Page 47 of Somewhere Without You
“Nobodylikessalads,” he snorted.
I shrugged. “I do.”
“No. . . you don’t,”he argued, flagging down the waitress.
A weathered woman with a permanent scowl and a voice held hostage by years of cigarette use shuffled over.“Yeah?”She croaked, hands on her hips.
“Can Igetanother burger?” he asked, his eyes lingering on me with quiet amusement.
She snorted, muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like “bottomless pit,” then turned on her heels and shuffled back toward the kitchen.
“Another one?”I asked.“Do youevenknowhow many calories are in one of those?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”He smirked.“Besides, it’s not for me. It’s for you.”
“I’m not eatingthat,”I replied sharply.
He ignored me, pushing away his plate as he leaned back into the vinyl booth. His eyes met mine.“Why are you here?”
I stared at him, confused.“You said you wanted to eat here.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “I mean why are youhere. . . in Windhaven?”
My fork clinked against the plate.“Gran died. I thoughtthatwasobvious.”
“Igetthat,” he said. “What I don’tgetis why you’restillhere.” I stared down at my plate—atthatlonely scrap of lettuce I couldn’tevenbring myself to eat. “If you came back to bury Gran, where’s your sister?” He leaned in. “And your husband—shouldn’t he be here too?”
My head snapped up. “How did you know I was married?” I asked, frowning.“Have you been keeping tabs on me?”
Logan shrugged, like itwasthe most natural thing in the world.“I might have checked in on you once or twice.”
I blinked, bitterness rising on my tongue. “How da—”
“Can Igetyou anything else?”the waitress cut in, sliding a plate between us.
Logan shook his head, and she trudged off.“Eat up,”he said, his gaze locked on mine.
I shoved the plate away. “I lost my appetite.”
“Seemsyou’ve lost more thanthat,” he shot back.
I sighed.“What do you want from me, Logan?”
“The truth would benice,” he said, folding his arms across his chest.
“I told you already,” I mumbled, tired of repeating myself. “I came back for Gran.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But the way his eyes narrowed told me he wasn’t buying it—and I hated how that made my stomach twist.
“You expect me to believe that?” he asked, shaking his head.
My jaw tightened. “I didn’t ask you to believe anything.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “You always were a terrible liar.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. The truthwastoobig, too raw. I traced the edge of my plate with my fork, avoiding eye contact.
“Itwasn’tperfect,”Ifinallyconfessed. My throatfelttight, as if a fistwereclenchedaround it.“I. . . I couldn’t stay. Not anymore.”My voice cracked. I wanted to run—to disappear under the booth.
