“Don’t say it,” Logan stops him. “Whisper it to me,” he tells his father dramatically, making my eyes roll playfully. Rupert whispers something in Logan’s ear and then Logan looks at his father in complete amazement. “How could you possibly know that?” he exclaims.
Rupert laughs and claps Logan on the shoulder. “You’re an old time romantic, just like me,” he says.
Old time romantic, I start pondering… “Sinatra?” I guess.
“A little closer to home than that,” Logan tells me.
A little closer to which home? Charleston? Paris? Oh, I’ve no idea!
“Mom, you’re suspiciously quiet,” Logan says to Mary-Gene. “I’m waiting for you to go crazy.”
“She did that earlier already,” Rupert tells us, and Mary-Gene unabashedly nods in agreement.
“Totally loco, kid, it’s all out of my system,” she assures us.
“I think we need champagne,” my mom announces. “Can we tell people?” she then asks eagerly, her excitement making me beam in happiness.
Logan gives me a what-do-you-think kind of look. Hmm…on a night of such a professional high, it does seem like the perfect opportunity to let word slip out about this personal high too.
“Sure,” I tell my mom. “What’s good news if not shared, right? Besides, once everyone knows, a whole new party can begin,” I laugh.
The five of us begin walking towards the bar, and I can’t help thinking — we so took back the night.
* * *
It’s four AM by the time the elevator pings, admitting us into our apartment. I feel like the living dead — we’ve been out at the party for ten hours! Not even in my wildest youth did I ever manage such an impressive feat. I kick off my heels and groan at the heavenly feeling of the flat floor underneath my feet. They’re going to hurt tomorrow, I know it already. Even without my heels I still sway where I stand, and it sure looks to me like Logan is doing the same.
We’re ever so slightly inebriated, except for the ever so slightly bit. Totally not our fault, I tell myself. The news of our engagement spread like wildfire, and because most of the people in the room have no idea how long we’ve been together, what questions and muttering there might have been had they known — things like: are you pregnant? Or: isn’t it a bit soon? — gave way to lots of toasting and celebrating. One glass of champagne turned into two, and two into three. This pattern continued for quite some time.
“Considering you only wanted to make it through the speeches, I’m impressed with your stamina,” I say to Logan, my speech incredibly slurred. I stumble into the kitchen to fetch two large glasses of water, praying they’ll be enough to stave off our hangovers.
“I must take after my father,” Logan quips, taking the glass that I offer him and downing it in one.
I follow suit, and then I take his hand and lead the way to the bedroom.
As we walk, he wraps his arms around my stomach and tucks his chin onto my shoulder. It’s a combination of this awkward walking stance and our high level of intoxication that makes us stagger down the short, glass-sided walkway. When we reach the bedroom, Logan kicks off his shoes mid-step and then proceeds to trip on them, ending up sprawled on the floor amid a fit of laughter.
I tower over him, looking down in amusement. He really is gorgeous, I think sleepily. “Can you make it to bed, baby?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” I tell him, though I don’t move a muscle.
Instead I start stripping on the spot, and a short moment later, Logan copies me, his hands fumbling with the buttons on his pants while I reach for the hem of my dress, both of us engaged in similar movements to those on the rooftop earlier. Unlike then, this time I pull my dress over my head, aware, even though I’m drunk, that this dress is precious and needs to be treated with care. At least, that’s what my drunken brain tells me.
I dodder through to the dressing room to hang it up and by the time I’m back by his side, Logan is still lying on the floor, now sans his pants and boxers. He starts on undressing his upper half as I undo my bra, with a little more difficultly than usual — is this how men feel all the time? — and when it’s loose I let it fall on the ground. I then teeter dangerously as I step out of my panties, which I pulled back on after our sexcapade on the roof, and as I do so, Logan somehow manages to outstrip me despite his position on the ground.
When I’m finally free of my underwear his hand starts gliding up and down my calf as he looks up at me, his eyes sleepy but appreciative. A smile overcoming his face, he starts humming It’s My Party once more and I can’t keep the responding grin from my own face as I remember what his new lyrics are. Does he want to do that, again?
Answering my unasked question, Logan sits up, and then shuffles over to the window, sitting with his back to it.
“Are you coming to bed?” I ask him again, still grinning.
Again, Logan shakes his head. He holds out his hand, which I take readily, and he pulls me closer to him. I go with a giggle, standing on either side of his legs, my bare crotch level with his face. His hands grip my ankles and slowly, so slowly they begin moving up my legs, and all the while he’s humming away.
When his hands reach my backside he squeezes me and a small, amorous growl escapes him, sending a shiver of late night desire through my body. He pulls me closer to him, and I take one long, measured step forward, my toes only inches away from the window.
Logan then slides down the glass a little, and tilts his head back, creating a seat for me to sit on. My throne. I give him what he’s asking for in humming his little tune, I move my sex over his face. His hands hold my backside firmly, and I press my body against the cold glass, my arms reaching up above me. There’s really something magical about this window, my drunken mind muses. Then Logan takes me into his mouth, I moan loudly, and my entire capacity for thought is gone.
* * *
It’s twenty to one in the afternoon when I wake up on Sunday. I stretch, taking stock of how my body feels. Oh, shit, I’m aching all over. My poor feet are killing me, giving me hell for keeping them cooped up in those heels for so long, and my head throbs painfully. Last nights last-ditch attempt at avoiding a hangover has failed. Ow. Wanting to see how Logan’s faring, I inch closer to him on the other side of the bed. Slow movements, Gem. I rest my cheek on his bare chest, and something on his bedside table catches my eye. I stare at it for a long moment, then finally registering what it is, my eyes dart wide and I suddenly feel irrevocably awake.
It’s a little black velvet box. The type which typically holds a ring in it…Logan told me that my ring would be delivered today. An excited albeit potentially premature smile spreads across my face. Is that what’s inside of it? What does it look like? A plain band or bejewelled, I wonder.
My heart hammering, I sit up quickly. Too quickly. My head spins. Ow, I think again. Not wanting my aching hangover to ruin this moment, I ignore the pounding pain as best as I can, and I reach over him to pick up the box, giving it a little shake.
My fingers itch to open it, just a little bit, just so that I can have a tiny, teeny peek inside, but my conscience forbids me. I peer down at Logan, checking how asleep he is, and judging from the fluttering of his eyelashes that he’s sleeping deeply.
He’d never know…
But I would, and it would haunt me forever, I think dramatically. If I don’t want to kickstart the rest of our life together with a lie, then I have to wait until he’s awake, I tell myself.