Page 26 of Because of Logan

She touches both cheeks with her hands.

“I curse the genes that made me so light-skinned and prone to blushing,” she says.

“I love the way your skin flushes. It makes me want to come up with naughty things to say just to see how pink you’ll get.”

As if by command, she flushes even more. My fingertips trace the color on her cheek in the gentlest of caresses before tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

I linger for a moment, and she holds her breath, but the leaping pulse on her neck betrays her.

I’ve never been this affected by anyone else before.

I give both of us a break and buckle my seatbelt and start the truck. I let air into my lungs, taking in slow breaths.

I pull into traffic and navigate the local streets until we get to the highway. I’m grateful for the few minutes of silence. It gives me a chance to get ahold of myself. You’d think this is the first time I ever went on a date.

Skye runs a hand over the weathered bucket seat. It’s an old truck. The red paint is faded and the leather seats have lost their sheen, but the interior is spotless.

I wonder what she’s thinking. I could have driven the Escalade, but this old truck is also part of my plan. A plan that’s starting to look dumber by the minute.

“I love this truck,” she says.

What? That’s the last thing I expect her to say.

“You do?”

“Yes, I learned to drive in a truck just like this one. But it was blue and nowhere near as well-kept.”

The coincidences keep piling on.

“This truck was Grandpa’s. He taught me and my brother, Liam, to drive in it. I have so many fond memories associated with it.”

“Yeah? Tell me some.”

“God... Liam and I as kids, riding in the back on country lanes at what we thought were great speeds, but now, I know we were hardly moving. Us sitting between our grandparents during long drives all over the state.”

I run my hand over the same spot Skye did, as if I could touch those memories somehow.

“Camping and sleeping on the truck bed on piles of blankets. My first kiss at fifteen, one early summer when Grandpa let me borrow it even though I was too young to even have a driver’s permit.”

The bright red color has long ago faded, and the truck is now a dull terra-cotta. The fifteen-plus years show, but I love this truck and could not part with it when Grandpa died and Grandma told me to sell it and take the money.

The old fella shows its years, but the engine is in mint condition. Grandpa had a knack for mechanics and taught my brother and me everything he knew.

I glance at her and she’s smiling at me. Sharing these memories makes them alive again. I can almost smell Grandpa’s aftershave. He was an Old Spice man.

“Where are you originally from?” I ask.

“Born and raised in Vermont. A couple of hours’ drive from here, actually.”

“Yeah? Where about?”

“A tiny little town, barely on the map. You’ve probably never heard of it. Apple Hill.”

The corner of my mouth tilts up in a smile.

“I’m familiar with Apple Hill. You’re not going to believe this, but when we were kids, our grandparents took us to Apple Hill every fall. We’d hit a few small farms and fill ourselves with ice cream, apple cider, chocolate, donuts, and bring home all kinds of food. We never made it more than five minutes awake on the trip back.”

I’m lost in happy memories again, but her laugh brings me back to the present. The sound warms me from the inside out.

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