Page 52 of The Rookie
SUMMER
The blank line on the return-to-work form stares back at me, as white as the snow piled up outside the cabin window. I’ve been staring at these forms for the past hour, waiting for the storm to let up, and now I can barely see straight.
I, Summer Campbell, certify that Logan Tate is suited to return to work, and is ready and able to perform the functions of his position.
The words are all right there, plain and simple. All I have to do is sign my name.
The counselor in me knows that we’ve barely scratched the surface of Logan’s issues, but the romantic in me knows that if I stay here in Lost Haven any longer ... well, I think last night is all the evidence I need that whatever is happening between Logan and me is the furthest thing from professional.
I told him I’m leaving today. So, why can’t I just work up the courage and sign my name to the paperwork that makes it official?
Les is right. I flew all the way out here and convinced Logan to do some counseling sessions with me. That was my job, and I did it. As for digging deep and really getting to the heart of his psychological issues, I did my best. It’s time to close this client file before I fall in love with the man. Although admittedly, it might be too late for that.
With a heavy sigh, I uncap my pen and do what I have to. One quick scribble across the page, and the deed is done. Signed, sealed, and now I just have to deliver it. Which means hopping on a plane and taking it back to Boston where I belong. Far away from Lost Haven, and far away from Logan.
Just thinking about him, about last night, makes my head spin.
Who falls for a guy in less than two weeks? Even worse, what kind of counselor falls for her client? And why don’t I feel more guilty about it than I do?
This whole situation is enough to give me a pounding headache, which is the last thing I need right now. I stare at the paper, trying to focus my attention to make the pain go away.
In any other situation, I’d be proud to sign these papers. I just successfully gave professional counseling to one of hockey’s top athletes. Instead, it feels like the end of a chapter of my life that I’m not sure I’m done living. Whether I’m ready to say good-bye or not, I’ve got a flight to catch.
Packing is quick work, considering I only brought a few days’ worth of clothes. Fitting in the new socks and toiletries from the general store, along with the small collection of gifts I’ve accrued from the family, is a bit of a challenge, but I manage to squeeze it all in. I top the bag off with the tin of tea that Jillian gave me as a parting gift. As if leaving weren’t hard enough, losing Logan’s family too is just the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae of suckiness.
My duffel bag’s zipper snags when I try to tug it closed, and I blink back frustrated tears. I know I’m in rough shape when the smallest inconvenience starts the waterworks. I manage to wrestle it closed with a huff. Lacing up my boots, I try as hard as I can not to think about where they came from, who bought them for me, and all the warm, fuzzy emotions attached to those memories.
Ripping a page out of my notebook, I jot down a quick message.
Decided to brave the storm. I’ll text when I’m back in Boston. Thanks for everything.
For a second, I consider writing a separate note specifically for Logan’s eyes only, but I decide against it. Why make this harder than it needs to be?
I don’t really have a plan when I step out into the snow, carrying my laptop bag and my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. The snowstorm has stopped, at least, so visibility will be fine on the roads. The snow itself has piled over a foot high, but this is Colorado. It snows like this every other day, from what I understand. The snowplow guys must be experts at getting the roads clear in no time, right?
Before I can psych myself out, I trudge the hundred or so yards back to the house and around it to the driveway. With one great heave, I toss my duffel into the truck bed, peering over my shoulder to make sure the noise didn’t grab the attention of anyone inside. The last thing I need before I leave is to make a scene.
I tug on the door handle, and naturally, it’s locked.
No, Summer, the last thing you need before you leave are the damn truck keys.
I dig through my pockets but come up empty-handed. I must have left the set that Jillian gave me in my cabin, which I locked behind me already. But I know there’s a spare set on the hook near the back door of the house.
It’s easy enough to sneak back into the foyer and grab what I need. What’s harder is the gravitational pull I feel as soon as I hear the familiar voices of the family inside, talking shop by the fireplace. I can hear Grandpa Al’s soft snores from his recliner and Jillian in the kitchen, getting dinner going. And when Logan’s deep, manly laugh echoes down the hall, my whole body quakes.
A very real, very scary thought occurs to me.
I could put the keys back on the hook so, so easily. Ten short steps into the living room, and I could snuggle up next to Logan on the couch, join in the laughter, and be a part of the family. All I have to do is put the keys back.
Instead, I shove the keys in my coat pocket and rush out the door. I don’t even try to be quiet. I need to get out of here before my overactive imagination causes me any more problems.
Hopping into the truck, I replay the memory of Logan teaching me how to drive a stick shift. His hand on my thigh, encouraging me.
Focus, Summer. Ground the clutch, put it in neutral ...
Soon the wheels are crunching against the freshly fallen snow. The truck groans and creaks, clearly unhappy with me and my choices. It takes every scrap of patience and a few emergency prayers, but I manage to get the truck to the property line, turning where I think the road begins.
So much for clear roads.
