Page 69 of Somewhere Without You
“Hey,”he shrugged, mimicking the gesture with the other roll,“at least we’ll have a hell of a story.”
I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. One minutewe’dbeen wrapped in heat and hunger, ready to burn the house down, and the next wewerebruised, bleeding, and icing our injuries with frozen bread.
Ifthatwasn’tan accurate description of my life, I didn’tknowwhatwas.
Logan chuckled along with me, though he winced when the roll shifted.“Well,”he said, pressing it back into place,“I can’t say our reunionhasbeen boring.”
“That’s one word for it,”I giggled, sinking deeper into the couch.
The laughterslowlyfaded, leaving behind a warm quiet. Not uncomfortable—justreal. Like a curtainhaddroppedbetween us and wewerefinallyseeing each other, bruises and all.
Logan turned toward me, resting the roll on his knee.“Youknow, I meant what I said earlier. I love you, Emily. I always have.”
Ilookeddown at the dinner roll clutched in my hand, nowslightlythawed and damp with condensation. Itwasridiculous, this whole situation—butmaybethatwasthe point.Maybelovewasn’talways neat and tidy.Maybesometimes itwasclumsy and bruised, patched together with frozen bread and unsaid words.
“I’m still trying to figure out who I am without him,”I confessed.“I’m still trying tofeellike I’m worthy of love.”
Logan’s voicewaslowbut reassuring.“Thenlet me remind you.”
Ilookedat him andsawthe man whohadwaited, the man whohadcomeback. Not to fix me, not to save me, but to stand beside me.
My heart crackedwideopen.
“Okay,”I whispered.“Remind me.”
He leaned forward again—slower this time, and kissed me. Not out of desperation, or uncertainty, but with the quiet conviction of someone whoknewexactlywhat he wanted. Me. Every wound, every sharp jagged edge.
He didn’t flinch from the broken parts or shy away from the scars I tried to hide.Hewasn’tafraid of the darkness I carried. Itwaslike hesawit and chose meanyway.
Andinthatmoment, wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the hush of the firelight, Ifeltsomething Ihadn’tin years—safe.
Thirty Nine
Morninglightslippedthroughthe windows, brushing the worn floorboards in soft gold. The living room smelled faintly of smoke, with whisps of it still curling over white ash in the fireplace.
Fora few blissful seconds, I didn’t remember where Iwasor howI’dfallenasleep—thenit all came rushing back. The slashed tires. The keyed car.
Logan.
I blinked, my cheek stuckslightlyto the throw pillow, and turned my head. A blankethadbeen tucked over me sometime during the night, and my neck ached from the angleI’dbeen curled in.
From the kitchen, IheardLogan’s voice, half-singing some old song I couldn’t remember. I sat upslowly, rubbing my eyes, and turned toseehim standing by the stove, wearing one of my dish towels slung over his shoulder. Winston stood beside him, watching himslowlymove around the kitchen—though I’m guessing hewasless in it for the help and more in it for the bacon.
Logan glanced over and smiled when hesawme.“Morning.”
I cleared my throat, my voice still thick with sleep.“Are you. . . cooking?”
“Trying to,”he said, flipping something in the panthatmight’ve been eggs.“I figured I owed you breakfast after making you sleep onthattorture device you call a couch.”
I pulled the blanket tighter around me and leaned back against the armrest.“It’s averystylish torture device, thank you.”
He grinned and turned back to the stove.“You drooled on it.Justsaying.”
“Rude,”I mumbled, though my lips curved upwardanyway.
Iwatchedas he tossed a slice of bacon in Winston’s direction.“Aspromised,”he said. Winston lickedferventlyat the grease spot left on the floor before cocking his head and begging for another.“I told him if he didn’t wake you, he would be rewarded.”
“Averyfine reward indeed,”I mused.
