The Guest

Viola McCoy

The city lights blur past me as I drive back home. It’s past 7pm and the hum of the engine is the only sound in the car. But my mind is loud, louder than ever.

Logan is really back.

He looks pretty much the same as he did three years ago. They say some people don’t age. He didn’t, he only grew taller with broader shoulders. My insides tighten anytime I remember the image of him from this morning. He was always the prototypical American golden boy with sandy hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a wide grin.

But that doesn’t matter now because I’ve spent the whole day pretending he isn’t back. Pretending I didn’t see him, pretending his presence didn’t shake something loose inside me. But no amount of pretending can stop the truth from creeping in. He was there. Standing in front of me. Looking at me like I was some ghost from his past instead of a woman who had learned to survive without him.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder. I glance down. Amirah. I already know why she’s calling. I let out a breath, steady myself, then put her on speaker.

“Hey.”

“I saw the news.” Her voice is cautious, like she’s bracing for my reaction. “Logan’s back.”

I grip the wheel tighter. “So I’ve heard.”

There’s a pause. Then, “Viola, are you okay?”

I hate that she asks that, because it means she knows. Knows that this still gets to me. That no matter how much I tell myself I don’t care, Logan Reynolds is the only person who’s ever made me feel like I wasn’t enough.

Like I wasn’t worth fighting for.

And maybe I wasn’t.

“I’m fine,” I say, keeping my voice light. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Amirah scoffs. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because your ex—the one you never talk about, the one who practically disappeared on you—is not only back in Chicago but also your boss now?”

I swallow hard. “He’s not my boss.”

“Technicality. He’s running the company.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to acknowledge him.”

Amirah sighs. “Vi…”

I know what she’s going to say, and I don’t want to hear it. She probably wants to say that this is my chance to get closure. That Logan was young and under pressure, that maybe he regrets it, that I should talk to him.

But talking to Logan Reynolds won’t fix anything. Because Logan didn’t just leave. He gave up. On me. On us. And maybe it ruined a part of me that I’ll never get back. A part that has now gotten used to people giving up on me.

“I have to go,” I say abruptly. “I’ll call you later.”

Amirah exhales. “Okay. Just… take care of yourself, alright?”

I don’t answer. I just end the call.

The silence in the car is suffocating now, but I let it settle. I need to remind myself that none of this matters. Logan being back doesn’t change anything. I’ve built a life without him.

I have a career, a marriage, a version of fake happiness that doesn’t involve him. And maybe it’s a lie. Maybe it’s all perfectly constructed to keep people from seeing the cracks.

But it’s mine.

And I won’t let Logan see through it. Because he always could. And if I let him in, even for a second, he’ll see the truth and see me. And that is something I cannot afford.

I’ll never let him see through my perfectly constructed lie.

When I finally arrive home, I get out of my car and walk towards the house. Stepping in, the faint scent of grilled chicken hits my nose. Our cook, Hillary, a blonde woman in her mid thirties is setting the dining table for three in glittering white and gold. She finally turns to look at me as I walk towards the dining area.

“Good evening, Mrs Cruz.” she says politely, removing the apron that’s tied lazily around her waist.

“What’s going on?” I ask as I take in the feast she’s set because none of it makes any sense.

We hardly make use of the dining table because Julian never eats at home and because seating at the dining table alone for meals seems too sad, I eat my meals in the living room.

“Mr Cruz asked me to prepare all this. He’s having a guest over tonight.” Hillary says.

I cock my head. “A guest?”

Julian has never brought his friends home before. Or even business partners. They all eat at five star restaurants. The only people he ever invites home for dinner are his family. And it’s only once a month. The last Saturday of every month where they have their small family party and I’m forced to cook for them to show how dutiful and dedicated I am to their son.

Today is a Monday and it’s just the beginning of the month so I’m pretty sure he’s not inviting his family over. Plus, the table is set for three.

“Did my husband tell you about who he’s inviting over?” I manage to ask Hillary as I drop my bag on the couch.

She nods. “No. But he did ask me to get one of the guest rooms ready.”

Guest rooms? I exhale sharply. No one ever knows what Julian is thinking. I walk to the table and pour myself a glass of wine. Julian might be trying to impress someone with this huge feast. What if it’s a woman? He wouldn’t bring a woman into our home, would he?

The screeching of tires from outside statles me. Julian is back early tonight. Something important must really be happening. I raise the glass of wine to my lips and gulp down. Can I really deal with him sober?

I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Not one but two. He’s with someone. But not a woman because the other shoes aren’t heels.

“Hey, love.” I finally hear Julian’s voice.

Hey, love?

I turn around to see him walking towards me. He envelopes me in a hug and I’m speechless for a moment. His smile is so wide, and his eyes are bright too. What is happening?

“We have a guest tonight,” he says.

He steps away from my front, standing next to me and taking my hand in his. Even though the act makes my skin prickle, it doesn’t shock me as much as seeing Logan standing there, staring at the both of us with an unreadable expression.

Logan is OUR GUEST?