Authors: A. L. Jackson
From over my shoulder, I forced a smile as I sidestepped around the mess. “Don’t worry about it. You should see mine. I think I have enough laundry to keep me busy for the next three months.”
He placed a warm hand on the small of my back as he guided me, bringing us out into a short hall. “To the left,” he instructed, prodding me forward with the heat of his hand.
A sharp breath left me. I wasn’t sure I liked it.
I hurried ahead.
He dropped his hand and began flipping on lights as we headed toward the front of his house. We stepped into the family room and he wove around to the far wall to flip on the light.
His home was much like mine, modest, the tiny rooms stuffed with so many mementos that it was cluttered in the most comfortable way.
I’d been here several times, dropping Lizzie off or picking her up, and of course I’d been inside during the barbeque last weekend. But being here, alone with him, it felt entirely different. Claustrophobic. Confined.
From where he stood on the other side of the couch, he smiled at me. “It’s quiet in here without the girls running around, isn’t it?”
I guess maybe he felt it, too.
“Yeah,” I said. Too quiet.
I fixed a plaintive smile on him, not really knowing what I was doing here, wondering why I stayed.
God, I was so messed up. Wrecked. I realized it a long time ago as I’d been lost in my misery. As my mind had begun to clear, I’d accepted it. Maybe even understood it.
My eyes narrowed as I studied Logan from across the room, and I wondered if he saw it in me. Did he know how broken I was? Did he know I was a mess? That most mornings, I could barely get out of bed?
Did he know I ached for a little girl I would never again hold? Did he know she haunted me? Did he know I’d never let her go?
What was he after? A fast fix? A fuck? A vulnerable woman who lacked common sense because she was blinded by pain?
Maybe I could give him that.
Maybe for a few minutes, it would cover it, the hurt and the sorrow and the cruelty of this world.
Or did he see something different in me? A companion. Someone who understood. A parent with similar circumstances, someone who was alone, one who was spinning away her days until something finally made sense.
Would it ever?
Because nothing made sense now. Not being here. Not looking at him. Not the confusion wreaking havoc on my emotions.
Maybe the most important question was the one that burned bright, the one that nagged, the one that promised Christian could never be scraped from my consciousness. No blade was sharp enough. No cut could ever go deep enough.
Did Logan know he could never compare?
Standing here, in his house, watching him from across the span of this tiny room, this nonchalant man with the insipid smile, I knew. I knew the mark Christian had made. It was profound. Permanent.
And it ached.
Logan tipped his head toward the kitchen archway. “I’d better check on the sauce. I’m making spaghetti, if that’s okay?”
Delirious laughter threatened, but I bit it back, held it in. Of course he was. The past seemed to be mocking me. Maybe such a simple dinner was common, but it didn’t matter. It still belonged to Christian and me. How many times had we stood in my tiny kitchen after we had reconciled, Christian’s arms wrapped around my expanding waist, his face buried in my hair as he sought out my neck, kissing me there. I could almost hear his voice in my ear.
Are you making my favorite? Smells so good, baby. You spoil me. Let me finish
.
I drew in a staggered breath.
“Yeah, that’s great,” I forced out.
Concern deepened the lines on Logan’s face. He cocked his head. “You sure? Because if you don’t like spaghetti, I can dump it and start over. Better yet, we could go out to dinner.”
I realized then how clueless he was. He didn’t know me. The man had no idea what hurt me and what touched me. What would turn me on and what would shut me down.
I shook a little.
Was that what I wanted?
To start fresh?
To leave behind all the memories that would forever haunt me? Did I want to forget the ones that had meant most to me in favor of shunning the hurt?
It seemed the only option, because I didn’t know how else to stand up under the pain.
A soft sound sifted from me, and I shook my head. “No, honestly, I love spaghetti. It’s one of my favorites.”
His concern washed to confusion. “All right, then.” He turned and passed through the archway.
I followed him into his kitchen. It was small, but updated. The black granite countertops gleamed with specks of silver, black appliances to match, the dark wood cabinets warm.
I tried to relax within it. It was one of the coziest kitchens I’d ever been in, a lot like those we’d seen in the homes Christian and I had been looking to buy.
Logan went straight for the large skillet simmering on the stove. He lifted the lid. Steam curled as it rose, and he leaned over it to take in the aroma.
“Mmm…smells good.” He opened a drawer beside him, rustled around inside, and produced a spoon. He dipped it into the thick, red sauce. “Here…taste.”
He held it out for me, an offering.
Cautiously I approached, this timorous edge to my movements. My lips parted as I leaned forward to accept the spoon. He cupped his hand under it as he lifted it to my mouth and slipped it inside.
It was hot, burned my tongue, the savory sauce strong. I swallowed and pulled away, our faces too close as eager green eyes studied me. “It’s delicious,” I mumbled.
His brow shot up. “Yeah?”
“Honest.”
He smiled and raked his teeth on his bottom lip. Then he laughed, the sound cocky and sure, breaking the band of tension that had stretched us tight.
“Well, that’s a damn good thing, Liz, because it’s my mom’s special recipe. Not liking my momma’s food is a deal breaker.”
I shook my head, looked at my feet as I laughed away my discomfort, forcing myself to relax. I cautioned a glance up at him beneath the heavy drop of bangs that had fallen across my forehead. “Deal breaker, huh? And just what kind of deal am I agreeing to?”
He chuckled and scratched at the fine stubble on his chin. “Well, I guess that depends on how much you can handle.”
Everything slowed, that thick cord of tension making a resurgence, sucking the air from this little room.
I stepped back, and he turned his head down and to the side, his hands on his hips. He grinned when he looked back up, quick to change the subject.
“Would you like a glass of wine?”
He busied himself searching through the small wine rack tucked at the end of the counter, pulled a bottle out and held it up. “Red okay?”
I forced myself into a detached demeanor, told myself again that I had to try. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”
Opening an overhead cabinet, he produced two wine glasses. His lips pressed into a thin line as he worked the cork free on the bottle and pulled it loose. He filled the glasses halfway, passed one to me. He glimmered a smile.
He held out his glass. “To our little girls who are growing up.”
Lillie struck me like an errant bolt of lightning. My child who would never grow. I squeezed my eyes against it, against his words, and focused instead on my Lizzie. Reluctantly I clinked my glass his.
“To our little girls.”
We both took a deep pull of our wine.
He lifted his glass, tipped it just to the side, gesturing toward the stove. “I’m just going to get the water started for the pasta. Then we can sit down and relax a bit before we eat.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nah, relax. Enjoy yourself.”
He got the water ready to boil and turned back to me. His mouth curved in clear perusal, as if he liked what he saw. He took five steps toward me, each one cutting off a little more of the airflow that fed my deflated lungs.
He held out his hand. “Come here.”
I let my hand slip into his. It was a test, to see how it would feel.
And maybe it was wrong, all of it, his skin against mine, my surrender. But I wanted to try.
I needed to try, because I was so tired of feeling dead. I wanted to
feel
. But when I gave into feeling, I couldn’t bear for it to hurt. I’d hurt for too long. For just one night, I wanted to feel good.
Not the way I knew Christian’s touch would burn me, the way it blessed me and bled me, the way he would singe me as his fingers traced my skin, the way he would sear me with his kiss.
I couldn’t handle anything so intense.
Something knotted at the center of my chest, something heavy, something vital.
I breathed around it.
Logan led me back into the family room and set his glass down on the end table. He swept his free hand across a rumpled blanket and dog-eared parenting book abandoned in the middle of the couch, pushing them aside.
A grin flitted at one corner of his mouth. “I warned you my place was a mess.”
An awkward huff worked its way free of my tightened throat, me standing there with my hand wound with a man’s that I didn’t even know.
And again, I was asking myself what I was doing, just what it was I hoped to achieve.
I will try
.
He squeezed my hand and pulled me in front of him, guiding me to sit on the smooth leather of his dark brown couch. I sat perched at the edge, ill at ease, a subtle rock of my being as I fought against the urge to run, the desire to stay.
I want to feel something good
.
Picking up his glass, Logan sat down beside me. He talked about the girl’s teacher, the school, laughed about how stressful it was being in charge of the group of six girls he’d chaperoned on the field trip last week.
I engaged him the best I could, laughed in all the right places because I had nothing to add. I’d been absent the entirety of this school year, absent from our lives.
I will try
.
We sipped at our wine, talked about nothing.
Logan set his empty wine glass aside and moved to sit on the large square ottoman in front of me. He took my hand in both of his. “I’m really glad you’re here, Liz.”
I blinked. Emotions lashed within me. Volatile. Violent. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”
He seemed to choke over his laughter. It seemed so out of character for this man, but then I had to admit, I really didn’t know him at all. He was my daughter’s friend’s father. Nothing more. And here I sat with my hand burning between the heat of both of his.
Pulling back, he splayed what seemed to be a nervous hand through his messy hair. For a moment, he looked away, then turned his attention back to me. All the casualness I’d come to expect from him evaporated, severity taking its place.
“I’ve wanted to do something since the first time I saw you.” His hands tightened on mine as he inclined his head, searching, seeking permission.
I chewed at my lip, that disquiet from before bold, sinking aggressive fingers into my spirit.
“See…that…right there. It drives me insane, Liz. That mouth.”
He took my face in his hands, his hold strong, fierce as he stared at me with zealous eyes. When he leaned forward, I didn’t stop him. I let him. I wanted to feel.
Could he? Could he cover the pain? Expose something in me that was good?
His lips brushed mine, a breath, a brush, insignificance.
Still, it stole what little air I could find.
A whimper passed my parted lips. Something he seemed to mistake as desire. He pressed harder, his firm lips searching
mine. He groaned and jerked back, his hold unfailing as his attention jumped all over my face. He gripped me tight.
“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long. Did you know that, Liz? That I’ve been wanting to taste you? And you taste amazing.”
He lifted his chin, inclined his head as he dipped, and he searched me again, his mouth powerful as it explored mine. Then he deepened it, his tongue making a rough pass across my trembling bottom lip.
A jagged gasp ripped through my constricted airways. Tore through me with an avenging fury.
This kiss.
It was shattering.
Shred me to pieces, splintered as it fell, demolished the walls I’d erected around me.
This kiss came with a ruthless force.
It cut me open.
Splayed the wounds wide. They bled, surged, flooded me in everything I’d never wanted to feel again.
My mind shot to Christian, and suddenly I was back on my family room couch. And I could feel him, feel him holding me.
“I love you, Christian. Always. There is nothing that could make me stop loving you. Nothing that could make me stop needing you. You are my start and you are my finish, the one who’s going to be there for everything in between.”
And I
felt
…but I felt everything I’d been so desperately trying to shut out.
It hurt.
Oh my God, it hurt so bad.
I fisted Logan’s shirt, needing something to hang on to.
He edged forward, his hand coming to the back of my neck as he kissed me.
I was drowning.
Incredulous laughter shot from my mouth in a contemptuous scoff. “What do you mean, how can I say that?” I pushed up on my knees. “I was the one who carried her, Christian.” I jabbed my finger to my chest. “I was the one who loved her and cared for her. She died inside of me and I had to give birth to her.” I lifted my chin. “So yeah, I can say that…you have no idea what I’m feeling. None.”
His entire face twisted in contention. “You think she meant less to me than to you? You think my heart isn’t broken over this?”
“You wouldn’t even touch her.” It dripped from my mouth as a sneer
.
Anger bled free.
Overbearing.
Brutal.
Destructive.
A sob tore up my throat.
Logan jerked back, holding my face at a distance as if to hold back the chaos raging though me, panic firing in his green eyes. “Oh my God, Liz, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”
We both jumped when we heard the crash at the front door. Our attention whipped around just as Christian barreled in. He seemed to get knocked to a standstill when he saw Logan and me twisted up together.