Chapter Twenty-Two

Angela

I can tell Logan is surprised to find Myra and her mom in my living room. His eyes bounce around the room and back to me.

“What’s going on here?” he asks.

Myra stands while her mother sits quietly on the couch, still holding the ice pack to her face. “I didn’t know where else to go,” Myra says. “You and Angela are the only ones who know. He’s back, Logan. My dad was at the house when she got home. He had wrecked everything.” She wipes away a tear from her cheek.

I grab her hand and squeeze to let her know we’re here for her, all of us.

“When she asked him to go, he refused. When she told him about the restraining order, he hit her.” She takes a deep breath and exhales, her gaze glued to her mom now. “Thank god I showed up when I did and got her out of there.”

Logan’s expression morphs into one of rage. His eyebrows sit low over those crystal blue eyes and a tiny crease appears between them. That muscle in his jaw twitches as he balls his hands into fists at his sides. “Where is he now?”

Myra shrugs and turns back to him. “He was still at the house when we left. That was an hour ago.”

Before we know what’s happening, Logan is gone. His heavy footsteps pound across my porch, down the steps, and onto the gravel driveway. I watch from my doorway as his cruiser backs out and takes off down the road, red and blue lights flashing.

For a very long hour, I try to take care of Myra and her mother, Wanda. Both of them are very kind and very grateful for the safe space. After offering a change of clothes, a hot meal and drinks, I give up and wait it out with them on the sofa. We sit in silence—a strange, comfortable silence—waiting for Logan to return with good news.

But what is good news? I chew on my thumbnail and wonder.

“So,” Myra says, turning toward me. “How are things with you and Sawyer?” She tilts her head and waits as I remain quiet.

I shrug and meet her eyes. “There is no me and Sawyer. Logan explained everything to me and has asked for a second chance. I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

Wanda’s head whips toward me now, the dark bruising already evident on her cheek. Despite that, she smiles. “No second chance for that boy? He must have messed up pretty bad.”

With a half-hearted grin, I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Wanda drops her chin to her chest and places the ice pack onto my coffee table. “Men mess up, honey,” Wanda says. “It’s inevitable.” Myra sighs in her mother’s direction and leans back into the cushions, dropping her head against the wall. “The question is do we forgive them?”

The three of us remain quiet. I think about the current situation and how many times Wanda forgave her husband, only to end up in a twenty-year abusive relationship.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Wanda says. “Forgiveness is sometimes seen as a weakness. I forgave Myra’s father for his temper, for his hateful words, and when it got physical, I blamed myself for letting him stay.” Myra and I both look to her now as she fidgets with the hem of her shirt. “But not all mistakes are equal.”

The sound of a car in the driveway pulls us all from our places. I peek through the curtains to find Logan’s cruiser in the driveway. Myra opens the door and each of us files out onto the porch.

Logan removes his hat and addresses Wanda. There’s a cut on his cheek and dried blood smeared across his face. “He was still there when I arrived. I informed him of the restraining order and he attacked me.”

Wanda shakes her head and drops her face into her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Mom,” Myra chimes in.

“Are you okay?” I ask Logan.

His eyes slide to me, holding my gaze with a kind of intensity that could stop my heart. “I’m fine,” he says, returning his attention to Wanda. “He’s in lockup right now and will stay there until arraignment. Charged with violating the restraining order, resisting arrest, and assault and battery of an officer of the law. You won’t have to worry about him for a while.”

Tears fall from Wanda’s eyes and she reaches for Logan, wrapping her arms around his ribs. Logan’s hands move to awkwardly hold her shoulders. He gives a pat or two before releasing her.

“Thank you, so much,” she says. “Thank you, Logan, for everything.”

“Come on, Mom. Let’s head home,” Myra says, pulling her keys from her pocket. “Thank you,” she says to me, pulling me in for a hug. “And thank you again,” she says to Logan.

He gives her a nod as both women walk to Myra’s car and climb inside. I watch them leave and don’t know how I feel about it. On one hand, I love that I was able to help them out in any way; on the other, I’m so hurt and disappointed that they had to go through it at all. Of course, I’ve experienced pain, everyone has. But this is something so different, so raw, so unfamiliar to me, I can’t help but feel a little blessed.

Movement catches my eye and I find Logan rubbing at a spot of blood on his uniform shirt. Before I realize what I’m doing, my fingers are tracing the cut on his cheek.

“Come on in,” I say. “Let me clean that up.”

Logan blows out a breath and follows me inside, closing the door behind him. Having him here in my space again, all alone, feels so strange. There are so many feelings swirling, twisting, and carving through my insides that I can’t nail one emotion down.

“In here!” I yell from the bathroom. I grab the first aid kit from underneath the sink and set it on the counter.

Logan appears in the doorway and leans against the frame, crossing his arms. I’m only momentarily distracted as I pull out the supplies I need, laying everything out in order that I’ll need it.

“It’s not that serious,” he says. “Just a little cut.”

“Just get in here.”

His large body slides behind me, our eyes meeting in the mirror. Logan pauses, again, this humming electric feeling pulsing between us. Everything in me tries to push it away, ignore it, but we both know that’s impossible. He finally moves past me and takes a seat on the closed toilet lid.

I tilt his chin so that I can see his scratch better in the subpar lighting. The scruff on his jaw feels familiar beneath my fingertips, but I address the cut. I move closer, standing between his splayed knees. The heat of his body reaches out for me, his breath fans across my chest.

Standing here, with my hands on Logan, all I can think about is falling into his lap and kissing the hell out of him. I can feel his eyes on me as I clean the dried blood from his face. Once the cut is clean, I apply some anesthetic cream on it and wipe my hands on a towel.

Leaning down to inspect my work, I feel Logan’s warm hand wrap around the back of my knee and start sliding up my thigh. My breath hitches and then I hold it inside as my head and body go to war.

“I miss you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Logan,” is my only reply as our eyes meet. There is a desperate longing there and I know it matches my own. I still want him. I still crave him. But can I forgive him?

Our lips are so close we exchange breaths. I want to give myself over to him. I want to live in his arms. My heart beats so loud my own thoughts sound clouded. I know my cheeks are pink, the heat flushing down my neck and chest. Logan’s second hand wraps around my other thigh and his fingers curl into my flesh. He is holding onto me and onto the last of his restraint.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks. His question catches me off guard. I’ve never heard Logan Sawyer ask permission for anything before. Still, the hurt he caused resides inside me, scratching at my brain like an itch that won’t be satisfied.

I turn away, trying to clear my head, trying to find the last of my willpower. The heat from his hands burns into my skin, making it feel like there will be a permanent mark left there.

Logan blows out a breath and drops his hands. “I’m sorry. I said I’d give you time and here I am pressuring you.”

“You’re not pressuring me,” I tell him. I move to lean against the wall opposite of him. “Believe me, I want to. But there’s this nagging feeling in here,” I say, clasping my hands over my heart, “that tells me to protect myself.”

He stands now, sweeping his hands down his chest and tugging on his belt to straighten it. “I completely understand that, Angela. I do. And to be completely transparent with you, I am still investigating your father’s death. I can’t tell you all the details now, but it’s something I have to do.”

My gaze snaps to his serious face. His lips form a straight line while he waits for a response, but I have nothing. The secret that lives inside me shakes its cage, trying to claw its way out of my throat.

He leans closer and I feel weak and a little like giving in. “But please still know that if you decide to give me another chance, no matter how long it takes, I’ll be right here waiting to prove myself.”

His words strike me like a bolt of lightning, melting my insides.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles. “Thanks for cleaning me up.”

And then, he is gone—from the room, from my home—but never from my heart.