Page 57 of The Rookie
SUMMER
Because.
The word hangs between us as my mind goes blank.
Logan blurted out a marriage proposal without even thinking. Of course I can’t hold him to it. But he’s still watching me, and despite the intensity of our connection, there’s no way I can marry him.
But why not?
I’m falling in love with him. And with his big meddling family. Isn’t this everything I’ve ever wanted?
Of course it is. Say yes, my brain pleads.
“I just can’t,” I say after a long beat of silence.
“Okay,” he says softly and releases my hands.
The shuttle driver steps out of the minivan and comes around to help with my bags, seemingly oblivious to the enormity of the moment he’s interrupting.
Ignoring him, Logan pulls me close for one last hug, causing a sharp ache to pierce my chest.
“Good-bye, Summer,” he whispers against my hair.
“Good-bye, Logan.”
• • •
I held myself together for the entire shuttle ride, all the way through airport security and for ninety percent of the flight from Durango to Denver. But there’s something about this second flight, the one from Denver back to Boston, that feels different. More final.
As I buckle my seat belt in my lap and pull it tight, the last of the mountain air deflates from my lungs. This is it. I’m going home. And to be totally honest, I’m feeling about a hundred different ways about it.
For one, I’m proud. At least a little, I think. After all, I did what I set out to do—I helped Logan. Maybe it didn’t happen how I expected, but the man I left back at the cabin is so different from the one I met when I arrived in Lost Haven.
He’s calmer now, more in touch with his feelings and how to deal with them in a healthy way. Mission accomplished, as far as counseling goes, which means it’s time to head home. Back to Boston and back to my normal life, where I don’t have to sit through violent dinner table arguments or psychoanalyze an entire family of brothers with broken pasts.
Things will be easier back home. Just me, my studio apartment, and my work. The way it’s always been.
And that’s where pride ends and depression sets in. Because maybe the way it’s always been isn’t what I want anymore.
My throat prickles, but I wrestle the tears down as best I can. I’ve made it this far without crying in public. Maybe I can make it home before I fully break down.
Swallowing hard, I focus on the flight attendant’s demonstration. She buckles and unbuckles a seat belt, pivoting so that everyone onboard can see, but hardly anyone is paying much attention.
The two other people in my row, a mother and her teenage son, aren’t even pretending to listen. They both have earbuds in, each of them bobbing their heads to their own preferred playlist. When one of the boy’s earbuds falls out, his mom reaches over and tucks it back into his ear, and he gives her the sort of half smile that tells me it’s far from the first time this has happened.
Of course, they remind me of Logan and his mom, and the prickling feeling climbs up my throat to my nose until the tears push past my eyelids. Jesus, I should have gotten this out on the tiny biplane from Durango to Denver. At least then there wouldn’t be an audience to witness my sobs.
I turn toward the window, fixing my gaze on the wing of the plane as the tears start falling steadily. Soon, the sleeve of my cardigan is wet with tears and snot, and all I can do is pray that my seat partners have their earbuds in tight. It’s not like me to cry in public like this, but then again, it’s not like me to fall in love with one of my clients either.
And that’s what I did, isn’t it? I fell in love with Logan Tate. Faster than I thought was humanly possible and harder than I thought my heart could handle.
And maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe that’s why I ran off so fast. Maybe I thought that would be easier somehow. I know now that I was wrong. I’ll miss the smell of a wood-burning stove and Logan’s winter-air scent.
The plane rumbles beneath me, and I realize the flight attendant has wrapped up her presentation and taken her seat, ready for takeoff. I must have missed the part where they tell us to turn our phones to airplane mode.
Reaching into my carryon, I grab my phone and swipe it open. But before I kiss my service good-bye, I open up that email from Les, scrawl my digital signature on the paperwork he sent over, and pressSEND.
There. Logan is all set to return to the ice the second his suspension is over. And just like that, he’s no longer my client. It’s a thought that stirs up a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest.
