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Frederick VanderKemp turns his slightly hollowed, reddened eyes on me. For a second I think he’s going to punch my lights out. He’s got every right to, but I don’t think he’ll do it with a small child in my arms.
“I was reading, and happened to look out the window just in time to see some woman trying to break into your house—kicking at the door and shouting,” he snaps. “I thought Quinn was in there—since she’d told me she was babysitting tonight. When the lady put a rock through your window, I feared for their safety and called the police. You can imagine I was upset to find no one home.”
“Rose was at her grandmother’s. I’m sorry for the disturbance,” I apologize, then look directly at Quinn. Is she going to tell him or am I?
“I’m sorry I worried you Dad, how many times can I say it?” Quinn pleads to Frederick. “I should have called you when I got to the library.” She turns to me and meets my gaze. “Thank you for stopping to give me a lift, Mr. Brenner. It was silly of me to get my babysitting dates mixed up. But I certainly needed the extra study time. I’m so glad you saw me walking home.”
She’s lied to him. I do a menta
l re-run of what she’s just said. She came to my house, found out she wasn’t needed, went to the library, I saw her walking home, I gave her a lift. Completely untrue, but plausible. I hate deceiving the man but have to give Quinn credit for thinking on her feet. Under the circumstances, I’ll let it ride. This night’s had enough truth-or-consequences.
Rose stirs inside her blanket and starts to whimper. I need to get her inside.
“Anytime, Quinn,” I say, validating her lie for the time being. I notice her visibly relax and shoot me a silent thank you.
“I met your mother,” Frederick says. “She said it was your ex-wife that tried to break in. Perhaps you should consider getting a restraining order.”
“Good advice. I’ll look into that,” I say, nodding. It’s late, and I’m done explaining my complicated life any further, to her or her father. Ex-wife. I look into Quinn’s eyes and see the unspoken accusation there. I’d told her the truth about Jolene and me. It was just Lila’s way of legitimizing things by using that term. If she didn’t believe me, it didn’t matter. She’ll have enough reasons to hate me as it is. “If you’ll both excuse me, I have to put this young lady to bed. We’ve all had enough excitement for one day. Goodnight.”
Chapter Nine
Quinn
The Truth Hurts
My fingers are cold from hours of working my mouse over the pad next to my laptop. Dad told me months ago to go ahead and buy an ergonomic computer desk and chair, but I never got around to it. The awkward angle of my wrist on a flat tabletop makes my hand go numb. I give it a shake and slide it under my knee for a few seconds to warm and bring some blood back into it.
I feel like I’ve been chained to the damn computer all week, burying myself in my studies to avoid thinking about anything else. Because that anything else tends to always be Logan Brenner.
I haven’t spoken to him since the night of the break-in, and I’m feeling sick over what happened. I squirm with guilt at the phony story I told my dad, but thank goodness Logan went along with it to keep our secret safe. But I worry about this Jolene who is crazy enough to break into his house. Are Logan and Rose okay? Did Jolene do something worse than breaking a window? Did she steal Rose’s things and they’ve just been too busy dealing with it to call me? She sounds like a horrible person, and I can’t understand how Logan could have hooked up with a woman like that. He’d said they never married and I believe him.
But I have no answers to my questions because he won’t talk to me. When he didn’t call me the next day, I panicked and went to his house. I knocked, but no one came to the door. I’ve tried calling him, but only get his voicemail. I can’t seem to catch him at home; each time his truck pulls up out front, it seems to disappear just moments later. I haven’t seen Rose either since I haven’t been asked to babysit—that hurts most of all.
Everything’s a mess, including my head. All my studies of the human psyche, of behavioral baselines, brain chemicals, and mental states, wants and needs as defined by Maslow’s Pyramid, can’t help me make sense of my own situation. Why is he doing this? Have I done something wrong? I did everything exactly the way he told me—how could it be wrong? Each passing day without contact makes me feel like I’m dying inside. I told him I loved him; didn’t that mean anything to him?
I think back to what I said to Rochelle—how I’d worried about being just an object, a one-night-stand. I thought Logan was different than those horny college guys. Could a man make a one-nighter extend to almost two months of nearly constant sex? And then just turn his feelings off like a light switch? No, I can’t make myself believe it. I won’t believe it. Human emotions just don’t work that way.
Unless… oh, no. I try not to let the idea take shape, but it forms in my head anyway, like a squirt of ink dropped in the pool of my thoughts and spreading darkly outward. What if Jolene has come back? Not to harass him, but to beg Logan to give her another chance, reconcile for the sake of their daughter? Told him she still loved him? Maybe he still loves her deep down—his harsh words against her merely a defensive mask to conceal his own pain. A classic maneuver that was definitely written in my psychology textbooks.
I picture the woman, though I’ve never seen her, on her knees pleading tearfully with him to forgive her, and my guts twist violently. Because I know Logan is a kind enough man to do it. He’ll do anything for Rose.
I push away from the table, knocking my chair over as I run to the bathroom. I barely make it to the toilet before I throw up, bitter bile scorching my throat as it spews out of my mouth and splashes into the bowl. The hideous sound of it hitting the water makes me retch a second time, though nothing comes out.
God, I feel awful. I must be coming down with something; there are certainly enough colds and flu going around on a campus as large as ASU. But I know my misery is really of my own making—my feelings for Logan that I’ve let consume my every waking moment. I’ve never had a relationship like this before, so I don’t know what to say or how to act. I feel used and lost and empty. Is this what love is supposed to feel like? If so, it’s horrible. It’s definitely not roses and rainbows and unicorns. Maybe I don’t know what love is, after all.
I crawl to the sink and clean myself up by brushing my teeth to scrub the foul taste from my mouth. I feel exhausted and decide I should flop onto my bed and take a nap, for just a few minutes of blissful unconsciousness where I don’t have to think about anything. But then I hear the sound of an engine outside. I look out the window, and my heart does a backflip when I see Logan’s truck pull up to the curb. I have to talk to him, and this might be my only chance.
I race down the stairs and out the front door. I’m barefoot, but I don’t care that the lawn is prickly or the sidewalk gritty. I only care about seeing him.
“Logan!” I cry breathlessly, running toward him. I practically slam into him like Rose does when he comes home from being out, and throw my arms around his neck. My eyes sting as I hold back the tears that have been gathering all week, waiting to finally feel the warmth of his body against mine again.
“Logan,” I say again, my voice choked. “Where have you been?” I want to melt into him, become part of him.
But instead of the firm, secure circle of his embrace, I feel his hands on my wrists, prying my arms loose.
“Quinn, calm down,” he says, bringing my hands down in front of his chest. “What’s wrong?”
His voice sounds flat, emotionless, and I search his eyes for some explanation. His cool hazel stare sends a chill down my spine.
