Page 43 of The Wanderer

When he stomped back into the living room she lamented the loss of all that beautiful skin. He'd tugged on jeans in a hurry, leaving the top button undone, and shrugged into a white T-shirt that highlighted the muscular chest beneath.

"I want you to leave."

Yeah, she’d got what she wanted all right. She disgusted him so much he couldn’t wait to see the back of her. But her feet couldn’t move. She willed them too but they remained rooted to the spot as she struggled not to blurt the truth.

"I said leave. We're over."

He almost yelled the last part and she flinched. Not from the cadence of his voice but from hearing the finality of those two words. Words she’d provoked him into saying but words that tore her apart regardless.

"Goodbye, Logan."

He couldn't meet her eyes and stared at the TV relic in the corner. Stupidly, she wished he’d look her in the eyes so she might glimpse something, anything, that proved he felt half of what she was feeling for him.

She wished he’d question her irrational behaviour, that he’d push for answers. Because she loved him, she might’ve told him the truth, about everything.

Instead, he backed up a few steps and opened the front door. Only then did he meet her gaze, defiant and challenging. But behind the defiance she glimpsed hurt. A world of pain she knew too well.

She understood pain. She'd channelled hers into being a productive, proud human being who’d broken free of the disappointments of her past. Yet a flawed one, because by falling for Logan she'd screwed up in a big way.

She couldn’t trust him with the truth; she couldn’t trust him, period. And while that choice was all on her, it left her alone, devastated, and yearning for something she could never have: a man to love.

So she did what had to be done.

She walked out the door without looking back.

Chapter Twenty-One

Logan slunk into the comedy club and found a seat in the darkest corner. The buzz of happy voices filled the air, mingling with the soft pop playing in the background. There were plenty of empty seats scattered around the periphery of the small room. Guess his dad wasn't as popular after all these years as he used to think he was.

Stephen had never known that Logan had scoured the newspapers and online sites for any snippet in relation to his dad. There weren't a lot in the early days but as Stephen Holmes became more known on the comedy circuit the mentions increased. Logan had systematically printed out those articles, no matter how innocuous, and pasted them into a scrapbook.

Which he'd burned after his mum's funeral.

Stephen had been dead to him, why keep a physical reminder of the man who consistently let him down his entire childhood?

He shouldn't be here. Not when disappointment still clogged his chest an hour after he'd ended things with Hope.

She didn't get it. Didn't get him. She'd taken one look at his house and virtually accused him of lying about his wealth. Fuck. Just because he didn't flaunt it, she'd labelled him a douchebag; or something akin to it.

If she'd given him a chance to explain, he might've taken it. He might've opened up about how the humble weatherboard in Footscray was the only place he truly felt at home. That he'd purchased it after saving for two years on his meagre apprentice wage. That he purposefully kept it simple because it reminded him of where he'd come from.

He may not have been back to Rally-Doo since he'd packed his bags after his mum's funeral and headed to Melbourne, but every time he set foot in his place he felt like he'd come home again.

He hadn't picked Hope for a snob. So the way she'd misjudged him so badly rankled and he'd overreacted.

The sex had been phenomenal as usual but there'd been something more this time…a deeper connection that terrified yet exhilarated. He couldn't stick around in Melbourne for her and he certainly wouldn't have her waiting around for whenever he lobbed into town, but while he'd showered he'd actually contemplated various scenarios of how they could make a relationship work.

Then she'd looked down her snooty nose at his place, he'd exploded, and that was the end of that.

He should be glad. They'd had a clean break. No emotional declarations, no drawn-out goodbyes. He hated fuss.

But he wasn't glad. The hollow ache in his chest testified to that. He felt empty, like the day he'd discovered his mum dead on the kitchen floor, as if the only good thing in his life had been sucked away.

A waitress approached and he shook his head. He didn't want a drink. He wanted to confront the demons of his past and finally get some closure. Having this unresolved tension with his dad, combined with the guilt that he wouldn't have known about Stephen's cancer until after he'd died, didn't sit well. He would meet with his father and have the conversation they should've had over a decade ago.

Stephen had returned his call, leaving a message about potentially meeting up next week.

Logan couldn't wait that long.

---