Page 103 of Mine to Love

“I have rent to pay. I have to work.” I applied for a position at a bank in Ellsworth, twenty-minutes away, not wanting to chance running into Logan. It’s a teller position again, with the possibility of being a loan officer once a position opens up. I didn’t want to use Logan as a reference and left off my short time at LP Financial. He would have given me a glowing recommendation, I’m sure, but it would have been something else I owed to him, and I don’t like being in debt.

I got the job, and work is fine, if not a little on the boring side. Boring is okay during the work week but it’s unbearable on the weekends. Almost five weeks have gone by, and I can still smell him on my sheets, no matter how many times I wash them.

“Don’t kick me out, but I have to ask.” Emerson clears her throat. “Do you want to get over him or are you hoping he’ll come back.”

“Come back? Has he not been back to Maine?”

Emerson’s brow lifts. Busted. Since that one and only time when I poured my heart out about Logan, we’ve been on a strict do not mention his name or anything about him rule. I assumed he’d been in Maine every weekend to check on things at LP Financial and the credit union.

“I meant do you want him to come back to see you.”

Oh. So, he’s been in Maine and hasn’t come by to beg for forgiveness. He might as well hire a pilot to wave a banner behind a plane to say we are over. Not once has he called or texted. He hasn’t stopped by or attempted to explain himself in a letter. No apology. No begging for forgiveness. No owning up to what he did. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

“We’re done. I called him on it. If I meant anything more to him, he’d have fought for us. At least chased me down, literally or figuratively.”

“Maybe he’s giving you time.”

“Time for what? It’s been five weeks. Nothing has changed other than my work status.”

“And your weekend sex.” Emerson cringes as soon as she says it. “Sorry.”

“Right. That’s all I was to him. He can get that somewhere else as well.”

“Reese, you don’t seriously believe that.”

I don’t want to, but he didn’t deny the accusation either. The way he held me and took care of me when I had my terrible cramps is the only hope I have to hang onto that I was more than a weekend booty call.

“If you stop talking about him, I’ll text Cami and set up a lunch date.”

Emerson turns toward the television and curls up with a throw pillow. “Veronica is such a bitch, don’t you think?”

“Self-righteous snob, for sure.” I’m glad for the change of topic. Picking on spoiled bimbos is much better for my brain than thinking about Logan.

***

LUNCH WITH CAMI WAS easier than I expected it to be. Not once did she bring up her brother, proving our friendship is more than just a connection with Logan. We talked about fashion, makeup, and photography, and Cami mentioned wanting to read my colors.

Apparently, that’s a thing in the social media world of beauty. It sounds fun and mindless, so we get together the following evening at my apartment. This is good, a little bit of normalcy, not that having someone hold up swatches to my skin and tell me what color clothing and make up best accentuate my natural features and coloring is normal.

Cami is good, though. After a little trip to Target yesterday, I have a new makeup supply and a couple tops in the rich colors Cami suggested. I received quite a few compliments on my deep turquoise top from a few of my customers. Feeling better than I have in weeks, I wave goodbye to my coworkers and head out to my car.

A single white rose and an envelope are tucked into my windshield wiper. I swivel my head around and don’t see anyone loitering around the parking lot. I tuck my smile away and pluck the rose and card from my window.

Damn. Cami’s blog post must have gone viral, although she said it wasn’t scheduled to post until next week. I hold the rose to my nose and sniff. How sad to be twenty-nine-years old and never receive flowers before.

I open the envelope and slide out a folded cream-colored piece of cardstock. Plain. Nondescript. Unfolding it, I read the short sentence and gasp.

I miss you.

He didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to. Tears pool in my eyes and I hurry into the safety of my car before anyone can see me lose it. I’m over Logan. He hurt me, insulted me. He doesn’t matter to me anymore.

At least, that’s what I continued to tell myself all these weeks. The reaction to the rose and simple message proves me to be a liar. I start my car and head home, determined not to let this simple gesture get to me. It doesn’t take away the pain he’s caused.

Why now? How does he know where I work? Granted, as the president of the credit union he could have been contacted as a reference, although that would be odd. Warren was my reference.

I made Emerson swear on her marriage that she or Holden wouldn’t tell Logan anything about me. I hadn’t asked Cami to make the same promise though.

So was lunch and the color reading all a ploy as well? I don’t doubt Logan would stoop that low to use his sister to get information about me. Now I’m pissed again. If Cami doesn’t really want to be my friend and only used me to feed information to Logan, I need to know. Now.

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