Page 37 of Fall From Grace
He’s ready with a comeback immediately: “Would you want me to?” He glances around us. The sidewalks are getting busier, now that classes have officially let out. He takes a single step toward me, practically blocking out the sun as he now stands less than eight inches away. The breeze blows between us, around us, and I catch a whiff of something—not smoke or weed, like I smelled at the party. No, it’s something different, something I can’t even describe.
Musky pine laced with danger, his scent, and it’s actually not bad.
“You know,” Logan says, his voice suddenly husky, too husky for standing on the sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon, with dozens of other students walking by, “you might not know this, but it only gets better. You learn what you like. You learn new moves, new techniques… there’s a lot I can teach you.”
My cheeks heat up. “I don’t need a teacher,” I say, and then I turn away from him, meaning to storm off, but the jerk reacts instantly by grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me back. My chest collides with his, and I suck in a hard breath in spite of myself.
Feeling his body against mine, his warm hand on my wrist; it makes everything I don’t want to remember surface in my head. Talking to him at the club. Going home with him. Letting him do things to me I never let Mike do.
Would it really be so bad to let him in again?
Logan doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all. Their intensity radiates through me, causing me to shiver even though it’s warm outside. His breathing is hard, rough, ragged, like we’re in the middle of doing something private and not in public. The way he gazes down at me… if it’s anything like the look he said I gave him at the club, I get it. I suddenly get it.
A look like that says more than words ever could.
“I—” It’s hard to find my voice, even more difficult to speak. “—should go.” Even though I don’t beg him to release me, that’s what it is. I can’t say the wordslet me go, because I don’twanthim to let me go, and that’s terrifying.
His jaw grinds, and for a moment I think he’s going to refuse me, that he’s going to hold me like this, against his body, the rest of the day and well into the night. But, after a long, tense minute, he finally relents: “Yeah. Me too.” And then he lets me go.
I practically stumble away from him in a rush, and I don’t look back. It’s the strangest thing. My wrist, where his hand was, tingles long after I’m home. That kind of electricity… the kind that stays with you like a ghost; I never felt it before.
What does it mean that I was with Mike for four years and never felt anything like it?
That night, I don’t know why I do it, but instead of watching a movie or something with Sloane and Elias, I lock myself awayin my bedroom, crawl under the covers, and log onto a social media site I haven’t checked in weeks. My algorithm remembers me, and it shows me video after video of people singing, of concerts and bands rocking out.
I used to watch stuff like this with my ex all the time. For the self-recorded videos, much like ours, we critiqued them together, and for the videos of bands on stage, we watched and dreamed that someday we would be one of them.
We wouldn’t. That’s not how life is for most people. The vast majority of us don’t make it big. My parents were right. Still… it’s nice to dream.
Almost as if my algorithm knows where my thoughts are, I scroll upon a video of a band who defies that thought: Black Sacrament. As someone who’s always dreamed of making it big, I followed the story closely. The band’s original music was always a little hard for my tastes, but the almost biblical lyrics did resonate with me. I didn’t hear about them until after their frontrunner got kicked out and they brought in a new singer, a girl, which stunned everybody.
Just a girl. A nobody. No one knew her real name; she goes by Angel now, and she sings with Priest, a band member who used to only do backup vocals and guitar work. She went from zero to hero in the blink of an eye, and ever since they’ve exploded in popularity.
Point is, it can happen sometimes.
I scroll until maybe ten-thirty, then I put my phone down and stare at the ceiling. I wonder what Logan is doing right now, if he decided to go out and find some other girl to occupy his time with since I refused. I have absolutely no reason to feel this way, but I recognize the stings of jealousy inside me at the thought of him finding another girl for the night.
I don’t want him to be with another girl, and that desire of mine doesn’t make sense. We’re not together. We aren’t dating. He’s not my boyfriend, so I have no claim on him whatsoever.
Oh, God. I don’t have a crush on him, do I? Isn’t it too soon for that?
I’m in big, big trouble if that’s the case.
This isn’t something I’d ever admit out loud, but I did try to look him up. Logan doesn’t have any social media profiles, none that are current that I could see, anyway. I didn’t bring it up to Sloane at all, because I know what she’ll probably say: him not having any social media is a red flag. I mean, social media has been around forever now; everybody is on it, and those who aren’t are usually weirdos and conspiracy theorists. There is no logical reason for someone like Logan to not be on all the sites. It doesn’t really make sense to me.
Hmm. Maybe being in a group with him isn’t such a smart idea after all. Maybe I should email Professor Scott and see about either putting myself into a different group or even asking him if I can work it alone.
I roll out of bed and find my notebook for psychology. I keep the syllabus tucked away between the notebook’s front cover and the first page, so it’s easy for me to find the contact information. Before I doubt myself, before I think better of it, I type out a vague message and send it.
Hi. Sorry for the late email, but can I come see you next week during your office hours? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about—Wren Lyons.
I go to change into my pajamas, brush my teeth and get ready for bed. Honestly, I don’t expect to hear anything from Professor Scott until Monday, but before I go to bed, I check my email anyway—and to my surprise, he’s already responded:Sounds good. I’ll see you then. Reese.
Reese. He said we could call him that, that it’s up to us. Still, it feels weird to call him by his first name, even if he’s not that much older than me. I can only hope he’ll understand where I’m coming from, and that he’ll let me do the project on my own without forcing me into another group.
Chapter Seventeen – Reese
The more I build my maze, the more I start to doubt myself—unusual, for me. I thought my prey would be Wren. I wanted to peel back her layers and see what she’s truly made of, but every day that passes, the more I listen to the bugs and watch her in that house, the more conflict arises within me.
