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Logan sighs contentedly. “Fuck yeah. You’re letting me in, Theo. Just you wait. I’m gonna show you, you can trust me.”
My throat feels thick so I just nod again and stand up to take a shower. When I see my sleepy eyes in the bathroom mirror, I tell myself to steel my heart and to hang on tight to the last remaining shred of doubt, because it’s my only protection against getting hurt.
But it’s a farce. When I look deep inside of myself, I realize there’s not even a shred left. My doubt is gone, and the truth is, I do trust Logan. I trust that he won’t intentionally hurt me. But I still don’t know how he feels about me, about us, and if what we have can last.
All I do know is: there is no steeling my heart. It’s already thawed, completely melted, and at his mercy.
* * *
When I walk into the coffee shop, my hand in Logan’s, I immediately catch sight of my father. He looks thin and pale, like the last time I’d seen him. He’s definitely not well. That much is obvious.
He stands from his seat as we approach and Logan squeezes my hand briefly in reassurance.
He’s here. I’m not alone.
“Hi,” I say weakly, leaning a little into Logan’s side for support.
“Hey,” my dad says, his brows furrowing as he takes in Logan. He never was okay with my sexuality, but instead of saying anything this time, he just averts his gaze and gestures for us to sit.
“Want any coffee?” Logan asks me, his voice low.
But I can’t drink anything. My stomach hurts. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll vomit.
“No, but you go ahead.”
Logan eyes my dad warily and I reassure him. “Go on. I’m fine.”
He moves away from me reluctantly and then I’m left alone with my father.
“Theo,” he says, his hands cupped around the coffee mug in front of him. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up.”
“Me either.”
He glances over at Logan who is ordering while watching me intently.
“Your boyfriend?” he asks.
“No,” I say, and it’s the truth because I don’t know what we are. I know we’re no longer just friends and I know what I want us to be. But we haven’t actually talked about it. I’m too chicken to bring it up, and I don’t know what Logan wants. Until then, I can’t speak for him.
My dad spins that mug around and around and I blurt out, “What do you have?”
He seems to know what I’m referring to because he replies, “Pancreatic cancer.”
My stomach churns and I nod lamely. “I’m sorry.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything as Logan approaches us, sits down next to me, and pulls my chair as close as he possibly can to his.
“I’m Logan,” he says.
“Sutherland.”
“Nice to meet you,” Logan says, his hand resting on my lap.
I link my fingers with his and let out a sigh of relief.
This isn’t going terribly, so far.
“Will you be moving out here?” I ask. “Or commuting?”
