The Mistake

Besides, I think my dad already likes him. He hasn’t cross-examined Logan like I expected him to, and I think he was secretly relieved when Logan cracked a joke during their introductions. My father always thought Brandon was completely lacking in personality—yep, Mr. I-teach-molecular-biology actually sat me down one day and informed me that my boyfriend was boring. Which was totally not the case. Brandon was shy, not boring. When we were alone, that boy had me doubled over in laughter.

But Dad never got to see that, and there’s no denying that Logan possesses far more confidence than Brandon ever had. Within five minutes of meeting him, Logan gave my dad a good-natured reprimand for raising me to “hate” hockey, and Dad brings that up again once we’re seated at the glass table on the deck.

“Here’s the thing, John,” he says as he cuts into his T-bone. “Gracie is smart enough to recognize the shockingly inferior level of skill that hockey demonstrates.” His eyes twinkle playfully.

Logan mock gasps. “How dare you, sir.”

“Face it, kid. Football requires a whole other level of athleticism.”

Looking pensive, my boyfriend chews a bite of his baked potato. “All right, little scenario for you. You take every guy on the Bruins roster, throw football gear on them, and stick them on the field. I guarantee you they play a solid four quarters of football and kick some serious ass.” He smirks. “Now take the Pats, slap on some skates and pads, and put them on the ice—can you honestly tell me they’d be able to play a full three periods, and do it well?”

Dad narrows his eyes. “Well, no. But that’s because a lot of them probably don’t know how to skate.”

Logan’s smile is triumphant. “But they’re operating on a superior level of athleticism,” he reminds my father. “Why can’t they skate?”

Dad sighs. “Touché, Mr. Logan. Touché.”

I snicker.

The remainder of the dinner goes the same way, animated discussions that end with one or both of them grinning. I can’t contain the burst of joy in my heart. Seeing them get along is such a relief. Now I’ve gotten the nod of approval from both my parents, whose opinions matter deeply to me.

Dad brings up my mother as the three of us clear the table. “Your mom’s thinking of coming to Hastings for Thanksgiving.”

“Really?” I’m excited by the news. “Will she stay at the inn, or here at the house?”

“Here, of course. No sense spending money on a hotel room when she has her pick of bedrooms here.” Dad balances his plate and the salad bowl in one hand so he can open the sliding door. “I was thinking of taking a few days off and driving up to Boston with her. There are some mutual friends we were talking about visiting.”

Any other child of divorce might have gotten their hopes up hearing their parents might take a road trip together, but that ship sailed a long time ago for me. I know my folks are never getting back together—they’re much happier apart—but I love that they’re still so close. Best friends, even. It’s actually kind of inspiring.

To my surprise, after we’ve thanked Dad for dinner and climbed into Logan’s pickup, my parents’ relationship is the first thing Logan comments on.

“It’s really cool that your folks remained friends after the divorce.”

I nod. “I know, right? I thank my lucky stars for it every day. I’d hate it if they were fighting all the time and using me as a pawn or something.” Then I tense, realizing that maybe the aftermath of his parents’ divorce is exactly what I’ve just described. Logan doesn’t talk about it much, and I haven’t pushed for details because it’s obvious he prefers not to discuss his family.

Especially his father. But that’s one subject I definitely don’t bring up, not for his sake, but my own. Because I’m terrified of revealing my true feelings on the matter—that I think Logan is making a huge mistake quitting hockey after graduation.

He insists that running the business and taking care of his father is what’s best for the family, but I disagree. What’s best for Ward Logan is a long stint in rehab followed by extensive addiction therapy, but hey, what do I know? A year of psych classes does not a psychologist make.

“Your dad is awesome.” Logan’s gaze is glued to the windshield, but there’s no missing the sadness in his voice. “He seems like the kind of man who’d always be there for you. You know, like he wouldn’t desert you in the hospital if you broke your ankle or something.”

His example is so alarmingly specific it makes me frown. “Did…did that happen to you?”

“No.” He pauses. “To my mom, though.”

The frown deepens. “Your father deserted her in the hospital?”

“No, not really. He—you know what, don’t worry about it. Long story.”

His hand rests on the gearshift, and I reach over and cover it with mine. “I want to hear it.”

“What’s the point?” he mumbles. “It’s in the past.”

“I still want to hear it,” I say firmly.

He lets out a weary breath. “It happened when I was seven or eight. I was in school so I didn’t see how it went down, but I heard about it from my aunt afterward. Actually, the whole neighborhood heard about it, that’s how loud she was screaming when my dad finally dragged his ass home.”