Chapter 47: Chapter Forty-Seven

RAE

I can’t believe I let Logan come to that fucking party. I knew he’d be subject to question after question about his family, and I brought him anyway.

After Logan lies and says that he’s just tired, the only sound on the drive back to his apartment is my phone buzzing.

Dad

Hope Logan had fun. Love you.

Rae

It was great. Thanks, Dad. Love you too.

I don’t get a good look at Logan’s face until we’re in the elevator. What I see plucks every remaining bit of happiness from my body. His handsome blue-green eyes are downcast.

He’s sad, incredibly sad, the kind of sad that can’t be cured by kind words or sweet gestures. I’ve been there a million times. I know how it feels to be buried alive, suffocated by your own emotions.

I can’t stand the silence anymore. “I love you,” I whisper.

“Love you too, Rae,” he says gruffly, still staring at the leftover food Mom shoved into his hands as we were leaving.

Logan goes straight into the shower when we’re back in his apartment. He doesn’t say a word. He just deposits the food into the fridge, grabs a towel from his closet, and locks himself in the bathroom.

I hate that I did this to him, that I put him in a situation that I knew would be triggering. He said he could handle it, but he was doing that for me. He saw it as an obligation. I never should have let it be an option.

Logan’s showers usually last five minutes. This one takes forty-five.

“We’re out of hot water,” he says dully when he emerges from the bathroom in sweatpants and a tee-shirt.

He never gets dressed immediately after a shower. Never. He hates the feeling of putting clothes on his body if there’s so much as a drop of water left on his skin.

He’s telling me no. He’s rejecting intimacy. I didn’t ask, but he decided not to give me the chance.

“Oh, okay. I’ll wait a while before I shower, then.”

“Cool.”

And then he walks into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.

I take a cold shower and fall asleep on the couch.

***

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” Logan comments. He places a mug of coffee on the side table and returns to the kitchen.

“Yeah. I fell asleep on the couch.”

“On purpose?”

~After an hour of sobbing, yes~. “Kind of. I didn’t think you wanted me, you know, to—”

“No, Rae, I don’t know.”

“I thought because you shut the bedroom door…”

He scrunches his brows. “I was tired, and the light was on.”

“Oh.” I sip the coffee to keep my mouth from pulling into a frown. “Sorry.”

Logan is always telling me not to apologize for things I’m not sorry for. I have a tendency to do that. Ask any socially anxious person. “Sorry” is our go-to.

This morning, I think he actually wants me to be sorry. I guess I deserve it, even though he’s perfectly capable of falling asleep when the light is on.

Logan doesn’t say a thing until I place the empty mug into his dishwasher. Then, he mutters that he’ll give me a ride home.

“Are you upset with me?” I whisper, trying to keep my voice from squeaking the way it does when I’m close to tears.

Last night, I thought he needed time to process, but clearly, there’s something more going on inside him. He’s never been so distant.

“When were you planning on telling me about our Christmas plans?”

Every single word is a dagger, and I realize what I’ve done to him. The exact thing Zoe does to me. The thing I hate most in the world. I assumed he needed me to protect him. I didn’t even give him a chance.

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Logan. I panicked, and…”

“You were embarrassed because I’m not from a goddamn stock photo like you are.”

More daggers. “No, I… I wanted the questions to stop. I could never be embarrassed by you.”

“I’m sorry my family can never give you what you need.”

~What~? “You’re what I need,” I whisper.

He recoils, and I realize I said the wrong thing. I confirmed his anxieties because I didn’t deny them.

“Logan, I—”

“I guess it doesn’t matter if we spend Christmas together, right? You already had a great family Thanksgiving.” His voice drips with sarcasm.

~Is he really angry I skipped Thanksgiving to help arrange his father’s wake and funeral~? That’s what girlfriends do. They support their boyfriends when they need it most.

“I love you, Logan. I wanted to be there for you. You would have done the same for me.” His eyes flash, but I continue. Once I stop speaking, I’ll freeze or burst into tears. “Besides, I ~hate~ Thanksgiving. It makes me anxious.”

“Less anxious than planning a funeral?” I open my mouth to explain that yes, that’s how horrible social anxiety is, but Logan doesn’t pause for me to explain.

“You didn’t seem so anxious at the party last night. Not until my family came up.”

“That’s because you were with me,” I whisper. He blinks, anger disappearing for a second, and I seize my chance. “I’m less anxious when I’m with you. You make me feel safe.”

“Not safe enough to tell me when you skip a goddamn holiday to get my dead dad’s shit together.”

“That’s not—”

“You ready?” He thrusts my jacket into my hands, and I just nod, incapable of speech. “Don’t forget the leftovers your mom packaged up for us. You can give her the container at Christmas.”

Neither of us speaks a word in the car, not until I lean in to kiss him goodbye, desperate for a sign that our relationship is going to survive, when he mutters, “Bye, Rae,” and turns his face away from mine.

A second after I close the door, he’s halfway down the block.