “You’re welcome. You, uh, do know that I’m gonna go watch you guys from my window right now, don’t you?”

“You never could take no for an answer.”

“It’s not in my American spirit, Loges.”

Up the stairwell I can see Logan. Suddenly Buddy’s face appears over the banister, peering down at me. He’s got a red, round face and a buzz cut.

“There she is!” he exclaims, beaming at me.

I smile back and wave up at him.

“Total babe, Loges,” he says in a loud whisper.

“I know.” As an after thought, Logan adds, “I saw her first!”

Buddy laughs. “Hey, Gemima, if you get bored with this muppet, you know where I live,” he teases Logan.

Logan appears in my view. “Don’t make me come back up there,” he jests with his friend. Then his eyes meet mine and he winks at me. Excitement shoots through my body. Jeez, he’s sexy!
Really
sexy! His biceps bulge from carrying the karts.

“Happy karting!” Buddy calls down.

“Thank you,” I say, waving goodbye.

“See you on Sunday,” Logan says again.

Once he’s at the bottom of the stairs I take one of the go-karts from Logan, and once outside, true to his word, I can see Buddy peering out from behind a curtain.

I grin up at him as he gives Logan the thumbs up. Grinning, Logan offers me his hand.

“I need two hands to carry this,” I say sheepishly, trying to disguise how heavy I really find the go-kart.

Logan’s grin widens, and then we leave Buddy’s gaze, disappearing down a side street in the direction of our starting point.

*

It’s all the fun I thought it would be, without any of the nerves. Sure, as I’m bracing myself for my first attempt I am apprehensive, my eyes swiftly scanning the road ahead for debris that might send me flying. But there is none, and any qualms evaporate within the first second of feeling the wind whip against my face. When I join Logan at the bottom of the road, where I stop my kart by pulling back tightly on the hand break, I’ve the biggest, dorkiest smile slapped across my face. Logan laughs joyfully, evidently pleased with his idea to share his favourite pastime with me. We spend the next two hours hurtling down deserted Montmartre streets at breakneck speeds. Logan and I race each other, and I’m yet to bag a win. He tells me it’s because he’s heavier than I am, the extra weight giving his kart more momentum. His words instil an idea in my mind, and at the top of the next street, Logan and I mount the same kart, me nestling onto his lap, and physics does not let us down!