Footsteps make me alert, but I don’t move. I already know who’s coming toward me. I texted Logan about an hour ago, letting him know I’d be on the dock, waiting for him. He was working overtime on the guesthouse when Charlie and I drove up to the lake earlier today.
The past couple of weeks, things have been really good between Logan and me. We’re slowly developing into something more, which scares the hell out of me. Ever since the ice cream get-together and watching comedy at his place the next day, we’ve been inseparable. After his shift, we usually go out somewhere, whether it’s driving around, walking through the park, or just to his apartment. We’ve been spending all our free time with one another.
“Always by yourself, Jersey. I think you like being all alone,” Logan says, almost whispering. It’s so quiet it seems like more of a statement for himself than for me to hear.
“Have you not learned anything in the past couple of weeks?” Still in the same position, I tear my stare away from what could be a Van Gogh masterpiece to a uniquely Logan work of art. A smirk spreads across his gorgeously chiseled features. He lifts his hand to frame his chin, his thumb rubbing along the stubble. I’ve come to recognize this pose as his version of The Thinker.
“Well, we have been spending a lot of time together, so I guess you’re not too much of a loner.” He settles to lie down beside me, and puts his hands behind his head as well. “What are we looking at?” he asks, looking up.
I tilt my head to look up as well. “I’m admiring a Van Gogh. The Starry Night.”
He chuckles. “Oh, wait. You’re talking about that painter dude who went crazy, right?”
“Not crazy. He suffered from a mental illness, Logan.”
“Um, if memory serves me correctly, he cut off his own ear. I’m pretty sure that’s some form of crazy.”
“Yes. Yes, he did cut off his own ear,” I admit, but I don’t give in on the crazy.
“And didn’t he, like, shoot himself? That’s another form of crazy.”
“All right. Enough about Van Gogh. How was your day?” I ask, changing the topic. Obviously, this “crazy” talk and how he perceives a mental illness will only add fuel to a very small fire building within me, and I don’t want this night to go wrong. Not tonight, not with a view like this.
“Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he says nonchalantly.
“Ah.”
“Well, I was mostly thinking about you,” he confesses quietly.
“Me?” Tilting my head, I meet his gaze.
“Yeah.” He smirks, charmingly so. “I just thought about how you’ll be surrounded by so many people here today. It’s a pretty big crowd tonight.”
Right. The party, which is happening behind me and which I’ve managed to tune out for the past few hours. “It’s okay. That’s why I’m out here on the dock, away from everyone.”
“I know. But still, it’d be nice if you could interact with the crowd, maybe try to work on that shyness of yours.”
I look away. “It’s not shyness.”
“Then what is it?” I don’t answer, so he goes on, “Yet another thing you don’t want to talk about. I get it, Jersey.” His nickname for me is quite annoying, but I’m beginning to get used to it. “Fine. If you won’t talk, then we’re going to play.” He stands up, gripping my arm and lifting me in the process.
“Play? W-what are you talking about?” I stand up straight, looking up at him.
“We’re going to play beer pong.”
I widen my eyes reflexively. “I don’t drink, remember?”
“Yes, that’s why I’ll be doing the drinking.” He thumbs his chest, smiling widely at me.
I cross my arms, drop my hip, and smack my lips. “Sorry. I’ve never played before. Guess you’re out of luck.”
Logan reaches down, places both his hands on my shoulders, and smiles. “You’re gonna learn today.” He impersonates Kevin Hart. Logan takes my laugh as an okay, twists my body to face the lake house, and leads me toward the party.
The rules to beer pong—well, I think they may be made-up by the guys—are that there are two teams of two people each with six Solo cups on each end of a rectangular table. Each cup is filled halfway with beer. Each player gets one Ping-Pong ball and one throw per round. The object is to get your ball into one of the opposing team’s cups. If the other team shoots the ball into one of your cups, you have to chug that drink and vice versa. The first team to sink their ball into all the opposing team’s cups wins. The team that loses has to drink the winning team’s remaining filled cups. But there’s a catch. The losing team has to take three shots of vodka as well.
This is what I call alcohol poisoning just waiting to happen.
“All right,” Bryson announces from the other end of the table. “Since Jenna doesn’t drink, we'll shift the rules slightly. Jenna and Logan are on the same team, but Logan does all the drinking. Jenna tosses the ball. Same with Blair and me.”
Logan and I are against Blair Mega Bitch and Bryson. I’m hoping to do an amazing job because I want to beat Blair point-blank. Also, I really don’t want Logan drinking all that alcohol by himself.
“Does everyone get the rules?” Bryson yells over the loud music. Logan and I nod. So does Blair. “All right, Blair, you’re first. Do me proud, babe.”
My teeth find my inner cheek and chew as I take in every movement Blair makes. She positions her body as if she’s about to perform a squat. She puts her game face on—serious. You would think she’s in a real championship match. She lifts her hand, fingers gripping the tiny orange ball, and flexes her wrist back and forth to loosen it up.
Logan’s hand finds its way to my waist, his lips lightly brushing the curve of my ear. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll do great,” he whispers encouragingly.
By this point, our table on the deck is surrounded by partiers. And if Logan’s hand didn’t feel so damn right against my waist, I would’ve brushed it off. Instead I leave it there. Blair Mega Bitch finally tosses the ball, and I flinch as it taps the edge of one of our cups then bounces off. I smile in relief.
“It’s okay, babe. That was just a warm-up,” Bryson encourages her.
I go next and miss too. Blair and I go back and forth two more rounds, missing, until she finally makes the first shot. Logan grabs the cup and, with the ball still in it, chugs the beer down. He smiles at me, flashes a wink, and nods his head before saying, “It’s all right. I’ve played this dozens of times. It doesn’t faze me.” But it fazes me.