him.
“Okay. Next question. Did Dylan hurt you? Did he -”
I shake my head. No. Dylan didn’t hurt me.
My response doesn’t seem to satisfy him; he’s staring at me intently, his eyes roving over my face as if searching for an injury, which I suppose makes sense. He was too close behind me not to have heard my puking, and he’d witnessed my falling apart firsthand. It would’ve made more sense if there was some reason for it all, some visible wound he could place blame on, but there had never been any visible scars. He watches me carefully, but leaves it at that.
I want to ask him why he cares. Why he’s going to so much trouble, trying to figure out what I need when I won’t do the simple thing and just open my mouth and tell him. I want to ask him why his voice sounds so familiar to me. And I want to ask him why he looked so tortured that first day, standing slumped over in the hall, but the words can never come.
He glances behind him, back the way we’d just come, and then back to me. “Can you walk?”
I nod.
Logan accepts this, removing my hands from his shirt and pushing fluidly to his feet. He watches me carefully as he helps pull me to mine, bending at the knees slightly to study my face between the fall of my hair. He’s taller than me by a few inches and I tilt my head, letting him look. When he’s apparently satisfied he releases one hand only to loosely cup my elbow, slowly guiding me back. We find his car easily, the lights from the party reflecting off a colorless, glossy exterior, and he unlocks it with the button, opening the passenger door for me.
I stop. Stare at it, mentally preparing myself for letting go of his hand. There is no reason to fall apart without the touch of him, this boy I’d only just met. There isn’t.
Just as I’m trying to convince the death grip of my hand over his to relax he surprises me by ducking into the car, crawling awkwardly over the gear shift and plopping into the drivers’ seat, the movement pulling me down a little as he still hadn’t let go. He leans across the seat, peering up at me standing outside.
“You coming in, or are you planning on dislocating my shoulder?”
And I can’t help it. I laugh. Out loud. I can’t remember the last time I’d laughed out loud.
His face freezes in surprise at the sound and then melts into an easy, pleasant smile. “Glad I amuse you,” he says quietly, and it doesn’t sound sarcastic at all.
As soon as I lower myself into the seat next to him he braces one boot on the floor of the car and hikes up a hip, digging in the pocket of his jeans, tapping the screen a few times and then sliding a sleek looking smartphone into my free hand.
I just look at him, suddenly noticing how clean the inside of his car is, the black interior appearing almost new, in stark contrast with his well-worn jeans and boots. He’s still watching me holding his phone.
“Type your address into the GPS,” he prompts, and I do, grateful for the easy out he’d just given me. I rest it on my leg and poke the screen with one hand, then pass it back to him.
He takes one look at the screen and laughs heartily, dumping it into the cup holder and backing out onto the road. “Well, this is my lucky day,” he says, amused. “We’re practically neighbors.”
The ride home is silent but not awkwardly so. At some point I realize he’s intertwined his fingers with mine where they sit on the
“Okay. Next question. Did Dylan hurt you? Did he -”
I shake my head. No. Dylan didn’t hurt me.
My response doesn’t seem to satisfy him; he’s staring at me intently, his eyes roving over my face as if searching for an injury, which I suppose makes sense. He was too close behind me not to have heard my puking, and he’d witnessed my falling apart firsthand. It would’ve made more sense if there was some reason for it all, some visible wound he could place blame on, but there had never been any visible scars. He watches me carefully, but leaves it at that.
I want to ask him why he cares. Why he’s going to so much trouble, trying to figure out what I need when I won’t do the simple thing and just open my mouth and tell him. I want to ask him why his voice sounds so familiar to me. And I want to ask him why he looked so tortured that first day, standing slumped over in the hall, but the words can never come.
He glances behind him, back the way we’d just come, and then back to me. “Can you walk?”
I nod.
Logan accepts this, removing my hands from his shirt and pushing fluidly to his feet. He watches me carefully as he helps pull me to mine, bending at the knees slightly to study my face between the fall of my hair. He’s taller than me by a few inches and I tilt my head, letting him look. When he’s apparently satisfied he releases one hand only to loosely cup my elbow, slowly guiding me back. We find his car easily, the lights from the party reflecting off a colorless, glossy exterior, and he unlocks it with the button, opening the passenger door for me.
I stop. Stare at it, mentally preparing myself for letting go of his hand. There is no reason to fall apart without the touch of him, this boy I’d only just met. There isn’t.
Just as I’m trying to convince the death grip of my hand over his to relax he surprises me by ducking into the car, crawling awkwardly over the gear shift and plopping into the drivers’ seat, the movement pulling me down a little as he still hadn’t let go. He leans across the seat, peering up at me standing outside.
“You coming in, or are you planning on dislocating my shoulder?”
And I can’t help it. I laugh. Out loud. I can’t remember the last time I’d laughed out loud.
His face freezes in surprise at the sound and then melts into an easy, pleasant smile. “Glad I amuse you,” he says quietly, and it doesn’t sound sarcastic at all.
As soon as I lower myself into the seat next to him he braces one boot on the floor of the car and hikes up a hip, digging in the pocket of his jeans, tapping the screen a few times and then sliding a sleek looking smartphone into my free hand.
I just look at him, suddenly noticing how clean the inside of his car is, the black interior appearing almost new, in stark contrast with his well-worn jeans and boots. He’s still watching me holding his phone.
“Type your address into the GPS,” he prompts, and I do, grateful for the easy out he’d just given me. I rest it on my leg and poke the screen with one hand, then pass it back to him.
He takes one look at the screen and laughs heartily, dumping it into the cup holder and backing out onto the road. “Well, this is my lucky day,” he says, amused. “We’re practically neighbors.”
The ride home is silent but not awkwardly so. At some point I realize he’s intertwined his fingers with mine where they sit on the
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