Page 40 of Don't Let Me Fall (Don't Let Me 1)

ASHLYN

“You’re quiet,” Logan mentions, settling further into the dining room chair as he tosses a withered napkin onto his empty plate.

I shrug one shoulder, unsure what to say.

I am quiet.

Logan arrived at my apartment right on time with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of roses in the other. But he didn’t mention my dress. And I hate how I noticed. We eat dinner, an awkwardness tainting every look and every comment until I’m pretty sure ants are crawling over my skin. But I don’t know how to fix it. How to make my insecurities––my jealousy––disappear. Especially when they’re so damn unwarranted. I’m not an idiot. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about a certain roommate when my boyfriend is sitting across the table from me, but I can’t help it.

“You okay?” Logan prods.

I set my fork down and force a smile. “Fine.”

“Babe, I know you.”

“Just stressed. How was your psych class? I heard the test was brutal.”

“You know me. Aced it, as always. Didn’t even need to study.”

Of course, he did.

I roll my eyes, pushing a few strands of spaghetti around my plate, and mutter, “And the genius is humble too.”

“Ouch.” His hand goes to his chest, but his smirk stays in place. “Someone’s feisty tonight. You sure you’re all right?”

“Fine.”

“How was tutoring the other day?”

I gulp. “Fine.”

“That’s good,” he offers.

“Yeah.”

He leans forward and puts his hand on mine, rubbing his thumb back and forth along my skin. I stare at his touch for a few seconds. Finally, he says, “I’m sorry I overreacted about Colt. You were right. I should’ve trusted you more. I know you wouldn’t do anything with him. And I know he wouldn’t cross the line with you, either.”

“Thanks.”

“And thanks for the food,” he adds, patting his stomach. “You know how to treat a guy right.”

I scoff. “Glad I could indulge you.”

“What’s wrong?” he demands, surprised by my outburst.

I know he’s trying. I know he wants to make things better. I know I’m overreacting about nothing. I know I’m the one with a stick up my ass tonight. But I can’t help it.

Why hasn’t he commented on my dress? Why do I feel like he’s here, and he’s present, yet my mind can’t seem to focus on anything other than a certain someone who’s on a date with my best friend.

What is wrong with me?

“Babe,” Logan prods.

I sniff and shake my head. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying.”

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