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“Logan’s got some, um… issues…” I said, and then lost it, lip trembling as I goofed up with my words.
She pulled me into the staffroom and was up close in a heartbeat, holding me tight.
“Hey, girl. Let it out. Let it out,” she soothed. “What the fuck’s going on?”
I cried, gasping. I pulled away enough to shrug, but she didn’t leave me, wouldn’t even look away.
My friend.
She was my friend.
So I told her.
I told her everything in a nutshell. I told her about how I was beyond in love with Logan and would be for the rest of my life. I told her about Jackie and how she was the most incredible woman I’d ever met. I told her how we’d said goodbye to her, and how my heart was still torn up, just not anywhere near as much as Logan’s.
She listened, nodded, and I saw it again, as clear as day, just how skilled and how supportive the staff in Franklin Ward were, helping people with loss and fear and grief through every working day of their lives.
“You get over there and tell Logan how you feel,” she said. “He can say he needs his space all he likes, but he needs you, Chloe. For sure, he needs you. Nobody is invincible. Not even Dr Hall.”
I shrugged again, frustrated through the tears, because how could I get him to reason? How could I get him to listen when he wouldn’t even answer my calls?
I told her as much, but she didn’t stop nodding, her hands gripping my shoulders.
“You do what it takes, Chloe. If you wanna speak to him then you head on over there. You bulldoze his door if you have to. Just get yourself in front of him, and make sure he knows how you feel.”
I loved her logic. I nodded, and calmed my tears and I told her she was right. I would do whatever it took to get myself in front of him.
I was pretty confident when I set off from Harrow that night on the Redwood line train.
The train passed Churchley, and I was still breathing steady, knees knocking just a little as I shuffled in my seat.
Newstone came and went, and my fingers started twisting in my lap as I pictured Logan opposite me, his paperback in his hands.
Eastworth had my nerves fluttering in my stomach, memories of Jackie dancing through my heart, hurting bad enough to catch my breath.
Wenton, Callow, then the Sunnydale viaduct, and the pain was hard, tears pricking.
Then it was Eddington, and my old life. The old life that was done for me. So alien it was strange.
Then Redwood.
The train arrived at Redwood train station.
My legs were shaking as I stepped from the carriage. I focused on every footstep as I made my way to King Street and the man I loved.
And there it was. Logan’s house.
I walked up his front path, legs still shaking.
I knocked at his front door and waited. No answer, so I knocked again, harder.
Still, there was no answer.
I stepped back and looked up at the windows, but there was no sign of life. Nothing.
I called his phone. No answer.
I knocked again. No response.
I called his name through his letterbox, but the place was still, silent.
So, I sat on his doorstep and waited, waited, waited. Still, there was nothing. Not a single sound came from behind that door.
Finally, the ping of a message had me leaping to my feet, fingers scrabbling at my phone. But the message wasn’t from Logan. It was from Liam.
Just come and get your fucking stuff, will you? I mean it. I’m chucking it out. You’d better get your ass in gear if you give a shit about it.
I didn’t give a shit about it. Not anymore.
The tears came streaming all over again, and I had one last attempt at the front door. I shouted his name, cried with all my heart, but still no answer came.
It was cold outside when the sun started setting. I tried his phone once more before I figured I was knocking at nothing and gave up with a fresh bout of tears, defeated as I made my way back to the train station.
The journey was agony. My sobs kept on coming, right the way through to Halsey. I could barely even breathe when I crossed the front lawn. My parents were watching TV when I stepped inside. I excused myself as best I could and headed right on up to my bedroom, but after an evening of being the one rapping her knuckles against solid wood, this time it was Mum who was knocking at my door. I let her in, and showed her my tears in their full glory.
“Oh, Chloe!” she said, and she held me and rocked me, in that way only a mum can do for her child.
