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“Think you can get me down to the locker room first? The other day Javi let me in, but security is tighter today.”
I was so busy being angry with Brandon when he and Logan were fighting that I didn’t even question how he’d managed to get in. “I can get you to the family area, but not to the locker room. Are you going to be nice?”
He rolls his eyes. “Yes.”
“Are you going to apologize like a big boy?”
“Yes. Are you going to tell me why you still look like you’re about to cry?”
“No,” I tell him. “Now come on.”
I leave Brandon waiting in the room where families and girlfriends of the players wait after a game. Very few of the guys are married, but there are some girlfriends and even a few kids gathered, talking in small groups.
“I’m trusting you,” I tell Brandon, and he rolls his eyes again.
“You really like him, don’t you?”
Like isn’t the word. “I always have.”
“But it’s different now,” Brandon says.
I shrug, not giving him an answer before leaving my brother there. Honestly, it’s not different now. I still like Logan more than I should, and he’s still going to leave me behind. Again.
Am I throwing a pity party for one? Absolutely.
When I walk into my office, the first thing I see is Fancy Chair. And I’m not sure why, but this is the proverbial straw breaking my camel’s back. I collapse into the totally extravagant piece of office furniture, both loving and hating the way it feels like the chair is giving me a hug.
I am completely aware of how ridiculous I’m being. Logan and I should have had a conversation this past week that involved words, not just our mouths. At any time, I could have stopped kissing the man long enough to ask if this meant to him what it did—what itdoes—to me.
But did I do that? Nope. Instead, I let Logan treat me like a girlfriend with gifts and dates and all the kissing. I did not bring it up. In fact, I actively avoided it.
Because I didn’t want it to end. Because I was—am—so scared that it will.
And now … according to Larry, Logan might be leaving even sooner than anticipated. He wants to talk about the future tonight, which I hoped meant one thing: talking about our future. But probably means another: his hockey future and his short-lived presence in Harvest Hollow.
I knew all this! I did! I don’t get to be angry with anyone but myself.
Part of me felt like the moment we kissed, Logan and I moved into something real. I did tell him that I wouldn’t kiss him while things were fake. I assumed Logan would somehow know that’s what this meant. But as Mia has said more than once—you can’t trust that a man knows what you mean unless you tell him.
Great advice for more than just men, by the way.
Kissing me wasn’t an automatic moving into a required relationship thing, like a store’s you-break-it-you-buy-it policy. There is no you-kiss-it-you-keep-it-forever policy.
Though I totally wish there were.
I groan and curl my legs up until I’m a little Parker ball, my cheek pressed into Fancy Chair’s soft pink leather. It should make me feel better, but suddenly, the supple leather makes me angry.
I don’t want this stupid chair and its comfort!
I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want to sit in it once Logan’s gone, reminding me with every ergonomic inch that he is no longer here, and I am ALONE.
Jumping up, I start to wheel the chair out into the hallway. I am a woman on a mission. A life-or-death, chair-wielding mission. Having a purpose allows me to shove any remaining tears back into their respective ducts as I storm down the halls until I’ve reached Javi’s office.
“Javi!” I bellow when I’m just outside.
But he doesn’t appear, and he’s not inside when I glance inside. No matter. I can leave a sticky note. I glance around the metal desk. Javi has no sticky notes. No paper either. A stainless steel coffee thermos, a tray full of what look like invoices, and a permanent marker.
I pick up a crumpled receipt from the trash, holding it with two fingers until I’m sure it’s not covered in anything gross or wrapped around a chewed-up piece of gum, and then I scrawl a note in permanent marker for Javi. The tears return as I write, my hand cramping from the force of how hard I’m pressing.
