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Beth
The cool breeze hits my face as I watch Logan through the window. His silhouette is outlined by the dim glow from the porch light, highlighting the intricate tattoos up his arms. He’s shirtless, working on repairing his porch. A bead of sweat slides down his sculpted chest. I bite my lip, torn between this sight and the pressing ache in my heart.
It’s been a week. A week since he looked at me for more than ten seconds or spoken more than “How are you?” before walking away.
He was in the city for three of those days, and when he’s home, he still treats the girls like the world revolves around only them. But me? I’m being pushed out of the circle.
I know what it feels like to be held captive under the heat of his stare, but this week it’s cold in the shadows, and it’s driving me crazy.
There’s a distance between us I can’t place, a tension thicker than the humid summer air.
I wrap my cardigan tighter around my frame, taking in a deep breath before I step outside. My heart pounds with every step I take towards him.
“Isn’t it a bit late for D.I.Y?” My voice cuts through the silence of the night.
He glances over at me, his eyes shadowed. My obvious attempt to approach this conversation with lightness just washed away. “Did I wake the girls?”
I love how much he cares, but tonight, I need him to look at me.
I shake my head as I wrap my arms around myself. There’s no heat in his eyes, and a chill creeps down my back. At the sight, he softens, almost putting the hammer down before changing his mind. Wordless, he continues hammering away at the loose piece of wood.
I swallow hard, twisting my hands together.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m busy, Beth,” he says, his voice low and gruff.
“I can see that, but—”
“Go home.” His words are icy, slicing through the air like a dagger.
I flinch, the sting of rejection gnawing at my chest. I search his face, trying to find an answer in his stern expression. “Did I do something wrong? Is this about the other night? I shouldn’t have drunk so much—”
“Drink every damn night if you like.”
He blows out a breath. I do too, if not to remember how to breathe, then to calm the pounding in my chest.
He turns away and picks up the hammer again. “It’s not that.”
I want to grab the hammer and tear the whole damn porch down.
My heart lurches at his dismissal, and as if on autopilot, I turn on my heels and start to head back. The knot in my stomach only grows until it takes root and spreads through my veins like poison. The ache in my heart echoes in my ears, each beat another reminder of the growing gap between us.
But I stop, my breath hitching as my feet plant themselves to the ground. As much as I pleaded with him before, he’s never turned his back on me, doing his best to gather broken pieces and put them back together, even when I wished he wouldn’t. Not because I didn’t want him near, but I didn’t want him to see. Pretending is exhausting. It takes work. And on those days when the pretending slips, it gives someone a chance to peek inside to the darkest parts of your soul. The parts you paint over just to blend in. But beneath will always lie the truth.
It's exactly what I’ve seen in Logan this week. Tonight, he’s exhausted from pretending.
Another long breath and I turn around again. This time if he wants me to go home, he can carry me. I sit down on the steps of his porch, folding my arms across my chest. I’m not going back until he speaks to me. I need to know what’s going on before I go crazy.
I don’t look at him, but I feel his eyes on me, the confusion, the frustration. Still, he remains silent. He’s a fortress, a castle with its drawbridge up, and I’m left outside, trying to weather the storm.
He should know better.
I’ve been through worse and come out stronger. I can be as stubborn as he is when I want to be. I won’t back down, not when I know he needs me, even if he can’t admit it. I’ll wait, wait until he’s ready to let down his walls and let me in. Because that’s what friends do, and Logan, whether he likes it or not, is my friend. I refuse to let him face his demons alone. Not when he’s been holding my hand while I face mine.
I’m not letting go now.
Determined, I check the baby monitor before releasing a long, bored sigh. I know it’s going to annoy him, but I need a reaction. I need emotion. I can work with that. I’m quite good at riddles.
