Page 47 of Best Kept Secret
The message is sent, and suddenly she shows as online. I momentarily panic, and I don’t even know why.
Hannah: Hey, Millie! How are you?? No, Logan isn’t with me. Why would he be? Is everything okay??
I roll my eyes at thewhy would he be?Gee, I don’t know Hannah, maybe because y’all are fucking.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I consider my words before tapping them out.
Me: I’m worried. He was here last night but he wasn’t himself. He had a major panic attack, and I?—
My fingers freeze mid-message at the sound of the front door opening, and I abandon my message, jumping up from the couch and almost skidding on the tile in my socked feet as I round the corner and run down the hallway.
Dressed in sweats and a backward ballcap, Logan is oblivious to me as he dumps his big bag by the front door and tosses his keys into the bowl on the table. He turns and stumbles once, coming to a stop himself, eyes widening as he takes me in.
“What are you doing here?” he rasps, eyebrows tugging together.
With anare-you-seriousguffaw, I place my hands on my hips. “First of all, I live here,” I sass, reeling in my anger because I’m more concerned than pissed right now. Looking him up and down, he looks okay, but is he? “Secondly, I woke up and you were…gone.”
Logan looks from me over his shoulder to the door and back to me. “I-I was at morning skate. Like I am most mornings at this time.”
“Oh,” is all I can say, my bravado waning. “Well… after what happened last night, I was worried.”
Logan closes his eyes and bows his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we… not talk about last night?” He looks up again, only this time he refuses to meet my eyes, keeping a wide berth as he walks around me.
“Ummm… no!” I balk because is he serious? How the hell am I just supposed to pretend like last night didn’t happen. Turning, I follow him into the kitchen. “Logan, you had a serious panic attack last night, while driving your car,” I state incredulously.
Expertly, he ignores me, opening the fridge and taking out a carton of egg whites and a few other breakfast ingredients.
“Does it happen often?” I press.
Still ignoring me, he opens one of the cabinet doors and takes out a frying pan, his back to me as he moves effortlessly around the kitchen.
“Did it have anything to do with your father?” The second the question leaves my lips, I regret it.
Logan freezes, placing his hands against the countertop and bowing his head, his broad shoulders tensing on a ragged exhale.
An uncomfortable iciness settles in the air around us, thick and palpable with a dizzying tension. And I know I’ve hit a nerve. I know what happened last night has something to do with his father because as far as I can tell, his dad being at his game was the only thing that was different. So, because I can tell he needs someone right now, I take a tentative step closer, and another, until I’m right there behind him, so close I can feel the anxiety as it wreaks havoc inside of him, gently placing my hand on his back.
“Logan?” I say softly.
“No one knows,” is all he says, his voice low and gruff and laced with the sort of sadness that feels bone-deep.
I stare at his back, trying to make sense of whatever it is noone knows. “Logan, turn around,” I whisper. “Look at me. Please.”
With another ragged breath, Logan turns, but still he avoids my eyes, staring down at the dish towel in his hands. I take the towel from him, placing it onto the island counter, and tucking my finger beneath his stubbled chin, I force his eyes to me. But when I’m met with nothing but a stormy anguish etched deep in his gaze, my heart breaks for this man standing right here.
“No one knowswhat, Logan?” I press, cupping his jaw and stroking my thumb across his cheek, just like I had last night while we’d lain next to one another until he’d fallen asleep.
“Six years ago,” he begins, clearing the emotion from his throat, his eyes flitting between mine as he continues, “my brother killed himself.”
CHAPTER 23
LOGAN
Millie’s big green eyes widen at my confession, but she doesn’t react like I expected her to. I expected pity. I expected forced tears. I expected words said without meaning, spoken just to drown out the uncomfortable silence that settles in the wake of such a confession. But there’s none of that. There’s just recognition, understanding, and the feel of her soft hand gently caressing my cheek.
Gripping the edge of the counter behind me, I find myself leaning into her touch, closing my eyes and basking in the comfort of having her here with me. And for the first time in six years, I actually feel some semblance of… relief.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
