Page 73 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

“You…” My heart thuds low and hard in my ears as the world disintegrates into nonsense again. There are a dozen things I probably should be saying or asking, but it’s like I’m scrambling around for thoughts on cue cards and every one of them is coming up blank. “You came to support me?”

They glance at each other, exchanging a small, textured look that twists like a corkscrew through my insides.

“Yes,” Liv says. The word lifts with hope.

“And why are you really here?” a deep voice asks.

Solid warmth grazes my side. I twist to find Logan. His fingers brush my elbow, his gaze finds my face. There’s a question there, like Are you doing okay? or How can I help? A rush of relief overtakes me, so staggering I nearly topple.

“Hi,” I mouth as I lean into him gratefully.

Logan catches me around the waist, securing my whole frame. “Hey there.”

Suddenly, everything makes sense again.

When I turn back to the pair, Liv’s mouth is open. Blake’s smile has faltered, his eyebrows pulled together as his attention latches to the spot where Logan’s hand grounds my waist.

With a gentle shake of her head, Liv recovers first. She sticks out a hand. “I’m Liv.”

Logan doesn’t move. “I’m aware.”

After a beat, she winces and withdraws. Her teeth saw against her bottom lip. “I know it was a bit rash to show up like this. Usually, you know, it’s not something we would do. But we really wanted to talk to you, Ali. We really want things to be okay. And…” The words tumble out with the slightly out-of-control cadence of a ball pitching off the top step of a stairwell and finding itself hurling downward. “And…since you blocked me on social media, and you wouldn’t answer my calls, this was the only way to get in touch.”

“I—” I start. “What?”

“You wouldn’t answer our calls,” Liv says again. “You blocked me.”

Logan’s fingers twitch against my side. “And you figured the appropriate next step was showing up here.”

Blake straightens, shrouding himself in a professional veneer again. “This event requires tickets, not invitations.”

Logan regards him, expression flat. “Drawing that distinction is not the vindication you think it is.”

Blake bristles. “Who even are you?”

“Someone Ali invited to be here.”

Blake huffs a laugh, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable because he crosses his arms and taps his fingers against his elbow, looking at me instead of Logan. “Can we talk privately? There’s something we should discuss between the three of us.”

It’s almost convincing. Maybe because of Blake’s smooth smile and deliberate eye contact. But more likely because it has always been the three of us. Blake, Liv, Ali. Brunch on Sundays at a café with mismatched dishware. Friday nights at a dueling piano bar where we shout Kelly Clarkson songs until our throats go hoarse.

Waking up at dawn. Climbing ladders. Splaying out in armchairs and slathering our sore backs with numbing creams.

Only those last ones? Those were supposed to happen but never did.

Because they left me.

“This is Logan,” I respond. “And I would like him to stay.”

“Ali,” Blake says stepping toward me, “this is already difficult enough. Don’t make—”

His fingers barely graze my forearm before Logan’s arm shoots forward, plucking the offending wrist from midair. He steps forward firmly, without violence, but he’s big enough that it crowds Blake out of my proximity.

“Don’t touch her again,” Logan says in a voice that could split quartz. Then he releases Blake’s limb, straightens his suit jacket sleeves. He adds levelly, “Please.”

Until now, Blake has looked too startled to be resentful, but the expression overtakes his face as he backs away and rubs at his wrist.

“All right.” Blake’s mouth twists into a smile that isn’t quite convincing. “You don’t need to make a scene.”