Emily
I lean heavily on my palms, putting all my weight on the bathroom countertop. My pulse is pounding so loudly that I can hear it in my ears, and drawing in a deep breath is burning my lungs like someone has set a fire inside them. Perhaps that’s what he did. Or maybe he’d just shaken the pieces of me loose and now my body had to work to put me back together.
Either way, I feel like someone has torn me into two pieces. There’s the one piece of me that wants to give Logan everything he wants. It’s the piece that so very desperately wants to bare my soul to him, to tell him all of my problems. He would take them inside himself and then breathe them back out, and all my problems would vanish like in The Green Mile. I know he would. But my problems are too big for him. They’d eat him alive. And I can’t let that happen. Because there’s the other piece of me that knows I need to run like hell. I need to leave him before I hurt him.
I touch the tips of my fingers to my lips. They’re red and swollen from his kisses. I’ve never been kissed like that before. I’ve never had a man make love to my mouth. I’ve never had a man try to work his way inside my body, kissing deep inside me, while touching nothing but my mouth. But that’s what Logan did.
I need to go out there and collect my guitar, and then go. That would be the fair thing to do. But he put the tattoo on his wrist. He marked himself with my brand, and he changed it. Tears flood my eyes again, and I blink them back, using a wet paper towel to wipe the eyeliner smudge from beneath them. I look like a raccoon.
I heave a sigh. It’s no wonder the manager looked at me like I deserved all the sympathy in the world. I told him someone important had died. That’s why I looked like this. But in reality, I’m the one who died. When I left home, I died. I like the peaceful existence I’ve been creating here. I know what to expect. And I expect to face life alone. Now Logan is ruining my almost perfect existence.
I haven’t felt hope in a really long time. But I am hopeful. And that isn’t a good thing.
I push off the countertop and fluff my hair. His hands have been all over it, and it looks like I’d been tumbled in a drier. Laughter falls from my lips, completely unbidden.
I go back to the table, and he’s there. He’s eating a piece of bread, and looking up at me, quiet like he normally is. I slide into the booth across from him and settle against the seat back.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m fine.” I close my eyes tightly, trying to find the right words to explain it.
He takes my chin in his grip and I open my eyes to look at him.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says.
I shake my head. The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t force them past my teeth. “I want to talk to you,” I start. But then I wince and bite the inside of my cheek.
The waitress comes with two warm dishes, and puts them in front of us. She refills our root beers and leaves.
Logan looks down at his food and smiles. He takes a bite of his chicken, and he’s happy. He points to mine with his fork. I don’t want to eat right now. I want to hash all this out.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” he says as I fill my mouth up with alfredo. “I was afraid you’d run.”
I was afraid of that, too. And I probably still will. I circle my fork in a pile of noodles and hold it out to him. “Do you want to try mine?” I ask.
His blue eyes get all smoldery there for a minute. Then he grins and leans forward. He leans his head back after his mouth is full and chews thoughtfully. “Yours is better than mine,” he says.
I take my fork and dip it into his plate, and he grins and shakes his head. It doesn’t stop me. I chew thoughtfully on a piece of his chicken. “Mine’s better than yours,” I agree.
He shrugs and smiles. “Eat,” he says.
We eat quietly, and I steal food off his plate so often that he puts up a fork to block me. But I feed him just as much of mine as he will accept. I like this time with him. But I also liked the time in the bathroom.
When the waitress takes the plates away, I have to force myself not to ask for a to-go box. There might not be anything for me to eat tomorrow, and I hate to see food go to waste. But there won’t be anywhere for me to keep it at the shelter. That is, provided that I can find a shelter that’s not crowded already.
The table is clear between us, and the waitress comes and leaves a leather-bound folder. I reach for it, but he intercepts it. “No,” he says, shaking his head.
“But I wanted to pay,” I complain.
He shakes his head again. “No.” He slides his credit card into the slot and lays it on the edge of the table.
I reach over and take his hand, and he startles for a minute, but then his grip is strong on mine. I turn his hand over gently, looking at the inside of his wrist.
You can tell it’s a fresh tattoo, and it’s looking a bit like Fruity Pebbles, all rough and crinkly. But the design is still there. “I love this,” I say. “Will you put one on me one day?” I ask. I want one just like this one. And I want the keyhole. “How much does this cost?”
“Nothing, for you,” he says.
“I wouldn’t let you do it for free.”
He smiles. “I wouldn’t let you pay for it.”
“Do you do tattoos like the one today often?”
His brows draw together like he’s not sure what I’m referring to.