Page 19 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“And she left you for his son? Not for him, but the son?” I’m kinda being serious, but it seems to amuse Logan because he leans back and cackles.

“That’s a really good point,” he says, leaning forward again with both palms on the table. I lean in to meet him, sensing he’s about to share a secret.

“I’m not totally sure that isn’t her end game.”

Our eyes lock for a breath, and it’s both heated and somehow comfortable. We break into hard laughter at the same time, and that, too, feels nice.

We both dive into our food for a few quiet minutes, and when Logan discards half of the spicy chicken tender he decided to try, I pick it up and plop it on my salad. He sits back and folds his arms over his chest, his mouth an oddly proud type of smile.

“What?” I mutter, covering my mouth to hide the full bite I’d just taken.

“You are so interesting. You play like you’re this big brainy introvert but you have no problem stealing right from a man’s plate.”

I shrug and begin cutting his chicken piece into small cubes to mix in with the rest of my salad.

“You abandoned it.”

I glance up to catch him blink a few times before his eyes meet mine.

“I guess I did.”

I form another perfect salad bite, one mixed with chicken and cheese, then pop it into my mouth a second before Logan hits me with a dose of my own medicine.

“What went down with you and Dalton?”

I cough, choking on the lettuce. I work it out and finish chewing, staring at my still piled-high garbage salad while I take a short trip through the worst day of my life. I decide to sum everything up into an easy one-liner.

“He cheated on me with my best friend and roommate.” My eyes flit to his and he doesn’t look smug, only sorry. I’m not sure I appreciate it so I look down at my tray.

“It’s fine,” I say.

“That’s not fine,” he corrects. I’m sure his face still reads sympathy, so I keep my focus on the prongs of my fork. I push my food around a little then abandon the fork completely. “I think I’m going to box this and take it home.”

When I look up again, Logan’s moved his tray to the side and he’s sitting with his elbows propped on the table, his hands folded together and covering his mouth and chin. His eyes meet mine and in that instant, everything else around us disappears.

“If he shows up to this formal dance thing with someone, he’s going to be sorry.”

My toes flex inside my shoes buried under the table. It’s the only way I can rid myself of the instant nervous energy I am filled with due to his sudden verve for revenge on my behalf.

I haven’t really thought about the fact Stella will be back by then, and she’ll probably want to attend the ball with Dalton. She’ll get an award for her abroad studies and whatever amazing paper she penned overseas. Maybe having Logan there simply as my date without all of that extra stuff is the way to go. It certainly soothes the pangs of jealousy raging through my chest.

“Did you know that people have sex in the library?” Why the hell I decide that is the next topic to bring up beats me. Maybe it’s because talking about Dalton and thinking about him and Stella always puts me back in that space, staring at the study room and his back. My former best-friend’s bobbing head.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve done it,” Logan says, his comment so matter-of-fact. What have I been missing about college?

“I’m sorry, you’ve . . . what? Where?” I lean in again, the image of Dalton now superimposed with a new one of Logan’s bare ass pumping against a stack of books. My body rushes with heat in the brief moment I imagine it’s me being pushed against said stack. What is happening?

“You’ve never had a library tryst, Shortcake?” His voice has taken on that flirty tone, which is growing on me.

“I’m sorry, but tryst? Who are you, Mr. Darcy?” I blow right past the whole Shortcake thing. It’s also growing on me. He doesn’t need to know that, though.

“Hey, Mr. Darcy would never besmirch a woman’s honor with a tryst. It’s far more the kind of thing, say, Heathcliff would say.” He leans back and blows on his fingernails before fake polishing them on the front of his Tiff football sweatshirt, his cocky lopsided grin making an appearance.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I blubber, waving my hands over the table as if somehow I’m pausing the universe to allow me time to understand how Mr. Football, whom I’m tutoring to pass a class, knows these obscure details about English lit.

“I have a romantic side, Shortcake,” he coos, clearly understanding my surprise.

“Clearly,” I cough out.

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