Chapter 17: Chapter Seventeen

LOGAN

Rae is shitfaced. She’s wobbling like she’s incapable of keeping a single body part still.

“Rae!” I take her shoulders in my hands. “Hey, Rae. It’s Logan.”

“I can see you,” she slurs, irritated. “I’m drunk, but I’m not ~that~ drunk.”

For the first time this week, a smile tugs at my lips. “Heading out?” I try to keep my voice conversational.

“Yup.” She pops the “P”. Then, a glimmer of the Rae I know—or, rather, the Rae I want to know—shines through the sassy, intoxicated exterior. “How are you doing? Are you alright? Courtney shouldn’t have texted. I told her no.”

“I wanted to spend time with you,” I answer truthfully.

“Because I’m sad?”

I don’t have time to ask what she’s talking about before she’s stumbling into the bushes and puking her guts out. The bouncer shoots me a look that screams “your problem, buddy.”

He’s not wrong. I can’t help but think that if I’d thought things through last week, she wouldn’t have drunk so much tonight. I hold her hair until she’s done.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry,” she rasps.

“Don’t be sorry. Let me give you a ride home. I wasn’t planning on drinking, so I drove here.” It’s a lie. I was going to leave my car overnight, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She waves her arm in what I think is supposed to be a rejection. “No big deal. My Uber is a minute away.”

“Can I come just to make sure you get back alright?” She’s in no condition to go anywhere alone.

Her eyes fill with tears. “No, I’m fine. I don’t need someone to protect me.”

“I’m not…,” I run my fingers through my hair, not entirely sure what she means. “I’m not trying to protect you. I just wanted to talk.”

She bites her lip, deep in thought. “If that’s why you want to come, then yes.”

I nod and follow her into the Uber, where the driver makes small talk about our night. Rae peeks at me each time he asks a question.

I can’t tell if she wants me to answer or if she’s waiting to see if I take over the exchange. It’s painful. I nearly resort to starting up a conversation about the NFL or something Rae won’t be interested in.

Finally, we arrive at her apartment. Rae mumbles her thanks, and I wave to the driver. I hope she’s not too drunk to remember to tip the poor guy.

“After you, madame.”

She giggles in response to my pathetic attempt at a British accent and scans a key fob to let us in.

“I take the stairs so I don’t have to see people,” she informs me, “but I’m too fucking drunk for that tonight. Can you talk to the strangers in the elevator?”

Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she whispers to herself, “You ~do~ need protecting.”

My first reaction is to hug her, but that seems like the last thing she wants right now. So I press my twitching arms to my sides in the thankfully empty elevator to the fourth floor instead.

Her apartment is nice. Big kitchen, plush-looking loveseat, central air buzzing in the background.

A string of white Christmas lights hangs around the perimeter, and the walls are plastered with beautiful photographs—some of Rae, some of her roommate, most of the scenes without people. ~So very Rae~, I think.

“Want anything to drink?” she asks. Her slur is gone. I guess that makes sense. She puked ~a lot~. She’s probably sobered herself up.

“Water would be great, thanks,” I say, sliding onto a barstool at her counter. I don’t want her to think I’m trying anything by sitting on the tiny sofa.

She hands me a tall pink glass with ice cubes and a biodegradable straw, but she doesn’t stop to sit. Instead, she rushes into the bathroom. ~Oh, shit. Not again~.

I hear the water running, and a minute later, she emerges with a bit of toothpaste on her lip. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I can’t believe I got that bad.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She’s still looking worried, so I add, “Not the first hair I’ve held.”

Rae giggles, and then her demeanor does a one-eighty. “I’m sorry for the picture,” she murmurs, staring at her lap.

“Rae, don’t.”

Her eyes lift. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Too late.”

I snort. “I didn’t think anything through last week. I was in my own head, and I was just seeing things at surface value.

“When Courtney texted me, I realized what an idiot I am for not giving everything more thought. You would never do something like that unless you were backed into a corner by the devil.”

She gasps. “Did you just call your girlfriend the devil?”

~What~? “My girlfriend?”

She eyes me curiously. “Yeah. Michael said you guys got back together.”

I shake my head. “No, we broke up in April, I think. Somewhere around then.” It’s tough to remember when your entire relationship is screaming fights and temporary breakups.

“I hate him,” she growls, “but he’s so—” She claps her hands over her mouth. “Oh, my God. Forget I… Oh, God.”

“He’s so what, Rae?” I try to keep my tone teasing, but all I can think about is how I want to be the one making her blush and blurt out whatever she was going to say about that fucking asshole.

She mimes locking her lips and throwing away the key. It’s a shitty lock. She doesn’t stop talking. “But thanks for apologizing. You didn’t have to. I should have known better.”

“Taylor threatened to fire you. You didn’t have a choice,” I point out.

“I was a bad friend for not refusing anyway,” she sighs.

“I don’t see it that way,” I tell her, drawing a small, tight smile from her lips.

“Thanks for always talking to me like an equal.”

I’ve never seen someone switch between confident and insecure so quickly. She goes back and forth. Nothing in the middle. Where’s the firecracker who deadpanned “too late”? She was here a minute ago.

“Why wouldn’t I talk to you like an equal?” I ask slowly.

“That’s a sober conversation, but I’ll probably be too anxious to have it without pregaming, so I guess it’ll have to be a mystery.”

“If you ever want to tell me, I’m all ears.”

“Thanks, Logan. Maybe.”

With Rae, I feel like “maybe” is progress.