"Wait. There was a second time?" My voice rose. I couldn't control it.
He let out a slow breath. "Sweetheart," he hesitated a second. "After that night, with everything that happened to you, and to him, he shut down. He blocked out the world and he turned in on himself. He didn't leave the pool house; he didn't speak to anyone. He barely ate. He barely existed. He turned back into that little boy that I'd first met."
"I'm sorry."
"You have no need to be. That's how he copes with things. He doesn't know how to verbalize things properly. His child psychiatrist warned me about it—that it might never solve itself. She said maybe someday, something might happen, and he could turn right back around. I guess that night, when his father came back—that was someday."
I tried to picture it in my mind—Logan, alone in that pool house, barely existing. And then I imagined me—alone in our house, barely existing. We could have barely existed together.
"Anyway," Alan's tone brightened, "I have pictures here of when he was around thirteen. I'm pretty sure that was the age he started to believe he was God's gift to women."
I couldn't help but laugh. "That's so Logan."
"Yes. Yes it is." He started to flip through the albums. "There's a few where he's flexing his scrawny little muscles. He thought he was jacked."
I threw my head back in laughter.
"Here it is," he said handing me the album. Sure enough, there he was, flexing his nonexistent prepubescent muscles. He had that same cocky smirk I was so familiar with.
I shook my head and ran my thumb over the picture. "This is so Logan."
My Logan.
So that's what we did—talked about past-Logan for the rest of the night.
And then, somehow, I found myself cooking Taco Casserole in his kitchen every other Sunday.
6
I didn't do much else apart from school, work and the occasional gym session. The self-defense classes Ethan made me do were actually a blessing. I'd learned more about male genitalia than any girl needed to know—unless, of course, you're using that knowledge to battle monsters.
I'd started running, too—on a treadmill. I never really understood running as an activity. It always kind of confused me why so many girls in books ran. Then I read a book where the hero explained to the heroine the benefits of running—about how it releases endorphins and can make you feel. I needed to feel, so I jumped on the treadmill, and forty-five minutes later, when I finally hopped off, I felt different. Maybe it was just in my head, or maybe it really did help.
"Will you run with me?" I turned to face Tyson on the sofa next to me. His eyes moved from the TV and slowly made their way to mine. He had a mouthful of popcorn. "What?" he said, popcorn falling out of his mouth.
"You're such a kid. Don't talk with your mouth full."
He swallowed. "You want me to run with you?"
I nodded.
He shrugged.
The front door creaked open and banged close, and I felt Ethan behind me. He tapped me on my shoulder. When I turned to face him, he had a solemn look in his face. Then he showed me the envelope in his hand. I was confused for a second, but then I saw the international stamp, and my name on the front.
Logan.
I closed my bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed. My knee bounced like crazy. My hands shook. My heart pounded against my chest. Sweat built on my forehead. I inhaled deeply, and then let it out slowly. "Okay," I encouraged myself. I slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Pretty girl,
I don't even know where to start. You've probably heard that I've been traveling around. Dad contacted a few people, and I’m working with Doctors Without Borders. I don't know if you've heard of them, but they do a bunch of relief work all over the world. I was helping this one kid, and his mom went into labor, right in front of me. One of the doctors delivered the baby and I was there. I witnessed it all. I was the second person to hold that baby. And you’re right—what you say about them. That they’re miracles. They really are. I wanted so badly to call you after it happened, to tell you all about it. And to tell you that you should do it, become a midwife, or at least try, because it’s such an amazing feeling, and you would be so perfect for it.
But I didn’t call, because I knew it wouldn’t be fair to you. Neither is writing this letter, I guess. But I don’t know. I just kind of felt like I needed to. I just needed you to know that I was thinking of you.
Anyway, I’m sure that you don’t care about what some asshole thousands of miles away is doing. I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay . . . not that I expected you to worry about me, or anything.
I guess the real reason I’m writing is because I wanted to tell you that I hope you’re doing well. And I guess I wanted you to know that I understand. I understand that you hate me. And as much as it hurts, I know that I deserve it. But I just didn’t want to go another day without telling you, just in case you had any doubts, that there’s not a single part of me that feels that way about you. All that we had, every moment we shared, it meant everything to me. Everything you felt, I felt it, too. It was the hardest thing to do, to walk away from you, from us, but I had to do it, because you deserve so much more. And I hope you see that. I hope that you’ve moved on and found some guy who treats you like the amazingly beautiful girl you are. And that he knows how lucky he is to have you. I hope he appreciates every single thing about you. And I hope that he loves you and gives you the world, Amanda.
Because I would have.
If shit didn’t get in the way with us, I would have.
I would've given you the entire universe, because that’s what you deserve.
And I want you to know, that I wasn’t lying. Those last words I said to you, they are yours. And so am I. Forever.
Because I do love you, Amanda.
And that’s the truth.
Logan.
***
Ty lazily walked into the room and sat on my desk chair. I was still staring at the letter in my hand.
"You okay?" he asked, jerking his head towards the letter.
I cleared my throat. "Yeah." I put the piece of paper back in the envelope and placed it in my handbag on the desk. I started to walk away but he held on to my hand, stopping me. I turned to face him, confused. "What's up?"
He pulled on my hand and spread his legs so I could stand between them. A part of me started to panic. Another part of me was curious.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Was it from him?" he ground out.
I nodded once. He put one hand on my hip and brought me closer to him. "Come here," he said quietly, pulling me down until I was sitting on his lap.
"Tyson, I don't think—"
"Don't think," he cut in, resting his hand on the side of my face. My eyes drifted shut. My breath hitched. Then his lips were on mine. Slowly and softly, he kissed me, and I kissed back. He made a sound and brought my face closer to his, his tongue darted out and licked my lips. I opened my mouth for him. The instant our tongues touched, we both pulled back.
He let out a slow breath. "Sweetheart," he hesitated a second. "After that night, with everything that happened to you, and to him, he shut down. He blocked out the world and he turned in on himself. He didn't leave the pool house; he didn't speak to anyone. He barely ate. He barely existed. He turned back into that little boy that I'd first met."
"I'm sorry."
"You have no need to be. That's how he copes with things. He doesn't know how to verbalize things properly. His child psychiatrist warned me about it—that it might never solve itself. She said maybe someday, something might happen, and he could turn right back around. I guess that night, when his father came back—that was someday."
I tried to picture it in my mind—Logan, alone in that pool house, barely existing. And then I imagined me—alone in our house, barely existing. We could have barely existed together.
"Anyway," Alan's tone brightened, "I have pictures here of when he was around thirteen. I'm pretty sure that was the age he started to believe he was God's gift to women."
I couldn't help but laugh. "That's so Logan."
"Yes. Yes it is." He started to flip through the albums. "There's a few where he's flexing his scrawny little muscles. He thought he was jacked."
I threw my head back in laughter.
"Here it is," he said handing me the album. Sure enough, there he was, flexing his nonexistent prepubescent muscles. He had that same cocky smirk I was so familiar with.
I shook my head and ran my thumb over the picture. "This is so Logan."
My Logan.
So that's what we did—talked about past-Logan for the rest of the night.
And then, somehow, I found myself cooking Taco Casserole in his kitchen every other Sunday.
6
I didn't do much else apart from school, work and the occasional gym session. The self-defense classes Ethan made me do were actually a blessing. I'd learned more about male genitalia than any girl needed to know—unless, of course, you're using that knowledge to battle monsters.
I'd started running, too—on a treadmill. I never really understood running as an activity. It always kind of confused me why so many girls in books ran. Then I read a book where the hero explained to the heroine the benefits of running—about how it releases endorphins and can make you feel. I needed to feel, so I jumped on the treadmill, and forty-five minutes later, when I finally hopped off, I felt different. Maybe it was just in my head, or maybe it really did help.
"Will you run with me?" I turned to face Tyson on the sofa next to me. His eyes moved from the TV and slowly made their way to mine. He had a mouthful of popcorn. "What?" he said, popcorn falling out of his mouth.
"You're such a kid. Don't talk with your mouth full."
He swallowed. "You want me to run with you?"
I nodded.
He shrugged.
The front door creaked open and banged close, and I felt Ethan behind me. He tapped me on my shoulder. When I turned to face him, he had a solemn look in his face. Then he showed me the envelope in his hand. I was confused for a second, but then I saw the international stamp, and my name on the front.
Logan.
I closed my bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed. My knee bounced like crazy. My hands shook. My heart pounded against my chest. Sweat built on my forehead. I inhaled deeply, and then let it out slowly. "Okay," I encouraged myself. I slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.
Pretty girl,
I don't even know where to start. You've probably heard that I've been traveling around. Dad contacted a few people, and I’m working with Doctors Without Borders. I don't know if you've heard of them, but they do a bunch of relief work all over the world. I was helping this one kid, and his mom went into labor, right in front of me. One of the doctors delivered the baby and I was there. I witnessed it all. I was the second person to hold that baby. And you’re right—what you say about them. That they’re miracles. They really are. I wanted so badly to call you after it happened, to tell you all about it. And to tell you that you should do it, become a midwife, or at least try, because it’s such an amazing feeling, and you would be so perfect for it.
But I didn’t call, because I knew it wouldn’t be fair to you. Neither is writing this letter, I guess. But I don’t know. I just kind of felt like I needed to. I just needed you to know that I was thinking of you.
Anyway, I’m sure that you don’t care about what some asshole thousands of miles away is doing. I just wanted to tell you that I’m okay . . . not that I expected you to worry about me, or anything.
I guess the real reason I’m writing is because I wanted to tell you that I hope you’re doing well. And I guess I wanted you to know that I understand. I understand that you hate me. And as much as it hurts, I know that I deserve it. But I just didn’t want to go another day without telling you, just in case you had any doubts, that there’s not a single part of me that feels that way about you. All that we had, every moment we shared, it meant everything to me. Everything you felt, I felt it, too. It was the hardest thing to do, to walk away from you, from us, but I had to do it, because you deserve so much more. And I hope you see that. I hope that you’ve moved on and found some guy who treats you like the amazingly beautiful girl you are. And that he knows how lucky he is to have you. I hope he appreciates every single thing about you. And I hope that he loves you and gives you the world, Amanda.
Because I would have.
If shit didn’t get in the way with us, I would have.
I would've given you the entire universe, because that’s what you deserve.
And I want you to know, that I wasn’t lying. Those last words I said to you, they are yours. And so am I. Forever.
Because I do love you, Amanda.
And that’s the truth.
Logan.
***
Ty lazily walked into the room and sat on my desk chair. I was still staring at the letter in my hand.
"You okay?" he asked, jerking his head towards the letter.
I cleared my throat. "Yeah." I put the piece of paper back in the envelope and placed it in my handbag on the desk. I started to walk away but he held on to my hand, stopping me. I turned to face him, confused. "What's up?"
He pulled on my hand and spread his legs so I could stand between them. A part of me started to panic. Another part of me was curious.
He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. "Was it from him?" he ground out.
I nodded once. He put one hand on my hip and brought me closer to him. "Come here," he said quietly, pulling me down until I was sitting on his lap.
"Tyson, I don't think—"
"Don't think," he cut in, resting his hand on the side of my face. My eyes drifted shut. My breath hitched. Then his lips were on mine. Slowly and softly, he kissed me, and I kissed back. He made a sound and brought my face closer to his, his tongue darted out and licked my lips. I opened my mouth for him. The instant our tongues touched, we both pulled back.
