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Once we reach my apartment building, he parks the motorcycle, the engine’s purr dying down to a quiet hum. He swings his leg off the bike, his boots echoing against the pavement. As I follow suit, pulling off my helmet and shaking my hair free, I feel him step up behind me, his presence comforting in the cool predawn drizzle.
As I turn, his hands cradle my face, his thumbs gently brushing the wet strands of hair sticking to my cheeks. He leans in, his breath warm against my skin, causing a shiver to ripple through me.
“God help London. Give um hell,” he murmurs.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest. His fingers gently caress my cheeks as we both instinctively move closer.
My lips burn, wishing I could feel him there.
“Fuck do I want to, but I’m not going to kiss you,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the soft patter of rain.
“Why not?” I ask, my heart hammering against my ribcage.
“Because it won’t be nearly enough. If I taste you, I’ll want all of you. And something tells me I’ll want it over and over again.”
My breath catches in my throat, and the flicker of his desire in his eyes brands me where they land.
He’s right. Kissing him wouldn’t be enough for me either.
He smiles and my chest tightens. “When you’re back… if you ever want a tattoo, or the best tacos, you know where to find me.”
“And if you want a photographer, you can look for me.”
He dips his chin.
It’s too final.
I really hate goodbyes.
“A photographer? I thought you were set on living in the black and white?”
I shrug, “Maybe I’ll give some color a try.” I don’t want to, but I step away with an understanding nod and walk toward my apartment. Turning around before I reach the steps, I can’t help myself when I say, “You’re probably right not to kiss me.”
“Why’s that?” he asks, humoring me.
“What if it’s life-changing?” I look up at the sky, feeling the fresh drops of rain on my face before resting my eyes back on him with a shake of my head. “I’m far too young for life-changing.”
Fifty
Present day
Beth
Wine.
It’s the only solution to get me through tonight.
Since giving Logan that journal, I’ve regretted it. My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I’ve thought about being sick more than once.
What was I thinking?
He’s going to take one look at those pictures and never seemeagain. He’ll only ever see my bruises, the scars no number of tattoos can cover.
But isn’t that the reason I gave it to him? To see the part of me he missed out on. To fill in the gaps.
The house suddenly feels too small, too claustrophobic. I open the back doors, letting the cool breeze sweep over my clammy skin.
His truck and bike are parked out front, so I know he’s home, but I don’t see any lights on. I want to go over there just to check. I want to see the look in his eyes when he sees me.
