In the end, I say, “Why don’t you let me handle Logan, hmm?”
She stands. “You’re right. If anyone has the right to kill him, it’s you.” And then she saunters off, disappearing up the stairs, like she totally didn’t say the weirdest thing ever… and sounded like she meant it wholeheartedly.
Now I’m starting to wonder whether those stories about her past might have some truth to them. She was surroundedby death an awful lot. But maybe that’s just me being a little paranoid.
I hope.
Once I’m alone, I get up and pace the first floor of the house. Logan doesn’t message me again, not that I think he will. Based on his last text, it sounded like he was going to come over right now whether I want him to or not. My willpower should be strong when it comes to resisting that guy, but…
I’m still weak. A part of me still likes him. I still want him to change. Seriously, so pathetic.
I must pace longer than I think, because a knock on the front door stops me. Hesitantly, I approach that front door as I nibble my bottom lip, and then I glance down at myself, at the clothes I’m wearing. Sweats and a baggy shirt; what I typically wear during winter when I don’t plan on leaving the house the rest of the day. My hair is still damp from my shower.
Am I ready to open that door and see Logan again? The night he came here, talking all that big talk, I don’t think I was. He was the last person I expected to see at the back door. Today, things are different.
I’m different. I have to keep reminding myself I don’t need him anymore.
At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t want to need him. Needing someone like Logan can only lead to disaster when it comes to someone like me. A nobody. He might’ve taken his words back, but they still stung. They still hurt, even now.
Another knock, and I gather what little courage I have inside of me and open the door.
Logan stands in the cold, wearing an old leather jacket, his black hair messy but his green eyes bright. His pants are a bit too tight, leaving nothing to the imagination—which I imagine is the point of pants like that. His jaw is freshly-shaved, no stubble anywhere to be seen, which is a first. Normally he always hasshadows of hair on his square jaw and on his cheeks. He always gave off the aura of the typical badboy:I don’t care.
Yet here he is, looking like he does care.
He studies me like he’s expecting resistance, and he’s cautious in asking, “Can I come in?”
I should say no. I should tell him to get the heck out of here before I call for Sloane and let her loose on him like a vicious dog. She has it in her, and the more I think about it, the more I don’t think she was joking about killing him. Her father was a serial killer. I don’t think she’d joke about murder like that.
A part of me worries what’ll happen if I do invite him inside. God knows how things tend to spiral when it’s Logan and me. I resisted him so well last semester, and then everything got blown up that night. Who knew going home with him and having him be my first would only be the tip of the iceberg?
But I stand there, under his emerald stare, and feel conflicted for only a few seconds. In the end, there’s only one thing I can tell him, and it’s not to go away and never come back. My backbone isn’t that strong when it comes to this guy.
“Sure,” I say, and then I step aside and allow him entry into the house.
He walks in past me, and as I shut the door, I can’t help but wonder what the heck I’m doing. There’s no way this can end well.
Chapter Eighteen – Logan
A part of me assumed it’d be Sloane opening the door for me, Sloane standing there with ice in her gaze and maybe even a knife in one of her hands. Her threats weren’t spoken like your typical threat: full of hot air with no substance behind it. No, she spoke them like she meant them, like she’s followed through before.
Just for kicks I looked up the Karnagy family once, just to see who exactly she was and why I got such a weird vibe from her. Turns out, she’d been surrounded by death an awful lot, and the easy threats that came from her made me wonder if, just maybe, she had a hand in some of those deaths.
Doesn’t matter, though. It’s not Sloane who opens the door. It’s Wren, the girl I came here to see. The one I’ve been dying to see. My muse.
I don’t know how long I stare at her, but it must be a minute or two before I ask, “Can I come in?” The words come out full of trepidation, so unlike me, but if there’s one thing Wren taught me, it’s that I’m not myself when I’m around her. I’m someone different, someone new.
Someone who wants desperately to be better.
She doesn’t respond right away. She only stares right back at me, her brown eyes semi-squinted at me. The way she looks at me, like she doesn’t quite trust me, threatens to crack my soul in two.
But then, after an eternity, she says softly, “Sure.” She moves to the side as she holds the door, averting her gaze from me, like she can’t stare at me for too long.
I step inside the house, moving past her, not allowing myself to get too close to her in the process. If I get too close, I might be tempted to do the same thing I did the last time I was at thishouse, and I know she’s not ready for that. As badly as I want her, as much as I want to take her into my arms and hold her, taste her lips on mine again, I don’t want to push her too far.
We wind up in the living room, sitting on the couch together, although there is at least a cushion and a half between us. Enough distance that I can’t off-handedly grab her and pull her onto my lap.
Neither of us say anything right away, and it’s a heavy sort of silence that permeates the space between us. I can’t believe how uneasy I feel; it’s not something I’m used to. Then again, nothing about Wren is what I’m used to. No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, everything I want when it comes to her is new.
