Page 87

“Salem…” he starts, but his words die on his tongue when blinking yellow lights dance across the windshield. His attention snaps toward the stadium. “Uh oh.”

I turn my head in time to see a flashing patrol car crest the parking lot, heading straight for us. “Oh shit. Security.”

“Grab Sitka and hang on.”

I scramble to grab the fish and buckle my seatbelt before Logan peels out like we’re in some low-budget action movie. “Jesus, Vin Diesel, slow down! It's not a cop!”

“Well, I'm not sticking around to find out,” he shoots back, eyes on the rearview mirror. “Is he following us?”

Twisting around, I watch the lights shrink in the distance as we speed toward the freeway. “Nope. We live to bone another day.”

“Nice.” Logan grins, his usually tidy hair a mess. He looks freshly fucked.

I cackle and settle into my seat, pulse still racing from the most anticlimactic police chase in history. Right at that moment, my stomach growls loudly. “Ah, fuck, I'm hungry.”

“Food?”

“Food.”

We stop for some takeout and eat in the car, debating movies like old times. Logan tears into his chow mien like he hasn’t eaten in days. Sauce drips onto the leather seats, I get rice everywhere and steal sips of his soda. Neither of us cares about the mess. It feels… nice. Comfortable. Even Sitka seems content to bob toward the surface of his bowl like he wants to join the conversation.

Sighing deeply, I set my trash aside and stare at the moon with my feet on the dash. “I forgot what this felt like.”

Logan pauses mid-bite. “What?”

“Not hating you.”

When all I get is crickets in response, I turn to find him gazing at me wistfully.

“We were good together, huh?” he says softly, reaching for my hand.

I allow him to thread our fingers together. “Yeah. We were.”

We were.

…but maybe we could be again, somehow.

Our joined hands rest on the center console, avoiding the condom in the cup holder. Another silence settles in, but this time, it's calm. Comfortable. Logan starts the car again to take us back, and he doesn't pull away. Neither do I.

There are still things left unspoken between us, like divorce papers, but I realize I don’t want to ruin this moment by reopening that wound. For once, I just want to breathe. Feel. I want to let our hearts heal before reality smacks us in the face tomorrow morning.

So I let the moment stretch on, let the quiet carry us through the city streets as headlights flicker past like ghosts of the versions we used to be. Onto bigger and better things.

Logan squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back, clinging to the only thing that’s kept my head above water these past few months: Hope.

Hope that maybe somehow, someday, we can find a path back to each other.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

Logan

By the time we return to the RV, the quiet between us has stretched into something almost sacred. Salem doesn’t let go of my hand until our headlights catch on the metal siding, and I savor the contact, unsure of the next time I’ll be able to touch her.

We’ve reached a stalemate—a ceasefire. I won't fool myself into thinking we could ever be anything more than friends who maybe mess around on the side, but… that thought somehow doesn't hurt anymore. I love her. I’ll always want her in my life, but I know that I can't keep her. Not without snuffing her flame. And I'm okay with that, because she wouldn't be Salem if she lost her fire.

We share a secretive smile as she grabs Sitka before opening her door, and I follow suit. The moment we step out of the car, though, the vibe shifts instantly. Lights are on inside the RV, but the door hangs from its hinges like someone tried to rip it off. The bikes are on their sides in the dirt. Taylor's truck is gone, and when we make it to the steps, I catch droplets of crimson on the ground.