BAD TIMING
1117 Words
Logan’s Point of View
Cassie hesitated before stepping aside, just enough for me to pass. Her porch light flickered again, casting a weak glow on the wood floors behind her. The screen door groaned as I let it swing closed, and the air inside was warmer than I expected. Smelled like lavender and something baking maybe her mom had made cornbread again.
We stood in the narrow entryway. She didn’t look at me.
"Do you want to sit?" she asked, voice low.
"Yeah. Sure."
Before we could move to the living room, a door creaked open down the hall.
"That you, Cassie?" her mother’s voice came, followed by the soft shuffle of slippered feet. A second later, Mrs. Monroe appeared around the corner, wearing a faded blue robe and holding a half-drunk mug of tea.
Her eyebrows lifted when she saw me.
"Logan Morgan," she said with a surprised smile. "Well, now there’s a face I haven’t seen up close in a while."
I stepped back instinctively, nodding. "Hi, Mrs. Monroe. Sorry to drop in late."
"Oh, please. I’ve been watching you on TV this past year. My neighbor Harold brags every time you're mentioned, says his cousin's friend once babysat you." She chuckled and looked me over. "Still taller than I remember. Still polite."
I glanced at Cassie. She stood frozen, arms tight around herself.
"I just—uh—I wanted to talk to Cassie. Make sure she was okay."
Mrs. Monroe sipped her tea and smiled gently. “Well, I always liked you, Logan. You used to bring me grocery bags on Saturdays after Cass left. You remember that?"
I nodded. “Of course.”
What I didn’t say was that those Saturday visits had been the only thing keeping me tethered to this place after Cassie left. At first, I told myself it was just to help her mom out, that I owed her at least that much. But every week I’d find some excuse to stay a little longer, fix the back steps, replace a fuse, help with the Wi-Fi even when she insisted she could manage fine. I think part of me kept hoping Cassie would walk through the door again one day, surprise me, yell at me, forgive me. Anything.
Then Mrs. Monroe started getting sick. First just tired, then dizzy spells. I’d take her to her appointments when she let me. She’d brush it off like it was nothing, but I could see it. She was slowing down. I couldn't call Cassie. Truthfully, I didn’t think she wanted to hear from me.
I kept coming anyway, guilt heavy in my chest, but still showing up.
Cassie’s face didn’t change. Not exactly. But I saw it, just for a second the flicker of something in her eyes when her mom mentioned the visits. Surprise. Maybe even confusion. But she masked it quickly, so quickly I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t known her so well. She didn’t ask. She didn’t have to. That one moment told me everything, she hadn’t known.
Her mom looked between the two of us, something unreadable in her eyes, then stepped back.
“I’ll let you two talk. And don’t worry about the time. It’s good seeing you again.”
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.
She gave a small wave and disappeared down the hall, leaving only the fading scent of lemon balm tea behind her.
Cassie didn’t say anything. She just motioned toward the living room.
She led the way into the small space, where an old ceiling fan buzzed overhead and a sitcom played quietly on mute. A folded quilt was draped over the back of the couch. I sat at one end, and she perched at the opposite, arms folded over her chest like armor.
I looked at her, but she stared at the blank TV screen.
"Cass, I’m not here to push," I said. "I just… I need to know."
She didn’t answer at first. Just picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion.
"I haven’t taken it yet."
That hit harder than I expected. I nodded slowly.
"Okay."
Silence stretched between us. The ceiling fan whirred. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked steadily.
"I didn’t mean for you to find out like that," she said finally.
"How else was I supposed to? You weren’t going to tell me."
Her lips tightened. "Because I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t."
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "You don’t have to say anything yet. But if it is… if you are… I want to be there. For you. For all of it."
She looked at me then. Her eyes were glossy, the kind of glossy that comes right before the tears spill.
"That’s easy to say, Logan."
"I mean it."
"You meant it five years ago too. Right before you left."
That one landed. My chest clenched.
"This isn’t the same."
"Isn’t it?"
I shook my head. "I was a kid chasing a stupid dream. I didn’t know what I had with you until it was too late."
"And now?"
"Now I know."
She stared at me, expression unreadable. Then, softer, "I don’t know if I can trust that."
I opened my mouth to answer, but my phone vibrated in my pocket. Once. Then again. Reluctantly, I pulled it out. Coach.
Cassie caught the name on the screen. I silenced it and shoved it back in my jeans.
"It’s fine," I said. "Not important."
She didn’t buy it. "It’s Coach. That’s always important."
Before I could say anything, it buzzed again. Same name.
She sighed. "Just answer it."
I stood and stepped into the kitchen, lowering my voice as I picked up. "Yeah?"
Coach didn’t waste time. "Logan, listen up. A scout from the national team is coming to Clearwater. He’s watching Saturday’s game. I need you sharp. You hear me? This is big."
My stomach flipped.
"Yeah. I hear you."
"Don’t screw this up. You’ve got a real shot."
I hung up slowly, my heart thudding for a different reason now. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window over the sink. The same dream. The same fire. But it didn’t feel the same anymore.
I turned around.
Cassie was standing at the edge of the living room, arms wrapped around herself.
Her expression was blank, but her eyes weren’t. They were hurt. Guarded. A wall going up in real time.
Her hand moved to rest gently on her belly.
"So you’re really going to leave again?" she asked quietly.
The ceiling fan clicked above us. Outside, crickets chirped. But the house itself went still.
I couldn’t speak.
Not yet.
- Writer
