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Another deep sigh leaves my throat. “But you guys are fine now. That's all dead and buried.”
“Maybe for him, it is.” Taylor's eyes darken as he glances toward the window, lowering his voice. “It kills me sometimes, Salem, remembering how we got here. The shit I did. I can't change those memories, and fuck, I wish I could. Every damn day.”
“Logan isn't Huck, and I'm not you. This is different.”
“Is it?” His gaze swings back to mine, lips set in a grim line. “From what I've been seeing, I'm not so sure about that. No offense, Sally Mal, but you're kind of a bitch.”
I shove him away from me with a scowl. “Fuck you.”
“It's the truth. What has Logan ever done but worship the fucking ground you walk on? He does everything you ask and jumps when you say so. Guy's down bad for you.”
“Not everything,” I mutter, suddenly aware that the shower is no longer running. “He won't sign the divorce papers.”
“Good for him.” Taylor grins, ducking to avoid the blow I aim his way. “Look, I'm just saying. He sacrificed his shitty, boring career and his relationship with his fuck-ass of a dad to come on this tour because you asked him to. Give the guy a chance.”
“You act like I’m supposed to be grateful that he threw his life away just to follow me around like a lost puppy.”
Tayraises an eyebrow. “And you act like you're the only one who had to give up something to be here. Logan’s done a lot of compromising. Maybe you could bend a little.”
That shuts me up quickly, his words slamming into my chest like a freight train. My attention falls to the silver band hanging heavy beneath my shirt, pressing into my skin like a brand.
Deep down, I know he's right, but he doesn't understand. There's only so far you can bend until you break, and I watched my mother do it repeatedly. So many sacrifices—including her own daughter—for the sake of love. For the sanctity of marriage. She gave up her own soul.
“You don’t have to fix it tonight,” he adds gently, squeezing my shoulder. “Just… Maybe stop trying to kill him whenever he's around.”
The bathroom door creaks open, and we both freeze. Logan steps out, a towel draped around his neck, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He looks at us briefly before turning to grab a shirt from his bag, and the sight of his bare skin sends blood rushing to my cheeks.
Two dimples rest just above the waistband of his jeans, little divots I know very well. I squirm at the memory of digging my thumbs into them, a swooping sensation building in my stomach.
When he retreats into the bathroom again without a word, shutting the door softly, Taylor and I burst into a quiet fit of laughter.
“Think he heard the part where you called marriage a misogynistic hell trap?”
I groan as I drag a hand over my face. “Fuck, I hope so. Maybe it’ll finally scare him off.”
“Doubt it. That guy would let you light him on fire and thank you for it after.”
Smiling mirthlessly, my gaze drifts back to the closed bathroom door. “He really would die for me, huh?”
Taylor doesn’t laugh this time. He just studies my face as the humor fades from his eyes. “Yeah. He would. Are you just going to stand back and watch him do it?”
By the time we get to Indianapolis, my conscience won’t shut up.
The tension in the RV is unbearable. Arya talks Devon into a game of strip poker and Huck keeps trying to get Logan to talk. He doesn’t speak unless necessary, and when he does, his voice is flat and professional, like we’re all coworkers or something. Like we didn’t scream in front of everyone and throw our every insecurity in each other’s faces.
My conversation with Taylor plays repeatedly in my mind.
“Maybe you can bend a little.”
“You're kind of a bitch to him."
Okay, maybe I deserved what he said to me. Not all of it, but… some of it.
Most of it.
I’ve been mean. I’ve been spiteful. And I don’t even know if it’s because I’m angry at Logan or because I’m still angry at myself for marrying the guy.
So when we pull into the hotel parking lot—a cheap one—and the others pile out of the RV, I hang back.
