Logan.”
That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it. He must see the surprise on my face because he explains, “I thought we should be properly introduced if I’m going to drive you home.”
I don’t smile. I don’t want to go home. Not yet. Possibly not ever.
“Bree.” Softly, almost a question. “Will you let me drive you home?”
Focusing on my breathing, I try not to look at him. It was going so well. It was going so well but I can feel it slipping, I can feel it coming unhinged. My heart is pounding. My mouth is dry. I swallow but it doesn’t help and I can’t look at him but I’m clutching his hand like I’m about to be swallowed into the pits of hell and maybe I am.
“Woah. Okay.” He – Logan, I remind myself - returns the tightened grip for a second but then just sets my palm on his chest again, doing even better and grabbing my other hand too, firmly holding my gaze. We’re sitting there facing each other under that tree and he’s pressing my hands to his chest like we’re lovers but really I’m sinking into that pit and the screaming rips at my ears and he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
“Okay,” he says again, softer this time, taking careful, deliberate breaths. For me.
I feel tears prick my eyes.
There’s a long pause in which I can feel him staring at me, gauging this second attack as its grip loosens, but I can’t see him because I’m hiding my face, focused on the rising and falling of his chest like at any moment he might disappear into a swirl of smoke on the cool breeze.
“Bree?” I blink away the tears and glance up at him, wary. Of course I realize this cannot last forever but I feel raw and shaken, and I’m not ready to let go yet.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to leave you out here like this.”
It takes a second. I tilt my head in question.
“I don’t have to drive you home,” he explains patiently. “If it makes you uncomfortable. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you out here like this. Is there someone I can call, or . . . ?”
I blink. Oh. Right. He thought I was nervous about him driving me home, like I didn’t want to be alone with him in the car or something, which seems absurd as we’re sitting here alone in the dark only inches apart from each other. I shake my head.
I just couldn’t think about him dropping me off, driving away, leaving me alone with the plunge and the screaming . . .
“Okay,” he says again, sensing my alarm. “All right. We’ll figure something out, I don’t have to -”
He stops at the quick shake of my head.
“No?”
God, I want to crawl into his lap if I can breathe like this forever, if it would keep the screaming quiet.
Oddly, I think it would.
Tentatively, I twist my fingers around the soft cotton of his shirt in the middle of his chest, gripping the fabric tightly. He feels it and his breathing changes for a second – a pause, and then a deep breath – before returning to his natural rhythm.
He looks down at my hands. “Are you afraid to go home?”
I shake my head. No. I’m not afraid to go home. I’m afraid of everything. Most especially what I’m doing just that second, touching someone, letting them touch me. Except I’m not. Not with
That wasn’t what I expected him to say. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but that wasn’t it. He must see the surprise on my face because he explains, “I thought we should be properly introduced if I’m going to drive you home.”
I don’t smile. I don’t want to go home. Not yet. Possibly not ever.
“Bree.” Softly, almost a question. “Will you let me drive you home?”
Focusing on my breathing, I try not to look at him. It was going so well. It was going so well but I can feel it slipping, I can feel it coming unhinged. My heart is pounding. My mouth is dry. I swallow but it doesn’t help and I can’t look at him but I’m clutching his hand like I’m about to be swallowed into the pits of hell and maybe I am.
“Woah. Okay.” He – Logan, I remind myself - returns the tightened grip for a second but then just sets my palm on his chest again, doing even better and grabbing my other hand too, firmly holding my gaze. We’re sitting there facing each other under that tree and he’s pressing my hands to his chest like we’re lovers but really I’m sinking into that pit and the screaming rips at my ears and he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
“Okay,” he says again, softer this time, taking careful, deliberate breaths. For me.
I feel tears prick my eyes.
There’s a long pause in which I can feel him staring at me, gauging this second attack as its grip loosens, but I can’t see him because I’m hiding my face, focused on the rising and falling of his chest like at any moment he might disappear into a swirl of smoke on the cool breeze.
“Bree?” I blink away the tears and glance up at him, wary. Of course I realize this cannot last forever but I feel raw and shaken, and I’m not ready to let go yet.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not going to leave you out here like this.”
It takes a second. I tilt my head in question.
“I don’t have to drive you home,” he explains patiently. “If it makes you uncomfortable. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving you out here like this. Is there someone I can call, or . . . ?”
I blink. Oh. Right. He thought I was nervous about him driving me home, like I didn’t want to be alone with him in the car or something, which seems absurd as we’re sitting here alone in the dark only inches apart from each other. I shake my head.
I just couldn’t think about him dropping me off, driving away, leaving me alone with the plunge and the screaming . . .
“Okay,” he says again, sensing my alarm. “All right. We’ll figure something out, I don’t have to -”
He stops at the quick shake of my head.
“No?”
God, I want to crawl into his lap if I can breathe like this forever, if it would keep the screaming quiet.
Oddly, I think it would.
Tentatively, I twist my fingers around the soft cotton of his shirt in the middle of his chest, gripping the fabric tightly. He feels it and his breathing changes for a second – a pause, and then a deep breath – before returning to his natural rhythm.
He looks down at my hands. “Are you afraid to go home?”
I shake my head. No. I’m not afraid to go home. I’m afraid of everything. Most especially what I’m doing just that second, touching someone, letting them touch me. Except I’m not. Not with
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