I really want to hear his voice
, I think. I’ll call him after my cup of tea, I decide, though I should probably hold off until lunchtime. He’s not expecting my call before then and he’s probably rushed off his feet down in Marseille. Despite his busyness though, I know he would want me to call him, especially given the way that I’m feeling.
Soon
, I think again. I just want to sit here a little longer…
I give Layla a small smile when she appears in the doorway with my tea a moment later. I have the distinct impression that she’s in her element this morning. She likes to be needed, likes to feel important and part of the action, and definitely
loves
being the centre of Amélie’s attention. Observing her frequent glances at Mrs. Clémence and noticing the way that she lights up when she’s praised is actually a nice distraction. I suspect that she could distract me even further if I were to ask for her version of how the double date went, but when Amélie follows her back into the room, I decide against it.
“Thank you, Layla,” I say, accepting the mug and taking a long, hot swig. Was it the British who said that tea could solve any problem? They may have been onto something; it’s exactly the soothing comfort that I need right now, second only maybe to Logan’s secure embrace.
I don’t know if it’s the physical properties of the tea or just my mental perception of what it will do for me, but either way it calms me, so much so that I am able to convince Amélie that I can return to work. I have every intention of doing so, right after a much needed visit to the bathroom to wash my mascara-covered face.
Jeez
, I look a mess, I think, surveying my reflection in the mirror. Of all the possible ways for my week to begin, wiping mascara off of my cheeks before noon wasn’t what I expected, I muse sardonically. I keep cleaning my face until I am entirely makeup free, and then I leave my station at the sinks, and settle at last behind desk.
I move the bouquet of flowers to one side, giving me more space to riffle through my project folders until I come to the Leary Constructions one. I open it with haste, finding the contact page easily and I reach my hand out to pick up the phone when it starts ringing against my palm.
“Gemima Samuels, how may I help you?” I answer automatically.
“Gem?” my mom’s panicked voice issues down the line.
“Mom, I’m OK,” I tell her quickly, as she’s evidently in the know about what’s happened, though I can’t work out how.
Is it already in the news
, I wonder.
Putting an end to my wondering, my mom says, “Your boss left a message for me at the salon. What happened?” she shrieks.
I lounge back in my chair, close my eyes and spend five minutes talking her through my morning, after which we spend the best part of the next hour recounting the day my father died. I tell her about the new memories from that day, and the distinct feeling of something forcing me out of the elevator earlier, and we toy with the affectionate idea that it could be him, looking out for me, even now. I somehow don’t mind the lunacy of the thought; it’s comforting and serves as an explanation for what I felt, albeit a farfetched one.
By the time we hang up it’s just shy of lunchtime, which means that I’ve unintentionally waited until the opportune moment to call Logan. Or so I assume. I finally dial his number, reiterating my mental note to memorise it as soon as humanly possible.
It rings for a long time, before the voice I’ve been craving to hear all morning, says to me, “It’s a bit late to call me now.”
That
’
s a weird thing to say
, I think immediately. I’m quick to recheck the time — it’s not late at all — and I’m about to say something when I realise that the phone is
still
ringing. What the hell is going on? I stare at the receiver, bemused. Then I look up from my desk and feel like every ounce of my being lights up when I see Logan standing in the doorway of reception.
He’s
here
? My mouth drops open; he’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be four hundred miles away!
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly, the sight of him putting me at ease for possibly the first time since he left my bed this morning.
He doesn’t say anything to me, his eyes simply scan my face conveying a strange mixture of emotion as they do so. He looks relieved
and
angry, I realise. Why?
What the hell is going on
, I wonder once more.
“Where the fuck have you been all morning? Where’s your phone?” he asks me tersely.
Uh… I stare from Logan’s mobile which is vibrating in his hand, back to the receiver before I finally put it down. “I’ve been here,” I tell him, puzzled by his words. “My phone’s at home. I forgot it this morning and couldn’t go back for it. Logan today has been a nightmare,” I say, getting to my feet and joining him on the other side of my desk. I’m about to hug him, but his next words stop me in my tracks.
“For you and me both,” he says, unable to hide his anger.
I stare at him in confusion. He then strides forward, takes me by the hand and pulls me into the nearby meeting room. It
would
remind me of last Monday if his mood weren’t so sour. I highly doubt that he’s come here now to seduce me.
Once we’re in the privacy of the room, he tries to release my hand but I hold onto it.
“What do you mean —
you and me both
? What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He stares down at me with serious eyes before they abruptly soften. He unexpectedly pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms firm and safe, his face buried into my hair, as he breathes me in. Confused as I am, I take a deep breath too and melt into his arms, and for a moment, just one brief moment, everything feels perfect.
And then Logan murmurs, “I’m so fucking mad right now.” Immediately his body changes, hardens, becomes less Logan-like.
“Yeah, I got that,” I mutter against his chest. I then push myself away from him. “Why?” I want to know. “I thought you were in Marseille all day?”
“Oh, I was in Marseille, until I thought you were dead…” he says dramatically.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he come all of this way to play some strange trick on me?
“
What
?” I exclaim. Why on earth would he think that?
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me, Gemima?” Logan asks heatedly.
“I…I was just about to,” I mumble, quite possibly feeling more confused than at any other single point in my life before this.
“It’s too late now,” he says, his voice loud.
I narrow my eyes at him, my irritation growing exponentially. This is not the Logan that I’ve spent the morning longing to speak to. “Yes, you already
said
that,” I remind him, an edge to my voice. “What you haven’t explained is why.”
“Why?” he asks in disbelief, as though I’m purposefully acting clueless.
“Yes,
why
? Why are you here? Why would you think that I was
dead
? And why are you speaking to me like this?”
“Because you should have damn called me, Gemima!” Logan shouts.
“
Why
?
Why
should I have called you?” I shout back. Surely, that’s not such a hard fucking question to answer? “I told you that I would call you at lunchtime and I was just about to, so what is the fucking problem?”
Now Logan looks at me as though I’ve just slapped him across the face. “You’re being obtuse, and I don’t know why,” he says slowly.
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“No,” he growls angrily, “I won’t excuse you.”
What in the name of
fuck
is going on right now, I ask myself. Why’s he being like this? If he’s not going to tell me then maybe I can work it out for myself, my inner-sleuth thinks. He was in Marseille…but now he’s here…he’s angry that I didn’t call him…and he thought that I was dead?
I just can’t believe he’s being serious — that makes no sense! The only death today has been…
“You heard about the shooting,” I finally realise. Did he think
I
died? Why the fuck would he think
that
?
Logan rolls his eyes at me as though him hearing about the shooting was entirely obvious.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t speak petulance,” I shout at him. “You can either explain what you’re doing here, or you can get out,” I give him his options.
“I heard about the shooting,” he finally admits.
“OK, so?” I need more of an explanation than that, but unable to help myself, I tell him, “It obviously wasn’t me who got shot.” I hold my arms wide, showing him my bullet-free body.
“Don’t be so facetious,” he says, as though I’ve said something truly distasteful.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes.
Big word
,
Logan
.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Gemima?” he yells.
I put my face in my hands in an attempt to hold onto my sanity. I have
no
idea why he’s so mad.
What am I missing
? My patience for figuring out whatever it is, is waning fast.
Logan pulls my hands down so that I have to look at him, and says, “You really have no idea why I came back, do you?” he asks, somehow looking as bewildered as I feel. How have we managed to confound each other so completely? Why can’t he just answer my questions?
“No, I don’t,” I confess. “But as you just pointed out, I’m obtuse, so…” I shrug.
“Just
think
about it,” Logan says through gritted teeth.
I’m about to, honestly, I am. But then my inner-bitch steps forward and puts her foot down. “Logan, I’m exhausted,” I tell him. “Today has
not
been a good day. I was happy to see you only a few moments ago, but now I’m nothing but pissed off. I really don’t appreciate you coming to work for the apparent sole purpose of making me feel stupid. You’ve seen that I’m not dead,”
I still don’t believe he’s serious about that
, I think, “so if you’re not going to explain yourself, then I think you should go,” I say firmly. “The rest of your name-calling can wait until this evening,” I can’t stop myself from adding.
He stares at me incredulously, his chest rising and falling fast. He holds his stubbled jaw tensely, his lips pursed, his dimples nowhere in sight. His pale-green eyes look darker than they usually do, as if copying his mood. He’s never looked at me like this before, with anger instead of adoration, and his body language has never been so rigid and closed off around me; I don’t like it, not one part of it.
“Fine,” Logan says eventually. “I’ll see you later,” he tells me shortly as he walks out of the room.
Immediately I turn my back to the door, leaning into the table for support, my whole body feeling weak. My bottom lips begins to tremble and it doesn’t take long for tears to seep from my eyes.
I just don
’
t understand
, I wreck my brain for an answer as I stand, bawling. I’m not usually one to indulge in feeling sorry for myself, but right now I could throw myself one hell of a pity-party.
It’s only now that I realise that my heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, and that nauseous feeling is back. I need another cup of tea, or five, and some peace and quiet to try and figure out what’s just happened here. Surely the phrase
WTF
has never been more warranted?
Why would he be so cold? Or angry? Why would he jump to such ridiculous conclusions about my mortality and then refuse to explain himself? This is so
not
the way we should be with each other given that I’ve been wearing my engagement ring for less than one day. But how else
should
I have reacted? His words just didn’t make sense. I told him that I would call him at lunchtime, so why was he so insistent that I ring sooner? And, for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t he just explain himself instead of insulting my intelligence? It’s bizarre. He’s usually so articulate, but not today. And his words are almost always endearing or rousing in some fashion, but
definitely
not today.
Fuck
, I scream in my mind for possibly the fiftieth time today.
Outside the meeting room I hear footsteps walking past. I pull myself together, pronto, sniffing my nose and drying my eyes and forbidding anymore tears to fall.
Come on
,
Gem
,
function properly
. I leave the room with my head down, purposefully avoiding contact with any other living thing as the mortifying thought occurs to me that Logan and I could have been overheard, given the open door. As if collapsing in a fit of tears and then holding the boss and the receptionist emotionally hostage for most of the morning isn’t enough to embarrass me for one day, Logan just had to start yelling at me too.
Fan
-
fucking
-
tastic
!
I stare at the open Leary Constructions folder on my desk as I sit behind it once more. My sadness and confusion quickly transmutes into anger as I close the project folder and drop it inanely onto the floor behind me. I don’t then take the opportunity to distract myself with work. Instead I decide to stay in a foul mood for the entire afternoon, grumbling under my breath about my fiancé while the song
I Don
’
t Like Mondays
plays on a loop in my head.
The more that I think-over our last conversation, the angrier I become with Logan. Any normal person might spot this pattern and put a stop it it, but, of course, I don’t. If he knows about the shooting then surely he could realise that I haven’t had the best walk down memory lane today? Surely he could show a little compassion rather than animosity? I ask myself over and over what the hell is going on, but the hours of questioning leave me with nothing but a headache.
Sometime after four PM, I realise that the pain in my head is also partly caused by hunger; I haven’t eaten since breakfast, all of which I then threw up. In the kitchenette of Pierson House I commit workplace treason. I find and wolf down a large raspberry muffin that does not belong to me. My reason for doing so — that I’m hungry, and that being caught couldn’t possibly make this day any worse — is testament to how unlike myself I’m feeling, and acting.
I
’
ll replace it tomorrow
, I think, trying to regain my usual conscience.