Chapter 38: Chapter Thirty-Eight

RAE

“Rae, can we talk about—”

“No.” I clutch Logan’s arm with one hand and shove clothes into my duffel with the other.

“Logan, can you give us—”

“Stop. I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Zoe’s misty eyes follow me as I stalk out of my bedroom. I scan the living room and kitchen for belongings I need for my stay at Logan’s. No chance I’m coming back here if I forget something.

I’ve never been so angry. Never felt so betrayed.

Zoe took matters with Logan into her own hands because she assumed I wasn’t strong enough to handle the breakup on my own.

To be fair, I wasn’t, but what I needed was a shoulder to cry on, not someone to create a new reality where Logan and I would resent each other.

The manipulation and lying were enough on their own. Her refusal to give me my phone was what really sent me over the edge.

My best friend tried to parent me like I was a misbehaving teenager. Not only did she confiscate my phone, but she also wouldn’t give me the opportunity to explain why I needed it.

The situation shouldn’t have come to that; I shouldn’t have to justify my decision to use my own fucking phone, but I ~did~ explain, and she entirely disregarded what I told her.

People have always felt weirdly protective over me. I mean, I get it. I’m shy. I’m indecisive. I clam up and get anxious, and sometimes I’m too sad to get out of bed.

While I see where they’re coming from and recognize that they usually have good intentions, their protectiveness isn’t warranted. Anxiety and depression don’t mean there’s anything wrong with my judgment.

I’m perfectly capable of making the right choices for myself. As unbelievable as it is to my parents and apparently Zoe, I tend to be the one who knows what’s best for me.

You know, on account of me being myself and everything.

I put up with the protectiveness most of the time. Grin and bear it. But it’s not worth the conflict.

This time, it is. Zoe meddled in my relationship. She wasn’t protecting me from anything.

She went behind the scenes and pulled the strings like a puppet master. She fucked with me, she fucked with Logan, and she fucked with Logan’s dad.

I can’t forgive that now. Not yet.

“Rae, I think we should talk before you leave,” she says firmly.

“I need some time to cool off.”

“What, you’re just going to move in with Logan rather than talk it out with me?” she snaps.

There she is, back on her manipulation game, trying to sow discomfort between Logan and me.

She thinks that if she makes us uncomfortable with the idea of living together, I’ll stay behind and let her talk me out of my anger. I flush because it’s working. I’m uncomfortable.

Her tactics aren’t so successful with Logan. “If Rae were moving in, she’d have a lot more than just one bag,” he says coolly. “Excuse us.”

He walks straight at her, and she has no choice but to step aside and allow us out the door.

Call me petty, but I’m feeling just a little smug that, for once, she’s not getting what she wants when it comes to my life choices.

***

Logan’s dad isn’t doing well. The drugs the CX Health researchers gave him left him blind and covered in rashes.

He’s bedridden, and from what I can infer from Logan’s phone calls I’ve overheard (unintentionally, of course), I think he will be for the rest of his life.

Mr. Quincy arrived back in the U.S. two days ago. Today, he’s coming home. Logan coordinated with a hospice provider to turn a wing of their house into a mini-hospital.

He’s been arranging everything. I would have thought that would fall on his mom, but she hasn’t been functional since Mr. Quincy received his diagnosis.

I don’t know how he’s doing it all. I’d be a wreck, but I suppose that’s where Logan and I differ. He steps up when the going gets tough. I shut down.

Mr. Quincy has crazy-high expectations for his son, so I think Logan feels like he’s honoring his father’s wishes by taking everything on himself.

I’m going with Logan to see Mr. Quincy today. I’m fucking petrified, but I’m determined to keep the fear off my face.

Having to mask your emotions is high up on the list of shitty things about anxiety and depression. Supporting people on their darkest days is extra difficult because most of your days are dark.

You expend a ton of energy hiding your sadness and stress when you’d rather be using it for comfort. You try not to focus on the fact that you’re not fully there for them because that just exerts ~more~ effort.

It’s exhausting, an internal battle that doesn’t reach a ceasefire until you’re long removed from the situation.

Which is why I chugged a venti iced coffee with two espresso shots within ten minutes. I nearly spit out the last sip when we pull up to Logan’s parents’ house—no, not ~house~, mansion.

There’s an actual fountain in the front yard, smack dab in the middle of the circular driveway that curves up to the front door, hotel-style.

A valet stand wouldn’t look out of place here. The fountain is marble, the same off-white as the brick that comprises the massive house perched boastfully behind it.

Logan parks and holds my hand as we step between two pillars that hold the light gray shingled roof over their porch. “Welcome,” he says dryly.

“This is beautiful, Logan,” I gasp.

“Mom had an eye for design.”

~Had~. I don’t miss the past tense, but I don’t ask. Now is definitely not the time.

A plump woman with graying hair and warm, blue eyes is waiting at the door when Logan pushes it open. I have to admit, I’m surprised by Logan’s mother’s appearance.

She’s wearing yoga pants and a bright pink “Greetings from Hawaii” tee.

I always imagined Logan having a stiff upbringing with parents who constantly donned country club attire, but Mrs. Quincy looks a whole lot like my mom, who’s just about the cheeriest person in the world.

“Logan!” Mrs. Quincy wraps him in a hug before turning to me and grinning ear to ear. “You must be Rae.”

I stick out my hand and start to say that it’s lovely to meet her, but she pulls me in for a tight embrace and says that I’m even more beautiful than Logan described.

Then, she pretends to whack Logan’s arm.

“I believe I told you Rae’s the most beautiful woman in the world, Yvette,” Logan laughs. “What more were you expecting?”

~Yvette~? I’m blushing hard while trying to figure out who this woman is.

Apparently not Mrs. Quincy. An aunt, maybe? I wish Logan would have warned me this visit was going to involve extended family. I need another coffee, stat.

“I’m Yvette. I’ve been cooking for the Quincys since this one was in diapers,” she says.

~Logan had (has?) a chef~?!

“I have Yvette to thank for my love of cooking,” Logan adds.

“Thank you,” I blurt out. Oh, God. Weird thing to say. Must clarify. “I mean, thanks for teaching him. I’m really bad at cooking, so I would probably starve without him.”

~Oh, God. Now Yvette is going to think I’m incapable of caring for myself. The food version of a gold-digger. A food-digger~.

Yvette tosses her head back when she laughs, just like Logan does. I’m starting to wonder if Yvette was (is?) a mother figure for Logan.

Logan unlaces his fingers from mine and wraps his arm around my waist instead, pulling me close.

“See? I told you she’s funny,” he says, grinning. Then, his face falls. “How are Mom and Dad?”

“Your dad’s sleeping. Your mom just woke up. She’s in there with him.” Yvette’s shoulders heave in a silent sigh.

“Is Mom…” Logan runs his free hand through his hair.

“She’ll be glad to see you. Even if she doesn’t show it.”

Logan nods and takes my hand again. “Ready?”

“Sure. Okay. Yeah.” ~Deep breath~. “It was nice to meet you, Yvette.”

“The pleasure’s all mine. I’ll see you for lunch.”

I stare at my feet, determined not to trip, as we ascend the sweeping staircase. I don’t fall, luckily, though my legs nearly give out when I realize what Logan meant by “wing” of his house.

I figured he was talking about a bedroom refurnished into a hospice. No. He meant an actual wing—as in, you turn the corner to get there, and there are multiple rooms—on the second story.

He leads me through the second door on the right—there are three!—into a spacious room filled with medical equipment, recliners, and a hospital bed, where Mr. Quincy is asleep, snoring lightly, dressed in khakis and a polo.

If you ignore the monitor with vitals, IV protruding from his arm, and oxygen tube, which is exactly what I’m trying to do, he could be napping after a long day at the office.

“Hello!” comes a voice from beside Logan.

I tear my eyes from Mr. Quincy to see a woman in scrubs. She’s smiling, but not in a cheesy, trying-too-hard way. She’s radiating the same warmth as Yvette.

That should relieve me of some stress, but it just ups my anxiety. Social stakes are higher when you’re interacting with kind people.

I can forgive myself for being awkward in front of jerks because they don’t deserve positive social interactions. Nice people ~do~ deserve them, and being incapable of giving one makes me feel guilty as hell.

I don’t know why I didn’t anticipate meeting anyone besides Logan’s parents. I’m not prepared for this, but I need to stay strong for Logan. Now isn’t the time to panic.

Both Logan and the woman look at ease, and they’re caring for a cancer patient. ~Get your shit together, Rae. Be strong like Logan~.

“Hey, Sam. How was the transition?” Logan says, his tone serious but friendly.

“Eric was eager to get home. First thing he did was change into his golfing clothes. He’s a bit tuckered out now, but he got to spend a few minutes with Lorraine before they fell asleep.”

Logan sighs. “Did you see where my mom went?”

“She’s here. She’s still waking up.” Sam clears her throat. “Lorraine?”

An armchair spins slowly, revealing a stick-thin, pale woman who might be more fragile than Mr. Quincy. “Logan,” she whispers.

Logan’s demeanor completely changes. His shoulders sink. His face falls. His fingers loosen against mine, like he forgot we were holding hands. He probably did.

He’s not even looking at his dad anymore. He’s just staring at Mrs. Quincy, a blank expression on his face.

“Hi, Mom. How are you doing?” Each word comes out slowly, like he’s speaking to someone who’s learning English.

“Glad he’s home.” Her voice is soft and shaky, but not the way mine is. Mrs. Quincy doesn’t sound shy. She sounds defeated.

“Me too. I want to introduce you to someone. This is Rae. Rae, this is my mom.”

Mrs. Quincy doesn’t move from her chair, so I awkwardly step closer and stick out my hand. It lingers in the air until I let it drop back to my side.

I don’t think she even noticed the gesture. She just studies my face and says, “Lorraine.”

“It’s, um, ni—wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Quincy,” I say, forcing as much positivity into my voice as possible while I stumble over the right adjective to describe meeting her.

I don’t want to sound overly cheery, but I definitely cannot allow anxiety and sadness to seep into my tone. It’s one or the other for me, pretty much. I’m not great with nuance. Not when it comes to socializing.

I don’t expect a response, and I don’t receive one. Weirdly, I’m not offended. As a matter of fact, I’m relieved.

Relieved that Mrs. Quincy doesn’t feel obligated to waste her energy pretending to be happy to meet her son’s girlfriend when her husband is dying in the same room.

Logan breaks the silence. “Have you talked to Sam yet?” His voice is sharper now, but he’s still annunciating each word like he’s a tired but patient ESL teacher.

Mrs. Quincy (Lorraine?) doesn’t answer. After what feels like ten years, Sam responds. “We decided we’d wait for you. Do you want to spend some time with your father, or is now good?”

“Now works. Before she falls asleep again,” Logan mutters.

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll meet you in the sitting room. I just need to talk to Rae for a minute.”

I follow Logan into the hallway, pretending not to hear Sam coaxing Mrs. Quincy from her chair. My heart crumbles. ~God~. I knew she wasn’t doing well, but I hadn’t expected this.

“My mother was supposed to discuss Dad’s prognosis and treatment plan with Sam—she’s a nurse with the hospice—this morning. I don’t know why the fuck I thought she actually would.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry, Rae. I’m going to have to handle some things for an hour or two. ~Fuck~. I shouldn’t have…” He sighs angrily.

“There’s a TV in my old bedroom if you want, or I’m sure Yvette would love to get to know you. No pressure. I don’t want to make you anxious. I know this isn’t easy.”

“I’d love to chat with Yvette as long as I’m not interrupting her making lunch or anything,” I reply.

The idea of talking to Yvette by myself fills me with anxiety, but right now is the time to set aside as much of my own stress as possible.

I have a feeling getting to know Yvette will mean a lot to Logan. I’m in his family’s home, and I think she might be the only person he considers family.

And so, I go locate Yvette and ask how she’s doing.