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“Hellooooo. Earth to Rhett.” Logan gently slaps my face. “Where’d you go?”
“Thinking about Dad. I know you hate him, and I kinda do too right now, but he’s still my dad.”
“You’re preaching to the choir. He’ll be fine, baby. Don’t you Elkingtons always land on your feet?”
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” It’s unnerving to see one broken, though.
“I have a topic to distract you, but it’s not a great one.”
“Oh?” I’ll take a problem I can solve, any other problem than my dad, which appears to be unsolvable.
“Merc doesn’t want us moving in together. He acknowledged that he’s a huge fucking hypocrite and then he went on to appeal to my sense of logic.”
I tighten my grip on him. “Nothing about us living apart could be logical.”
“I’m nineteen. You’re my first boyfriend, which began as a scheme. We’ve only been dating for a month and change. If we’re as serious about us as we say we are, we can make it one hockey season living on our own. We do that and he says he’ll help me move the boxes into your place.”
Mercy’s also framed it like a challenge. He knows it’s hard for me to resist a challenge, especially when it comes with his approval attached to it, which Logan will appreciate.Touché, Meyer.
“Fine. One season, but we call each other every fucking day when I’m gone. Not just texting, which there will be a lot of.”
“Promise.”
“Lo?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I’m scared.”
I pull a breath, waiting for his response. Will he think less of me? I haven’t said that to many people. I’m rarely scared.
“I’m scared all the time,” he admits. “But you know what I’m not scared about? Us.”
“Not true.”
“Okay, not completely. But what I mean is, I’m not scared we won’t make it. It’ll be hard sometimes, but if we remember what we’ve promised, we’ll be fine.”
Our pinkies lock and it’s hard to tell which of us initiated the locking of them. “Fight for us,” I say.
“Fight for us.”
And then we somehow manage to sleep, because our sweat mingling together doesn’t seem too bad after all.
* * *
Right about now, I’m wishing for that heat we had last night. The weather changes quickly up here and it’s chill enough that we’re all decked in lumberjack chic. Lo’s drowning in one of Mercy’s mackinaws. That’s how Logan feels like he belongs to them, by sharing their clothes. He’s definitely getting one of my jerseys.
Can’t believe I’m watching him from afar without yanking him into my lap where he really belongs, but his laughter arrests me in place. Whatever it is Mercy does has worked on Logan and he’s bloomed like a cherry blossom tree.
It’s late, but not a single Meyer child is asleep, squealing and running amuck through the campsite like the wild things they are. At least the change in weather, including a downpour earlier today, led to a lift of the province-wide fire ban. I’m in a camping chair on the other side of a real crackling bonfire—not a propane-sparked facsimile—and the fire’s the only reason I can make out his slender frame in the darkness.
A buzz in my pocket interrupts my Logan gazing. It’s Mitch.
“Hey, buddy. Everything okay?”
“Is Casey there?”
“Hello to you, too.”
