"Sun's up, It's a little after twelve, Make breakfast for myself, Leave the work for someone else, People say, They say that it's just a phase, They tell me to act my age, Well, I am!, On this perfect day, Nothing's standing in my way, On this perfect day, When nothing can go wrong

The warm California sun nudges against his eyelids, and Logan Echolls' sleep-soaked brain stretches awake one neuron at a time. His limbs lazily follow. Pillowing his head deeper into fluffy clouds of organic cotton, he lets the rays warm his face, the soft rippling sound of his gossamer curtains drift over him.

The comfort–the safety–of his room, the distance from his father, warms him as thoroughly as the afternoon sun. It never gets old.

His mom says sleeping in is a phase, perfectly natural for a boy his age. He prefers to think of it as the lifestyle choice of a man. His tendency towards indulgence and impulsivity is inborn, but this? He's earned his leisure.

Out from under his father's thumb, away from his punishing hand, but within reach of his mother's well-intentioned nagging. His time at UCLA has been the making of him.

The first two years of college had come with, what he considered, an acceptable amount of peace. No cataloging of injuries before passing out. No blinding pain startling him awake. No useless maternal weeping at his bedside. No eggshells. No hoops suspended over fire. Freedom. Accented by readily available booze and willing women.

Then she walked into his life, and everything changed.

Lillian Kane did not suffer fools or cheaters; he's made damn sure he is neither. If college made him, wove the fabric of his being with threads of security and autonomy, then his relationship with Lilly is what caused that fabric to take form, become something useful, functional, worthwhile. She accepted him for who he was. She never tried to change him or push him, and somehow, it made him want to be better. For her.

He'd read books, he followed blogs, he got clean—body and mind.

Sure, he schedules all his classes for late afternoon, but he passes, and passes them well. And okay, he still drinks, but now he does it as much for the taste, the pleasure of an interesting cocktail, as for the buzz. And he's responsible—If Lilly has one too many, he switches to water. He's as faithful as the summer sun, and in return she's given him everything. Meaning, purpose, loyalty, love. He lives a charmed life and he refuses to fuck it up. Where else would he find a woman with the dimples of an angel, the eyes of a witch, and a mouth made for sin?

At the thought of that mouth, teasing and sly, he rolls onto his back, and, with a brief thanks to his single room and late classes, his hand takes a leisurely stroll under the covers.

Down his sternum...

Her body, soft as silk.

...over well-honed abs...

The way she watches him as she teases him with her tongue. The smug set to her mouth when he fists his hands in her hair.

...dipping under the elastic band of his—

"Oof!" he gasps through a surely-broken rib. "Fancy, get off me!"

Spell broken, Logan shoves nine pounds of extremely fluffy Khao Manee off his chest. Leaning into the momentum, Fancy sails gracefully over his side, landing in the miniscule space between Logan and the edge of the mattress with only the faintest of wobbles. Her bottom drops down, and she tilts her head at him so regally that an apology instantly perches on his tongue.

"Stupid cat."

Bestowing a graceful meow upon him, Fancy nuzzles her nose against his arm, and his heart melts. Who's he kidding? He loves this damn cat.

Burying his hands in her fur, he sits up. He tells people he rescued her, but really, she saved him, made those last few years at home bearable. Fancy was the first female who ever loved him unconditionally, until Lilly. Even if they don't exactly get along, he plans to be with them both for a very long time, and he's finally got the ring to prove it. He just needs the outfit to match.

Fashion is about more than clothes. It does more than set the stage; sometimes it facilitates the outcome.

Rolling out of bed and into the warm slippers Fancy thinks are pillows, his kitty shaped heater circles the dent left in his wake and curls up for a nap.

In two quick steps, he's in his ruthlessly organized walk-in closet and selecting his wardrobe for the afternoon. Pairing a deceivingly simple black tee with slim cut, dark wash Alexander McQueen's, he dons deep pumpkin dress socks–for the secret thrill of it–and slides into tan leather Sperrys. Stepping back, he weighs the final result in the full length mirror behind the door. Perfect. A blank slate. The optimal shopping attire.

Plucking his phone from the nightstand, he dials back up.

Duncan Kane—frat brother, best friend, and soon-to-be brother-in-law—answers on the first ring.

"Jackass. You're upstairs. You couldn't walk the hundred feet to the living room?"

"Nope." Logan sinks onto the unkempt comforter one of the pledges will straighten after he leaves. Fancy snuggles up next to him. "Get dressed, I need new clothes."

"Of course you do. What's up?"

Logan gazes through his bedroom window. Bright green palms stretch up to brush clear blue, a bird's song carries on the wind. His lips curve. "Mom gave me the ring. I'm going to ask Lilly next week."

Logan waits a beat. Two. "Duncan?"

"Here, sorry. Um, did you talk to Lilly about it first?"

"That's not how proposals work."

"Maybe not with normal girls, but, uh, this is Lilly. You know how my sister is, man."

Logan flops on his back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. "Gee, could you vague that up for me?"

"What's the rush, anyway? When she's in law school, you won't even see her."

Shows how much he knows. Lilly's not even sure if she wants to go to law school. "She'll be home on breaks."

"Yeah, but she'll mostly be gone. You still have time to sow some wild oats."

"I would never cheat on Lilly." Where's this coming from?

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't," Duncan mutters.

Logan forces his grip on the phone to relax. He might still be a jackass, but what does he have to do to prove he's not the same jackass who fucked his way through freshman and sophomore year?

"Just get your ass ready, we're going shopping." Throwing his cell onto the nightstand, he watches it skid across the wood, knocking the framed picture of him and Lilly to the floor. The glass shatters, and the birds outside scatter, taking their song with them.

The silence in the car is deafening. His best friend is suddenly Hellen Keller pre-Anne Sullivan, and the cut on Logan's finger is throbbing. Of all the injuries he has sustained in his life, somehow it was these little, seemingly inoffensive cuts that hurt the most. Some days he thinks he'd rather take a punch to the face than suffer the indignity of a papercut. He should have let the pledges clean up the frame.

Steering one handed, Logan flexes his bandaged finger for some relief.

"What happened to your finger?"

A gasp tears from Logan's throat as he slaps his injured hand against his chest. "Duncan! When did you get here?"

"Shut up."

"And wow, two whole words. To what do I owe the honor?"

Duncan just sighs. "Sorry, I've been distracted. Finals coming up."

Logan slants him a look. Since when does Duncan freak about finals? Guiding the Beamer into the gravel driveway of a modest brick house, Logan shifts into park.

Duncan's attention remains trained out the front window, his profile unreadable.

This is about Lilly. It has to be. Duncan is a sharer. More than once Logan has suggested Duncan purchase a journal as an alternative to his ears. The only time Duncan clams up is when it comes to his sister. Oh, it's under the veneer of "staying out of it," but Logan knows better.

Engine running, he drums his uninjured hand against the wheel as he tries to find the right words.

"Duncan—"

"Logan—"

They peer at each other. Duncan makes an 'after you' gesture.

Dropping his hands to his lap, Logan shifts to Duncan. They're friends; more than that, they're about to be family. Family–this type of family, the type you create–matters. Enough to be uncomfortable, enough to clear the air. Logan unhooks his seatbelt, blows out a breath.

"I know, okay?"

"You do." Duncan blinks. "You do?"

Of course he does. It's written all over Duncan's face.

"I know you don't think I'm good enough for her. I was a fuck up when we first met. I—It was obvious that you didn't think much of me, but I think… no, I know I've changed. We're friends now. Brothers. You can see that I've changed, right? And I promise you," he rushes before Duncan can answer, "I'm not going to hold her back. I know she might go to law school, and I plan to wait. There's no one else for me."

"I don't think that." Duncan closes his eyes briefly, then his gaze meets Logan's. "What you said. That you're not, you know, good enough for her. It's just… Lilly isn't….you're good for her, man." Duncan searches for further words, then settles on clearing his throat and examining the brick house. "So, uh, that's a store?"

Logan's eyes remain on Duncan. Maybe Duncan's lying, or maybe he did get that journal and doesn't need to talk it out. Either way, they're getting dangerously close to braiding each other's hair here.

Shutting the car off, Logan hops out. "Come on. It's by appointment only, and we're early so we might have to wait."

After a beat, footsteps crunch on the driveway behind him.

"You?" Duncan jogs up behind him, and they climb the short steps to the front door together. "Wait?"

"My lot in life. Lord, how I suffer." He steels himself as they approach the unassuming white door, quickly covering his unease by shoving his hands in his pockets.

"What's up?"

Not quickly enough, apparently. But… isn't that what family does? Notice the little and the big? It's comforting. And annoying.

"Nothing," he replies. "Distracted. Finals."

Duncan gives him a measured look, then shrugs. "Fair enough."

Behind all that crisp, white paint, the shabby brick, and the dull black shutters, lies a hidden gem. It's more than worth the price of admission—that little piece of well-being that unravels every time he enters. He hasn't fallen apart yet. Shaking it off, he opens the door and lets Duncan through, seeing the store through his friend's eyes.

At some point, the entire first floor had been gutted and outfitted to resemble a massive gentleman's closet with a dedicated section to everything a man would ever need. Suits, casual wear, shoes...belts. It was very cleverly done, with each and every crevice lavishly lined with cedar. His father favored cedar closets as well.

Crossing the threshold, he lets the heavy aroma of it wind around him, testing his fight response. He breathes through his mouth, and it sticks in his throat. Does that make it better or worse? He's never sure.

"Go, browse." He pushes Duncan towards the casual section. "Find the most boring polo shirts in existence."

Duncan shoves him back, and Logan forces himself not to flinch. It's a store, just a store. Only cedar. The whiff of sharp leather, metallic blood, the sound Aarons cackle over his cries of pain are in his imagination, that's all. It will pass, it always does.

Wheeling around a corner, he bumps straight into a sales associate.

"Do you have an appointment?"

Stepping back, Logan's vision fills with a poor man's Justin Bieber, his nose sky high under the mop of hair. Logan's eyes flick to the kids' name tag. Piz.

"I take it your mom wasn't a fan?"

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. I'm expected."

"Can I help you?" Piz sneers.

"No thanks, dude."

JB-wannabe narrows his eyes and stalks off without another word.

Someone could use some Prozac or some pussy. Either way, not his problem. Browsing to pass the time until his appointment, Logan almost sighs when the salesman returns, holding a leather jacket aloft with the utmost reverence, disdain lurking under his genial smile.

Logan sees him coming from a mile away.

"Dude," the salesman enthuses, suddenly affable, full of warmth, and, apparently, from the Valley. "Did you, like, see this one, dude? We just got it in yesterday." He indicates the jacket. "It would look, like, totally awesome on you."

Piz is earnest now, eager even, but there's a meanness lurking under the geniality that reminds Logan too much of his father. What the hell. He's in the mood to play.

Fingering the cuff of the leather jacket, Logan tilts his head. "Is this full grain leather?"

"Wha-? Uh, yes. Of course!"

"With a hundred percent cotton stitching on the trim?"

"Absolutely, my dude." Piz's posture eases, confident he's hooked prey. "It's one of a kind."

"Mmm." Logan drops the sleeve. "You can't use cotton thread on full grain leather. The tannins in the fabric would erode the stitching. And you didn't just get this in. My father wore it in last June's Vogue, so if you're trying to sell it to me at full price, you picked the wrong guy….Dude."

As Piz's face contorts, Logan's gem appears.

"Mr. Echolls!" She glides right past Piz's furious, pink face. "Our mistake. Piznarski, take your break."

Piz's mouth tightens, but Mac simply hands him a bright red sales tag with an expression that's a little too triumphant to be a smile. "You left this on your register. You should be more careful."

Piz snatches the tag from Mac. Together, they watch him scurry off.

When he's gone, Mac swivels back to Logan. "Welcome back to Ryan Cindy, Mr. Echolls!"

Logan Echolls has known Cindy 'Mac' Mackenzie for six years. Ever since she transferred from the hellmouth to Loyola High School. She zeroed in on him immediately. A nondescript girl with an excellent suede jacket and a promise of an 'exclusive shopping experience,' in exchange for the lay of the land and a seat at the golden table.

At twenty, she'd given up her dreams of tech stardom to run her father's store after the stroke. Now, at twenty two, she was cool, confident, and composed. Professional. Butter wouldn't melt. But Logan Echolls has known Cindy 'Mac' Mackenzie for six years. Under the skin of the sweet-faced woman still lies the crafty girl who'd marked her target and aimed.

"You saw us come in."

Mac shrugs delicately. "It's entirely possible."

He shakes his head at her as Duncan ambles over.

"Hey, that guy seemed nice. What's the deal?"

"He sure likes to think so. That color is washing you out." Leaving Duncan to frown down at his baby blue polo, Mac gives her attention to Logan. "What do you need today, Logan?"

Ducking his head, he grins bashfully. "I'm going to propose to Lilly next week. I need a new outfit. To, uh, seal the deal."

Mac's expression slips into concern. "Logan….Are you sure?"

His grin falls. Mac has a wonderful knack for selecting the perfect outfit, and a bad habit of commenting on his life. He glances at Duncan who takes a sudden, keen interest in a white Oxford a few feet away. Must be going around.

"Yes," he replies shortly.

"I just mean…" She bites her lip. "Are you sure she's good enough for you?" She finishes lamely.

"Yes." He can read the subtext, and he's done with it. Six years doesn't give her the right. The only opinion that actually matters is Lilly's. Shoving his hands in his pockets he scans the room. "Duncan!"

Duncan holds up the oxford. "Does this wash me out, too?"

"You still have that connection at The Oyster Bar?"

"Yeah."

"Make a dinner reservation. I need to skip the waitlist. I'm proposing tonight."

"Uh, sure, man." He quickly returns to his shopping.

Mac raises a hesitant hand to Logan's arm. "Logan, I just want you to be happy."

Shrugging her off, he breaks away from the enormity of compassion emanating from her. "Your job is to find me an outfit. We're not exchanging friendship bracelets here, so how about you stay out of it?"

Immediately, Mac's face smooths, her eyes chill, her voice is icier than the five carat diamond in his pocket. "Alright then, Mr. Echolls. I'll meet you up there."

She cruises to the stairs where the dressing area is. Where she always keeps a selection of their best pieces in his signature color. Where she's sure to have arranged a plate of macaroons because he told her once, three years ago, that they were his favorite and she's kept them stocked ever since. Fuck.

Dragging his hands across his face, Logan regroups. He'll apologize later, when the headache screaming its way to existence fades, and the air isn't fucking choking him.

Pissed or not, Mac had handed him the perfect outfit. Tossed it at him, actually, but that's neither here nor there. The point is, it's perfect, and Lilly is perfect. They'll remember this night for the rest of their lives.

"Please stop that incessant drumming."

Shit.

Logan's fingers freeze on the steering wheel. "Sorry."

The corner of the ring box pokes his left leg as his foot involuntarily picks up the beat. He presses his Italian leather soles down firmly on the side of the footwell.

"Um…." He searches his mind for something, anything, to say. "I talked to my dad last night. He's hounding me about my options after graduation again."

"You'll figure it out," Lilly breezes, pulling the visor down to check her lipstick.

She was amazing like that. She never interfered, never thought he was going to fail. She never embarrassed him by following up, pressing him for more information. Lilly trusted him to figure things out for himself.

Smiling, he maneuvers in front of LA's most exclusive seafood restaurant. There is only one item on the menu that won't cut off his air supply, but it's Lilly's favorite. They dine here as often as the wait list allows.

Lilly exits the car first, offering her hand to the valet for assistance with an expectant air, every hair in place as if Logan hadn't been driving with the top down. It was a marvel, how she managed it. One of the endlessly fascinating quirks of Lilly Kane, the kind that both warms and awes him.

"Sir?"

Snapping out of his reverie, Logan tosses his keys at the red vest and rushes after Lilly. She's halfway to the door, and he manages to open it just before she enters, leading them to the podium to give their name to the maitre'd.

Duncan's connection comes through, and the slim, angular man threads them around ocean-blue table cloths towards a back room without a word.

Following, Logan places his hand just under the knot of material at Lilly's neck, gliding it down the naked column of skin to where the scarlet fabric pools at the base of her spine.

Lilly smirks over her shoulder at him like she knows exactly what he's thinking, and the rightness of it, of her, settles in his bones, simmering up into an excitement the closer they get to their table. With herculean effort, he keeps the bounce out of his step, the grin off his face.

Should he ask her now? Should he wait for the perfect moment? Should he sweep her up and tell her how she reshaped everything?

Mac and Duncan can think what they want. Lilly is The One. He'd known it the instant Duncan introduced them at one of their frat parties. The effervescent, tipsy, slightly-naked woman dazzled Logan. He hadn't heard anything past Duncan's exasperated, "This is my sister, Lilly."

The resounding cheers at the beer pong table, the pulsating beat of the music, the crowd, the women, everything had faded. Lilly. He'd committed it to memory, let it seep into his mind, whispered it against her skin when, at the end of the night, they'd inevitably fell into bed together.

After, spent and sweaty, she'd rolled on top of him, took hold of his chin, held her face close to his, and declared, "I think I'll keep you for a while, Lover."

It took a week for her to call him by his name, six months for the words 'love you, too' to pass her lips. But they'd overcome her walls. He understood her enough to be patient. Her upbringing, Ducan's upbringing, may have been less violent, but it was more confined, more controlled. It was hard for her to open herself up, be vulnerable. His admiration of her, young and fragile, took root, sprouted into devotion. He's worked hard every day to be worthy of her love, and he'll continue that work for a lifetime.

A lifetime that starts tonight.

Waiving off the maitre'd, Logan helps Lilly into her chair and seats himself across from her. Lilly scans the room, checking out who's here to be seen, angling herself slightly to make sure she's seen as well. After dinner, she'll give him the rundown of all the scandalous pairings while they lay in bed sipping champagne.

While she peruses the crowd, the sommelier discreetly nestles a gold bottle of champagne into a silver ice bucket, then slips away as quietly as he came.

"Lilly? Champagne?"

"Mmm," she mutters her assent, nudging her glass towards him.

With a flourish, Logan pops, pours, and passes as she glitters across from him, so bright his heart aches. Her profile, the curve of her cheek, the dent of her dimples, the slant of her eyes, all crafted by the gods to torment or save him.

With well-practiced patience, he waits for her attention. Her eyes catch his as she takes her glass.

"To us," he begins, holding up his flute.

She takes an absent sip of her glass, and her gaze stray to another table. Leaning closer to him, she whispers, "Do you see Shelly Pomperoy with Senator Houser's son?"

"Lilly."

"He's like ten years older than her, and I don't think his divorce is final yet, either."

"Lilly!"

She snaps her attention to him. "What?"

He gathers himself again, raises his glass. "To us."

Clinking her glass against his, those witch eyes track his every move. She doesn't drink.

Taking a deep breath, he sets his glass aside. "It's time for us to discuss the future."

Throwing back her champagne, she sets her glass down as well. "It's way past time, Lover. I got into Harvard."

Pride expands in his chest, even as panic rises. "That's great, Lilly. I knew you could do it." Suddenly, the thought of seeing her for a few weeks out of the year doesn't seem good enough. "Are you going to go?"

"I got into Harvard Law School. Of course I'm going to go."

He'll visit. A lot. Maybe stay. Harvard. Connecticut is supposed to be beautiful in the fall. He'll have to buy some sweaters. Cashmere. Bold colors. Snow jackets. Those are harder to wear without resembling an oompa loompa, but he'd wager Mac has some tricks up her sleeve. Once he apologizes.

"Yup. All according to Celeste's master plan." Lilly's smile is razor thin. "Harvard. Get married, have two-point-five kids. Maybe a well-mannered dog. A squeaky clean, utterly boring existence. Duncan's going to be President, and I'm going to be a Supreme Court justice by the time I'm thirty. It sucks, but we've always danced to the tune of Mommy Dearest. I just need to get her off my back." She laughs bitterly. "Anyway, what else do I have?"

"Me." Heart tripping on itself, nerves dancing in his belly, he takes her hand. He can do this, do for her what she did for him. A bright spot in the dark, a passenger on the shitty highway of life. "You have me."

He starts to slide out of his seat, down to one knee.

Lilly gapes at him, jerks her hand out of his.

"God, Logan. You're not proposing?"

His stomach drops, his limbs feel heavy, he has to fight the weight of them as he pulls himself back into his chair. "Apparently not."

Lilly sighs, in a deeply sorrowful way that causes a flush to break out over face and neck. "Lover, it's time for us to break up."

His mind goes blank as glass. "What?"

"This is getting too serious."

Getting too serious?

"I'm going to Harvard."

"And I fully support that. I thought maybe I could go with you—"

"Go with me?" She flips her hair over her shoulder. "You're not Havard material."

He'd meant to hang out, not go to Harvard, but the certainty in her pisses him the fuck off.

"I have a 4.0."

"Yeah, in fashion merchandising." Lilly waves a dismissive hand. "Anyway, we're done. I just wanted to have some fun, but you're getting all clingy and attached."

"I thought—," His mind unravels into so many directions, he doesn't know which thread to grasp. "I thought we were having fun."

Her snort sets off another fire in his gut.

"Oh, are the parties too boring? I've got it." He snaps his fingers. "It's the multiple orgasms. Not fun enough. No, those sure seemed like a good time while you were begging for it. It must be my dick then. It's too big, right?"

"No, it's none of that." She opens her napkin, smooths it across her lap. "If it were just that, I'd keep you chained to the bed. It's you."

It's you. His anger goes cold.

Lilly doesn't notice as she continues tearing down what he thought was a solid relationship. "You're, like, insanely jealous all the time, and it's getting on my nerves. You're always watching how much I drink, and dragging me off before anything really interesting happens. It's getting so I can only have fun when you're not around."

Something about the way she says that last line scratches at his brain. He crosses his arms. "Exactly how much fun have you been having, Lilly?"

Her shoulders rise and fall in a dainty shrug. "It's called making senior memories, Lover."

It hits him harder than a punch to the gut. He sees it now, like patches of fabric, weaving together, forming a pattern he somehow missed.

Before the nausea kicks in, he pushes roughly away from the table and stands. His hand brushes the box in his right pocket and it hardens him.

"I hope you remember how to get home, Lover."

Lilly's eyes dart around. "Where are you going?" She hisses. "You can't just leave me here."

"Sure I can. It'll be fun." He spins on his heel and stalks out of the restaurant.

Fuck Lilly Kane. Apparently everyone else did.

Out on the street, there's nothing to punch, so Logan does what he always does—or used to do—when things spin out of control. He looks for a bar. The hell with clean living. He isn't much good at it anyway.

He finds a shabby little hole in the wall that's actually a trendy gin parlor. Because God forbid anything in LA be what it says it is.

Taking the cobblestone stairs two at a time, he crosses the threshold and is instantly transported to the 1940's. Josephine Baker croons l'amour along with a sax, gilded moldings soar into sleek geometric shapes, and detailed pencil drawings of flappers captured mid-spin adorn the walls.

Thankfully, the place is mostly empty, the crowd thin enough to have the waitress scrolling on her phone, a disgaruded order pad laying at her side.

Her name tag proclaims her "Janet," and her fringed dress blends into the ebony baby grand she's leaning on. When she gets an eyeful of him, her bored expression slides into all-too-familiar invitation. She starts towards him.

"No." Logan says it flatly without breaking his stride. She lets out some sort of offended squawk at his back, while he aims for the bar, manned by a guy with raised eyebrows and an amused grin.

"Janet not your type?"

"Nope." Plopping onto a gold plated stool, Logan shifts until he's comfortable on the black leather cushion. Fuck getting laid, he plans to get steadily drunk.

"What can I get you?"

A cursory glance at the menu has him ordering a 'Major Tom' with no idea what's in it, and a shot of gin on the side. Because, why the fuck not? His brain is spinning, he doesn't know what he feels, but he knows he prefers to feel nothing. Circuits gone, floating, floating away. Numb.

Major Tom is gin, ginger bitters, and some sort of citrus. Logan gulps it down while reading the drink menu.

The diligent bartender wanders over again.

"Can I get a…" Logan drums his blunt fingertips on the mahogany bar. "Ha. I'll have a 'Hello, Sucker' and another one of these."

He tosses the menu aside, takes his shot.

"Rough night, my man?"

Logan almost smiles. Who needs therapy when God makes bartenders?

"Well—what's your name?"

"Wallace." Wallace hands him a shot of gin.

"Well, Wallace, turns out my lying bitch of a girlfriend has been cheating on me."

"That so? Wanna tell me about it?" Wallace's brown eyes, warm and compassionate, don't blink. His patchy mustache doesn't twitch. The mustache looks hard-won, the compassion seems effortless.

The liquor already working it's magic, coupled with the offered ear, eases a tightness in Logan's chest. He watches Wallace's dark, roughened hands deftly pour more gin, some vermouth, and bitters into a shaker. He pours, adds garnish to the drink, and hands it to Logan.

"One Hello, Sucker."

"Thanks." Removing the toothpick, Logan prys off the olive with his teeth, drops the lemon twist into the drink. "I was going to marry her, you know."

"The lying bitch?"

"Yup. Planned to propose tonight." Logan pulls the box from his pocket, pops it open to show off the proof of his commitment. He takes his shot while Wallace examines the ring, pleased when it blurs his brain cells. Magic.

"Nice. Fancy."

Fancy. No, Lilly didn't like Fancy. Logan traces the princess-cut diamond with a fingernail. Fancy didn't like Lilly. And Lilly didn't want a ring.

"She dumped my ass before I could even get the question out." Taking a long slurp of his martini, he scowls at his glass. They really should make them bigger. "Another."

"Same as before?"

"Dealer's choice."

Wallace contemplates Logan, then with a small grin, begins mixing up something complicated. He pours a greenish liquid into another martini glass and places it in front of Logan. He eyes it suspiciously.

"What is it?"

"Called 'Diamonds and Pearls.'"

For some reason, Logan finds that absurdly funny, and, grinning widely, he shoves his Sucker aside. He grimaces. It tastes like grass. "What's in it? It tastes like a park."

"That's the matcha. So, why'd she dump you?"

"Says I'm too serious." Logan drains his drink quickly, tipping the glass all the way back, tracking the crystal chandelier across the ceiling as he lets the cool liquid numb him. When he's done, he points to another drink on the menu. Lost Angel… He lost his angel. Of course he did, and should have expected it. He hadn't done enough.

"Is she right?"

Logan lapses into silence. Is she? She was right for him. Always right. Why doesn't she like Fancy? He should have eaten. Maybe even the fish. Ha.

"So, is she worth it?" Wallace asks, pointedly plonking a fourth drink in front of Logan. Wallace's face sort of blurs in and out. It's a neat trick.

Dreamy now, Logan sips his Lost Angel, lets the sharpness of the bitters coat his tongue, savors the twinge of sweetness left by the melon liqueur as he swallows. "She's beautiful. She's always perfect, you know? Always knows what to say, has this crazy confidence."

"Mmm. Something tells me you have that in common."

"Me." Logan scoffs. "I look good, you know?" He should. He works out twice a day, his clothes are impeccable, and his face has always been pretty. "But in here"—he taps two fingers on his temple—"and in here"—he thumps his fist in his chest and winces"—I'm a mess."

"Aren't we all?"

"Nooo," Logan says carefully, so he doesn't mispronounce the complicated word. "She knows what she wants. When people say 'it's not you, it's me,' that means it's you. She said 'it's not me, it's you', which means it's her. You know?"

"I haven't got a clue." Wallace takes Logan's empty and slides a tall glass full of clear liquid, tinkling ice, and a long thick straw.

"What's this one?"

"Clarity."

Logan squints at the blurry glass. Clarity. That sounds nice. He cups the glass, knocks it back, almost spits it out.

"It's water!"

"You're on water for the rest of the night, my man." Wallace cups Logan's shoulder in a friendly gesture, then pitches his voice low. "And I'd bet this Lilly chick isn't as sure of what she wants as you think she is."

That can't be true. No one is as confident as Lilly. Lilly probably isn't as confident as Lilly. Logan sits up so fast he almost loses his Clarity.

Except for Celeste Kane. This isn't Lilly. Lilly loves him, and her hair's so soft, her skin is so pretty. This isn't her. It has Celeste and Jake written all over it. He doesn't fit their perfect plan for their perfect daughter. Of course. He knows what he has to do.

"You okay in there?" Wallace taps on Logan's head.

"Yup." He shakes his head. "I need to piss. And I'm going to Harvard."

Wallace rocks back on his heels. "You're going to Harvard."

"Harvard Law." How hard can it be?