Page 37 of The Rookie
I can’t help but notice how his pecs flex, the rounded caps of his shoulders carved out by the shadows of the trees. It takes my full attention to keep my eyes locked on his instead of ogling his physique for this whole session.
“Things are ... tough,” he grumbles, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “I don’t even know anymore. Most of the time I feel like I’m just going through the motions with my dad gone.”
“I get that. It’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to be angry. But it’s not okay to give up on your dreams or stop living your life. Your father wouldn’t want that for you.”
“I know,” he says softly.
Our conversation seems a little strange. It’s like I’ve known Logan forever, and my advice is from one friend to another. As someone who cares deeply about him.
“It’s just that being away from the family is hard. But being back here is hard too,” he says.
“None of this is easy. It’s not supposed to be,” I say gently.
He nods, a lump of emotion bobbing in his throat as he forces a hard swallow. “I guess you’re right. I just wish it could be simple.” He’s quiet for a moment, one damp hand working through his messy brown hair.
He looks so hopeless that, as unprofessional as it is, I find myself moving closer to him and bring my arms around him. Logan relaxes against me, releasing a deep sigh.
My brain starts spinning. Maybe because he’s this big strong man, but it’s never occurred to me that I would have to be careful with him. Yet it’s obvious I do. I curl myself into his chest and wrap my arms around him and just hold him. Breathing in his winter-air scent, I murmur into his neck that everything will be okay.
I stroke my fingers through his hair and tell him he’s incredible and that everyone is proud of him. He lets out a deep grateful exhale and holds me tighter. I tell him that he’s so strong, and that it’s okay to be vulnerable too, sometimes. He makes a low wordless sound.
I can actually feel him healing and being knitted back together right in front of me.
It’s a side of Logan I didn’t imagine I’d ever see, and I’m so grateful that he’s comfortable enough around me to let his walls come crumbling down.
When we finally part a few minutes later, there’s an easiness about him that wasn’t there before.
“Thanks, Summer.”
I meet his serious expression with one of my own. “You’re welcome.”
I can sense a change in him. Before me sits a man who, at one time, I thought was all hard edges. But I was wrong. There’s a softness about him too.
He doesn’t let many people see this side of him, which I can understand. The less people know about you, the less they can pry. It’s a self-preservation technique. Keeping people at arm’s length is one of Logan’s coping mechanisms. But knowing I’m someone he’s willing to let into his inner circle makes my heart squeeze a little. I feel warm all over, and it’s not just because of the hot water we’re lounging in.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m qualified for my new job. But when I’m talking to Logan, I feel qualified, helpful even. Maybe it’s sporting of him to amuse me into thinking so, I’m not sure, but I definitely appreciate how useful he makes me feel.
When he finally breaks the silence, it’s with a question I never could have seen coming. “How did you lose your mom?”
A burning sensation sizzles in my chest. I wasn’t at all prepared to talk about this, but he’s been so vulnerable with me, the least I can do is return the favor.
“Car accident,” I choke out, examining my hands to avoid his gaze. “Drunk driver. She died on impact.”
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “How do you ... how did you get through it?”
I meet his worried gaze and lift one shoulder. “I don’t know. One day at a time.”
“God, Summer. I’m sorry. That’s awful.”
“You can’t appreciate the sweet if you never have the bitter.”
He nods somberly. “You said she was your best friend?”
I lift my chin. “Yes. She was. And believe me, it’s been tough, and the pain will always be there. But time helps, and so does knowing that she wouldn’t want me to be sad about it all the time.” I muster up the courage to meet his eyes, his gaze soft with compassion. “The important thing to remember is that you’re not dealing with the hurt all alone. You have your mom and your brothers and your grandpa and—”
“And you,” he interrupts.
My breath catches, and I realize this isn’t just a counseling session anymore. It’s so much more. This is two people connecting on the deepest level, despite the hurt from their pasts. This is real. Raw.
