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There it is, out in the open for both of us to see that I would never mean more to Logan than what Silas had planned for him. If I needed to know why he never contacted me after we left Topica Bay that summer, then it’s right here, staring me in the face.
The words I fling at him are the kind that cut deep enough to scar. “The Logan I knew stood for what he believed in, and if he were here right now, he’d take me far, far away from you.”
That haunted gaze darts over every inch of my face. His nostrils flare like he’s trying his damndest to keep his composure.
“What happened to him?” I ask, hating the desperation in my voice. “Where did he go?”
He pauses at my side long enough to say, “He’s gone.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Penelope
“Not only no, but hell no.”
Carrie’s opinion of me working for Logan is fresh on my mind as we prepare breakfast together at the group home.
Not that my reaction was much different when we arrived at the third-story apartment he reserved for us. I hate to admit how beautiful it is with a balcony that faces the bluffs, and the ocean crashing against the rocks below in a lulling, relaxing cadence.
The fridge had been stocked with food and the dry bar, facing a modern, yet cozily furnished living room, is filled with world-class wines. And if that wasn’t obnoxious enough, Logan made sure both our closets were teeming with outfits in a range of different sizes and styles.
He left a handwritten note on the nightstand in my bedroom, his scent floating around and mocking me with its presence.
“Let me know how else I can care for you,” it read, stiff and cordial.
But the disappointment that nothing’s changed lingers, and as long as Silas still controls him, I don’t want him caring for me at all.
“Working for your ex is a terrible idea,” Carrie says, handing a bowl of scrambled eggs to Mable for her to distribute to the others. “And I’m not just saying that because I hate him for breaking your heart.”
I flick my braid over my shoulder and then swipe my hands on the front of my apron, aching for the blissful ignorance of childhood as Mable sings a song on her way out of the kitchen.
Dorthea had an emergency errand this morning and asked me to fill in while Ricardo works on some repairs. But I can’t call in on my second day at the office, which left me no choice but to lean on my sister to take care of things around here.
“And remind me why we took the bus instead of being driven by this chauffeur you mentioned?”
“Because I don’t want Logan knowing about this place.” I pin her with a look, matching her irritation. “Or Mom and Dad.”
She hands off another bowl, but not before muttering, “Great. More lies.”
Pouring another batch of eggs into the skillet, I breathe in the hot-oil aroma wafting from the stove and try to calm my frayed nerves. Maybe I’m letting my conversation with Logan fester, but I can’t help feeling miffed that she’s unhappy with me.
Carrie’s the one who said I take nothing seriously, yet when I find a solution, it still isn’t good enough.
I roughly click off the burner before scooping the last batch of eggs into the remaining bowls. My stomach clenches when I’m short one, forcing me to divvy the food into smaller portions before handing them to Mable.
“What’s your deal?” I finally snap once Mable’s out of earshot.
Her lips thin at my attitude, and there’s already an apology building on my tongue. “My deal is that you’re making rash decisions that are going to wind up getting you hurt. Dad would lose his mind if he found out about this. And if by some miracle he didn’t, the fact remains that Logan turned his back on you. Why would you even risk this?”
Carrie lives a life of adventure and success that I can’t compete with, so of course she doesn’t get the struggle. The restlessness and dissatisfaction of trying to find something I’m passionate about, only to consistently fall short.
I’m a triangle peg surrounded by square holes, and deep within the wound Logan pried open is a sense of loss and abandonment I wish I hadn’t acknowledged. A sense that I both desire my family’s approval as much as I want to rail against their expectations of me, and I don’t know if I can trust her to understand that. To understand me.
“It’ll work out, just like it always does.”
“Penelope…”
Grabbing her wrist, I walk her from the kitchen into the front room, where I throw my hand out to the wall that’s rotting from the inside out. Discarded plastering tools and buckets of paint are scattered about, evidence of Ricardo’s patching efforts.
