Chapter Thirteen

Angela

By the time class is over on Thursday, I am toast. I can’t wait to get home, drink some wine, and watch mindless television. On the drive home from Franklin, I roll my windows down, turn my music up, and celebrate having the day off tomorrow. Just as I’m belting out the last line of a catchy pop song I pretend to hate, I turn into my driveway to find Logan’s truck there. My lights wash over him sitting on my porch steps.

I haven’t seen him all week, only getting two text messages asking about my favorite book—The Outsiders—and candy—pink Starburst. Finding a surprise like Logan puts a smile on my face as I get out of the car and approach him. “Are you selling cookies? Because that would make you my favorite person ever.”

He chuckles and stands to grab the bag from my shoulder. “Damn. Now I wish I had some cookies.”

I unlock my door and step in. “Come on in.”

Logan steps inside. Suddenly I’m nervous about him seeing my small house. I scan the room, making sure there’s no dirty laundry lying around. I turn to find him lingering in my door, the usually confident guy looking shy.

“Where should I put this?” he asks, holding up my bag.

I take it from him and set it on the floor.

There’s a buzzing kind of current between us. My mind is chaotic because Logan Sawyer is in my house, looking at me like I’m the last glass of water in the desert.

He reaches for me, grabbing my hand and pulling me so tight against his body my ribs push against his just to take a breath. He smells like soap and mint, and something uniquely Logan. He spins me, pressing me against the door, and dips his head down until our lips meet. Our kiss is hard and fast. I push the baseball cap off his head so I can run my hands through his hair. My nails scrape along his scalp and that elicits a deep hum that vibrates against my lips.

“Now that’s what I call a greeting,” I say after slowing our make-out session. He dots kisses on my chin, nose, and forehead. I release my grip on him as he pushes away, locking his arms straight and caging me between them. My gaze travels down his body where I find him hard and straining against the zipper of his jeans.

“Yes, well you seem to have some kind of restraint-killing aura about you. I can’t be held responsible for my body’s reaction to a kiss like that,” he says. “I didn’t mean to attack you. Are we at the place where that’s appropriate?”

I squint. “I’m not sure what kind of place we’re at. I’m not sure I even like you yet,” I tease. Liar. “Do you want a drink or something?”

“That’s actually why I came over. Some friends are at the Haystack. I thought we could have a casual night out—not officially date number two—and grab some drinks and I could introduce you.”

“You want to introduce me to your friends?”

“Why not?” he answers, grabbing my hand and squeezing.

It’s not like I don’t know these people, or at least know of them. We’ve all been in Crowley our whole lives, so there was no escaping having class together. But I couldn’t tell you any of their names. Just like they couldn’t tell you mine. We didn’t run in the same circles. To be honest, I didn’t run in any circles.

“Come on,” he says. “We won’t stay long.”

“Okay. Give me a minute to change.”

I scurry into my bedroom, pulling off my T-shirt and yoga pants, flinging them across the room. They land nowhere near my hamper, but my focus is on the closet.

“Sorry I’ve been MIA this week,” Logan says from the living room. I frantically search through my closet then find my favorite jeans and wiggle into them. “Work has been busy with Smith being out.”

“It’s okay,” I answer, pulling a simple blue top on over my head.

“In my experience, girls can sometimes take forever to get dressed,” Logan yells. “Like, should I have seat and read a few issues of—”

He stops talking when I walk into the room, stepping into a pair of flats. “I’m ready,” I say. I notice that he’s got my dad’s box of comic books open and is flipping through them.

“That’s impressive. You look great.”

I glance down at my outfit and don’t find anything special about it. It’s a good balance of comfortable and confident. The way Logan’s gaze rakes over my body makes it feel a lot more impressive than a shirt and jeans.

“You read?” he asks, gesturing to the box.

“They were my dad’s. But I’ve been reading through them again. You?”

“Oh.” He looks down at the stack. “Yeah. I mean, I used to. You know, when I was a kid.” Logan rubs at the back of his neck with one hand.

I grin, knowing that he’s trying to keep his cool and seem disinterested.

Logan sucks in a breath and he pulls one from the box, holding it in the air. “X-Men Alpha #1? Wow. This is a classic. Did you know I was named after Wolverine?”

My eyes widen and I let out a laugh that surprises myself. “No shit?”

“No shit. My dad was obsessed with him and X-Men in general.”

“My dad, too,” I say.

Logan gives me a sly grin. “When did he pass?” he asks, squinting as if he’s trying to remember.

“Four years ago. The summer before senior year.”

“That’s right,” Logan says, replacing the comic book in the box. “I’m sorry. That must have been rough.”

I nod and twist my hands together, fidgeting.

“I apologize. You probably don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say. “Maybe another time.”

On the short drive to the Haystack, Logan seems antsy. He shifts in his seat a few times, his eyes sliding to me every so often. “So, what’s your favorite breakfast food?”

Every time he asks one of his random questions, it surprises me. But I love playing along. “It definitely has to be French toast. My dad used to make the best kind. I don’t know what his secret was, but man it was delicious. I’ve tried to ask my mom, but she swears she doesn’t know either.” I realize that answer was probably more than he was looking for, so I bite down on my lips to keep from rambling on.

Logan’s lips turn down and I wonder if it’s my answer that puts that frown on his face or something more. His lips open and close a few times, like he’s going to say something but stops himself. After the silence has gone on too long, he finally spits out another question. “And if you had to have one album on repeat for the rest of your life?”

“Oh, that’s a hard question. I like different music for different moods. That’s the thing about music, right? There’s so much out there you can always find what fits.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Logan says, as if he’s never thought about this before. “But what could you tolerate over and over for eternity?”

“I guess I’d go with something timeless like The Beatles album. ‘Blackbird’ is one of my favorite songs. There are some amazing songs on there.”

We pull into the Haystack’s parking lot. “I suppose that’s enough interrogation for the night. Let’s get a drink,” he says, helping me out of the truck.

The bar seems busy for a Thursday. Logan spots his friends and drags me over. I give Wren a wave, which she returns and holds up one finger, indicating she’ll be over in a minute. Logan pulls out a chair for me and we both have a seat.

“Everybody, this is Angela. Angela, this is everybody.”

The guys introduce themselves and I make an effort to remember each one. I do recognize their faces from high school, but only because of their proximity to Logan. The three girls smile and tell me their names—Myra, Tiffany, and Olivia—with hesitant waves. The blonde seems especially cold and I wonder if it has anything to do with me being at Logan’s side.

Wren walks up, resting her hand on the back of my chair. Before she can ask for our order, she’s cut off.

“So, Angie, you and Sawyer bumpin’ uglies yet?” the big guy says—Scott, I think.

I freeze. Too shocked to even blush. “Excuse me?”

“You know. Hidin’ the sausage. The horizontal two-step. Bashing the beaver.”

“Are you special?” Wren asks. We all turn to face her. “I don’t mean like gold star special, I mean one too many football concussions special.”

Scott stares.

“Unless you are a third member of their relationship—which would never be an option until you learn to breathe with your mouth closed—what they are doing with their uglies, sausage, and beaver are none of your damn concern.”

I press my lips together, suppressing the laughter that wants to erupt from me, and look at the floor just to keep from losing my cool. Wren Hart gets better and better each time I see her.

“Oh, snap!” Logan shouts with a laugh, placing his hand on my knee.

I give him a smile to let him know I’m okay.

We order our drinks and make small talk. Wren drops them off, still giving the death glare to Scott, and I can admit it gives me a bit of joy.

Besides the first outburst, Logan’s friends seem okay. They’re your basic small-town lifers, pretty simple people and nice enough. That is, until the blonde girl, Tiffany, gets a few drinks in her. She waits until Logan is in the bathroom to speak up, and I should have seen the ambush coming. “So, you’re the flavor of the month, huh?” she asks, her eyes glaring in my direction.

“Tiffany!” Olivia, one of the brunettes, scolds.

“What?” Tiffany asks, as if she hasn’t said the rudest thing. “Angela has been in Crowley her whole life. She knows the score. After Wren left, Sawyer shut down. He’s not going to give you anything besides a roll in the hay. He charms his way into a girl’s panties and then moves on. The whole town’s had a turn.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and hits me with a knowing smirk.

I sip my drink to quell my anger before responding. “Sounds like the bitter ramblings of someone who never had a turn.”

“Burn!” Scott shouts, pointing at Tiffany.

While it feels like a victory, her words land on their intended mark. I know she’s right and it makes me wonder if I’m just going to be another notch in his bedpost. Logan returns before I can dwell on those thoughts for too long.

No one mentions Tiffany’s comment and the group carries on with embarrassing tales of high school shenanigans. When I yawn in the middle of a conversation, Logan announces that we’re heading out. I give everyone a wave and decide to wait for him at the bar.

Wren looks tired and not her usual self.

“Hey, are you all right?” I ask.

She checks her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “Why? Do I not look all right?”

“No, Wren. You’re gorgeous, as always. You just seem…distracted.”

She leans on the bar in front of me, fidgeting with a stack of paper napkins. “You have no idea. My life feels like a melodramatic Lifetime movie right now.”

“Small town life a little more complicated than you remember?” I tease.

“You could say that.”

“Well, if you ever need to talk, I’m around,” I offer. Something tells me that she could use a friend and why shouldn’t that be me? “That is, if you can stand being seen with a band nerd.”

“Hey,” she says, pointing at me. “High school does not define us for the rest of our lives. It’s crazy how we think that time is so important. In the grand scheme of things, those four years were nothing but a step on the way to the rest of our lives.”

My eyes widen, surprised by her answer. “Wow. Check out the wisdom from Miss Hart.”

“I’m definitely not ‘Most Likely to be a Celebrity’ anymore. So, how are things with Sawyer?”

“Didn’t you tell mouth-breather earlier to mind his business?”

Wren laughs and slaps the bar, then holding up her hands in surrender. “I sure did. Sorry for asking.”

“I’m kidding. It’s still very new, you know? We’re great, Wren. He’s great. I’m great.” I pretend that everything is good, because tonight was good. I want to ask her a million questions about Logan, but I don’t think we’re those kinds of friends yet. By the time I figure him out, she may be long gone from this town again.

“Sounds great.”

We both chuckle as Logan wraps his arms around me from behind. He places a kiss on my cheek and I don’t feel uncomfortable about it in the least.

“Good night, Wren,” I say, making my way toward the door.

“Later.”

“I’ll be there in a second,” Logan says to me.

I nod and lean against the front window, checking my cell phone for something to do. I’ve got three missed calls from my mom. As Logan chats with Wren, I step outside to call her back. It only rings once.

“Angela?” she asks.

“What’s wrong?”

“He came back.”

I sigh and lean against the driver’s door of Logan’s truck. “Who?”

“The man in the yard. He was here again.”

“Momma, it’s almost midnight. Why are you still up?”

“I can’t sleep when he’s out there.”

Logan approaches. His smile is replaced with concern when he sees my frustration. I sigh into the warm night air and press my free hand to my forehead.

“I’m with Logan. We’ll come over,” I offer.

“Okay,” she answers, and hangs up the phone.

Logan wraps me in his arms and holds so tight I feel like he’s holding me together when I might not have the strength to do it on my own. I rest my head on his chest, inhaling the scent of his cologne. I want to just stay here, in this moment, and not deal with the rest of my life.

“Your mom?” he asks.

I nod. My mind volleys back and forth between bringing Logan into my dysfunctional family life. I just don’t want to bring so much turmoil into a budding relationship. This is my one shot to get this right, something I’ve dreamed of for so long. I don’t want to derail it with my personal drama.

“I’m sorry I volunteered you. I can go alone if you—”

“No way,” he interrupts. “I’m coming, too.”

…

Logan and my mother sit at her kitchen table while I pour each of us a cup of decaf. A dreaded pile of newspapers sit at the end of the table, stacked about two feet high. She must have been hiding those when I cleaned out the house, because it’s too soon to have that many already. I tell myself to ignore it; we’ve got bigger things to deal with tonight.

“How do you take your coffee?” I ask Logan.

“Black.”

“Same as me,” my mother says with a sweet smile.

I deliver their coffee and take a seat next to Logan. We sit in awkward silence because I don’t know where to start with her.

“Thank you for coming,” she finally says, but she’s only speaking to Logan.

“It’s no problem,” Logan answers. “So, you said someone was in your yard again?”

Mom sighs and nods, her eyes landing on the dark front window. She doesn’t say another word.

My hands tighten around my mug as Logan’s gaze jumps between the two of us. “Momma, what’s going on? Who was in the yard?” I hate to dismiss her fear. Whether someone was out there or not, she believes there was.

“Those people. They’re watching. Waiting.”

“Who?” I ask. “Do you know them?”

She nods and sips her coffee. “I won’t scare that easily.”

“Momma, you’re talking in code here. Give me something,” I beg. “What do they want?”

Logan’s arm is draped over the back of my chair. He must sense my growing frustration, because he slides his hand beneath my hair and rubs circles on my back.

“What they want is not important,” she says.

I drop my head to the table and bang my forehead against the wood a few times. I don’t know how to deal with her when she’s like this. She just seems to talk in circles and we get nowhere. From her familiar answers I’ve heard time and time again, it does seem like it’s just one of her anxiety attacks.

“Mrs. Lavelle,” Logan says, “if you tell us what you know, maybe we can stop them from coming here. Isn’t that what you want? How do we make sure they don’t come back?”

“Give them what they want.”

“Oh. My. God,” I groan—my face still pressed against the table. This whole exchange would be funny if it weren’t so damn frustrating. I lift myself up and look at her—really look. She has dark circles under eyes as if she hasn’t slept in days. Her hands fidget with the coffee cup in front of her before lacing her fingers together and resting them on the table.

“Let’s get you to bed, Momma,” I say, realizing we won’t get any answers tonight.

She sighs but gets up from the table and puts her mug in the sink. “Good night, Deputy.”

“Good night,” he answers.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Logan. “You have plenty of reading material to keep you busy,” I tease, gesturing to the stack of newspapers.

As mom readies herself, I pull back the cover on her bed, remove the decorative throw pillows, and take a seat. I stare at the photo of my dad and her that sits on the nightstand. It’s their wedding photo from twenty-five years ago. Both of them look so happy, so in love. I wish my dad was still here. It’s times like this when I really miss him. He would know exactly what to do with my mom. He would know how to make her happy again. I feel so helpless.

When she is finally ready, she slides into bed.

I cover her up to her chin and place a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Momma. You’re safe.”

“Good night, Angela. You’re a good girl,” she says through a yawn.

I close the door to her bedroom and make my way toward the kitchen, only to find Logan in my old bedroom. My pulse spikes when I think about what he could find in there.

“Hey,” I greet. “Sorry about this. I don’t know what’s going on with her.”

“It’s okay. I’m sure just being here for her is all she needs. How long has she been like this?”

“She hasn’t stepped foot outside of this house since returning home from my dad’s funeral. The paranoia started about a year later.”

“Your father’s death must have been devastating for her—for you both.”

I wrap my arms around myself and nod. “It was. I’ve asked her to get some help, see a therapist, talk to someone, but she refuses. It’s like she just can’t move on.”

Logan walks around the room looking at all the sketches pinned up on the walls. “Maybe because she never got closure, you know? I mean, you guys don’t know exactly what happened, right?”

“No,” I answer. “How do you know that?”

He pouts and lifts one shoulder. “I’m the sheriff’s kid.”

“I bet you know more about this town than you want to, huh?” I ask, taking a seat on my childhood bed.

“Probably so.” He gives me a smile and pulls our senior yearbook from my bookshelf.

“Oh god,” I groan. “Why do we have to revisit that?”

Logan chuckles and takes a seat next to me on the bed. He flips through the pages while I relive the worst year of my life in black and white photos and empty, signature-free pages. We pass pages of social and academic clubs, homecoming court and prom, pep rallies and athletics, and finally senior headshots. He turns to the L’s and I cringe and hide behind my hands when he finds my photo.

“What are you hiding for?” he asks with a laugh.

“The braces, the frizzy hair, the glasses…need I go on?”

He bumps my shoulder with his. “Stop. We all looked weird in high school.”

“Are you serious right now?” I grab the book from his hands and flip to the S’s. Holding it up between us I point to his photo. “That is not weird. Look at you! Just look! Perfect hair, gorgeous smile, loved by everyone, prom king.”

Logan pushes the book away, closing it. “And what does prom king mean now? Prom was a rite of passage. I only went because Wren wanted to. And what a production that was. The hair, the makeup, the shoes, the corsage, the dinner and dancing. Everyone goes just to get laid, but we’d been having sex for over a year by then.” He runs his hand through his hair and blows out a breath. “I’m sure it was the same for you.”

I place the yearbook on my desk and shake my head. “I didn’t go to prom. Or homecoming. Or any of those dances.”

“Why not?”

“Because no one asked me,” I admit. “Sure I wanted that experience, that rite of passage you mentioned. I wanted the fancy dress, the shoes, all of it. But when you’re invisible, it’s hard to get a date. I never went to football games, opting out of being in the marching band—because the thought of putting myself on display like that made me nauseated. The only club I was in was art club, with a whopping membership of five. I wasn’t a jock or an academic. I didn’t fit in anywhere in that school. Look, I know high school was great for you. But we had very different experiences. I was Queen of Dorkville and you were Mr. All-American.”

“Objection. That’s bullshit.”

A grin pulls up one side of my mouth as I study his serious expression. “That’s sweet. But this is not a TV courtroom drama. You don’t get to object.”

“Regardless,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh. “You’re not a dork anymore. You’re hot.”

I laugh and roll my eyes. “So dorks can’t be hot?”

“I’ve never seen a hot dork. Isn’t that like an oxymoron or something?”

“First, ‘oxymoron’ is one of my favorite words.”

Logan grins as I continue.

“And second, I am a legit dork, but I own it. I’m not ashamed. Sci-fi or die,” I say with an awkward fist pump.

“Maybe I’m more dorky than you know.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I roll my eyes.

“What? Not everything about me is public knowledge, you know. You’ll see.”

“Okay.”

“I like your room.” He stands and strolls around the small room, studying my drawings and posters, all the books on my shelves. If he opens any one of those sketchbooks to see pages of his own face I will drop dead of embarrassment.

“I’m sure you do like teenage girls’ bedrooms,” I say before covering a yawn. “That came out wrong. I’m tired. You ready to head out?”

“Sure,” he says. Logan heads down the hall and I’ve never been happier to get out of this time capsule of a room.

…

Minutes later, we are back on my porch.

“Thank you for being so sweet with my mom,” I say. “I know she can be difficult.”

“No worries. Moms are my specialty.” Logan rolls his eyes. “That came out wrong. I’m tired,” he says, mimicking me from earlier.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. She seems to be getting worse, which means she’ll probably never feel comfortable enough to leave that house. It’s like she’s imprisoned herself.”

“I think your mom staying in that house is a form of self-preservation. You just keep doing what you’re doing for now. If you feel like it’s getting worse, though, maybe it’s time to seek some professional help.”

“Do you want to be a detective or a psychologist?” I tease. “I think both are an option.”

“They kind of go hand in hand, you know? Gotta get in a criminal’s head to understand him.”

I nod and muffle another yawn.

“I’m working the next seven days straight,” he says. “But I’ll call you about that second date you agreed to.”

I mumble an okay and turn to unlock my door. When I push the door open, his arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me against his body. His warmth surrounds me and all my worries seem to float away. Logan places soft kisses where my neck meets my shoulder, skirting along the collar of my shirt. My hands cover his and I lean my head back, giving him easier access.

“Just so you know, I do want you, Angela. You can feel how much I want you,” he says, pressing his hips into me. “But I want you to know that you won’t be just a name on a long list of girls. When we decide the time is right, I’m going to take my time with you. I’m going to worship and tease you.” One hand slides up, cupping my breast, and I let out a humming kind of moan. “I’m going to explore this body and memorize every curve. It will be just me and you and nothing else—no distractions, no outside world.”

His raspy words start a fire that consumes my entire body. My knees want to fail as I grab onto the doorframe for support.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asks.

“You’re asking me about coffee right now?”

“Yep.” Another three kisses on my neck while his hands travel along my ribs and over my stomach. I’m finding it hard to concentrate.

“Lots of sugar, a little cream.”

“Good night,” Logan says, pressing a kiss just below my ear before stepping away.

I get inside and lean against the front door, trying to catch my breath. My hand slides over where his lips kissed my neck and I grin because I just got to second base with Logan Fucking Sawyer.