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“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, clearly lying.
He ignores my response and huffs out a tiny laugh. “Thank you.”
My lips pull up slightly. “You’re welcome.”
Logan spends the next ten minutes asking me about my day, trying to change the subject. And when I get to the part that includes him, he stops me, suddenly desperate for food.
We move around the kitchen together as though we’ve been here a million times before, and yet I’ve never stepped foot in this place. It’s like this is all part of our daily routine. Only Logan is not himself. There’s an absence in his stare as he goes through the motions. He’s trying hard not to show his emotions, and it’s breaking my heart. But I’m here for him, however he needs me.
Sandwiches in hand, we get comfortable on the couch. Logan turns on Netflix, clearly determined to feel normal, to pretend today never happened, but within minutes of pressing play, he falls asleep, his head resting against my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, he looks so peaceful, considering the day he’s had. So, instead of waking him, I awkwardly hold his head as I stand up before laying him down more comfortably.
I take one step toward the door when his hand shoots out and his fingers clasp mine, startling me in the process.
“Stay.”
It’s not a question, but it’s also not a demand. And I find myself nodding immediately.
“Okay, I’ll stay. But let’s get you to bed.”
Logan falls back asleep the second his head hits the pillow, and after sitting and staring at the wall for a few minutes, I decide to forget about all the reasons it’s a bad idea and lie down next to him, curling my body around his. And as my fingers brush his skin, I quietly curse the world for putting him through this heartache, hating that it’s something we now have in common.
I’m not sure what time I eventually fall asleep, but I know it is a while after Logan did. With too many thoughts running through my head, it’s difficult to switch off.
When I wake, I’m facing away from Logan, but my arm’s stretched behind me with my hand clasping his. Lifting slightly, I turn my head to look at him and notice he’s in a similar position, facing away from me but holding on for dear life.
My chest tightens, and a warmth spreads over me because it feels so right. No matter who reached for whom, or how it came to be, it did, and now I wish I didn’t have to let go.
“How long have I got?” Logan rasps, unmoving. It’s Tuesday, and I should be at work in an hour, but I’m not sure I can walk away.
“It’s eight,” I say, not quite answering his question.
He rolls over but doesn’t release my hand. “That late? I guess that means my time is up.”
It should be, yes. I should have left already, but, “I can stay.”
Logan’s eyes light up briefly, but then he shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”
He’s so formal that I almost laugh.
“I’m going to repeat what I said, and this time I want you to answer with honesty.”
“Okay…” Logan trails off as he lifts his head, his brows rising, a small smirk gracing his face.
“I can stay,” I repeat, tugging his hand in my direction.
Logan copies my motion, but as he pulls my hand, he moves toward me, and I end up in his arms.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not ready to let you go.”
After speaking with Logan’s grandparents to make sure Liam and Logan’s mom are okay, we spend the day avoiding the topic of his dad but enjoying each other's company. Logan shows me some of his photography work, including a shot that made it into a coveted surf magazine. I tell him about my job, about my future career plans, and my love of football, something that surprises him.
When we get to the topic of music, I get a little giddy. It’s my favorite thing to talk about, and I’ve been dying to listen to Logan play again since the tiny glimpse I got of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”
Logan chuckles at my obvious excitement, but the second he picks up the guitar, I know something’s wrong. The smile drops from his face, and his body stiffens. When he squeezes his eyes shut, it hits me.
“Let’s do something else. You mentioned you had cookie dough,” I say, not even sure that’s the right thing to do. Maybe he needs to process what he’s thinking, but I want to give him the option.
He looks over at me with obvious pain in his expression and sighs. “Dad taught me to play.”
