Chapter 14 Logan
LOGAN
Beck finds me exactly where I left myself—stuck at the edge of the patio like my feet are glued to the concrete and my brain is on a delay.
The backyard is still loud, still full of people pretending life is simple, but my whole body is tuned to one thing: Sloane Rhodes getting guided across the party by some guy in a flannel like she’s not one wrong breath away from snapping in half.
My hand is clamped around the crutch handle hard enough to numb my fingers.
Beck steps up beside me, red cup in hand, eyebrows already climbing.
“What the hell are you doing?” he asks, tone casual, eyes not.
“I’m standing,” I say.
Beck huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no shit. Why are you standing like you’re about to commit a crime?”
I don’t answer. Beck doesn’t need an answer. He follows my line of sight anyway—because of course he does—and his mouth twists the second he spots her.
“Oh,” he says. “That.”
I keep my eyes on Sloane. The guy leans in to say something, she laughs politely, and it hits me in the chest like a cheap shot.
Beck takes a sip of his drink. “You gonna go over there or just glare until your eyes cramp?”
“I’m not going over there,” I mutter.
Beck’s brows lift. “Why?”
Because the last time I went over there at a party, I ruined everything.
Because jealousy turns me into an asshole.
Because I don’t trust my mouth with her when I feel like that.
“I don’t get to,” I say.
Beck angles his head, studying me. “Okay. That’s dramatic. Explain.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. “You remember freshman year? That party we went to, and I was pissed as shit after?”
Beck nods slowly. “I mean, you mentioned it. Not in detail, but…yeah.”
My throat tightens. “She kissed some guy.”
Beck’s eyes narrow. “And you lost your mind.”
I don’t deny it.
“I said something to her after,” I admit, voice low.
Beck waits.
I swallow hard, the words tasting like rust. “I told her…that no one wants a desperate girl.”
Beck’s face stills.
I keep going, because if I stop, I’ll back out. “I said it like she was embarrassing. Like she was putting on a show. Like she needed to be…louder and prettier and more dramatic to get people to look at her.”
Beck’s jaw clenches. “Jesus, man.”
“I know,” I mutter. Shame crawls up my neck. “I was jealous. And instead of owning it, I made it her problem. I made her feel small for doing something stupid at a party—like we weren’t all doing stupid shit at that party.”
Beck stares at me for a beat, then exhales slowly. “And you never apologized.”
I shake my head once.
Beck’s expression turns hard. “Why?”
Because apologizing would mean admitting I cared.
Because caring about my best friend’s little sister feels like stepping onto a landmine.
Because the Rhodes family saved me, and I’ve been terrified of being the reason anything cracks.
“Because I was scared,” I admit finally. “I am scared.”
Beck’s face softens a fraction—just enough to show he understands. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get scared too.”
I swallow, eyes still locked on Sloane.
“She doesn’t owe me anything,” I add, roughly. “And I don’t get to show up now like I’m some…hero, just because I finally grew a conscience.”
Beck’s mouth twitches. “No one said hero.”
“Feels like that’s what it would look like,” I mutter.
Beck shakes his head. “It would look like accountability.”
I scoff. “Same difference when you’re standing in a backyard watching her get walked away by another guy.”
Beck turns his head slightly. “Speaking of—are you going to do something?”
I hesitate.
The truth is ugly: part of me wants to storm over there, claim her attention, prove to myself I still can. Would she have chosen me back then, or would I have made a complete fool of myself? But would she choose me now? Especially now that I don’t know what my future holds.
Another part of me—older, smarter, terrified—wants to let her go because she deserves peace more than she deserves me. I’ve never thought I was good enough for her, and maybe this is just another moment where that proves to be true.
Before Beck can push again, a familiar voice cuts in, sharp and amused.
“This is painful.”
I turn.
Sophie stands there with her arms crossed, expression unimpressed, like she’s watching a slow-motion car crash she predicted ten minutes ago.
She isn’t just Beck’s girlfriend.
Sophie has been in my life long enough to know exactly where my weak spots are and exactly how to step on them.
She also looks like she could ruin a man’s life with a smile and a sentence.
“Hi, Soph,” I say dryly.
Sophie lifts her brows. “Hi, Limp Bizkit.”
“Babe.” Beck groans. “I told you to be nice.”
I glare. “Don’t call me that.”
“You’re limping,” she points out. “And you’re being dramatic. It fits.”
Beck mutters, “I hate both of you,” and takes a sip like he’s trying to survive us.
“Liar. You love us.” Sophie’s gaze cuts back toward the yard. “Is that her?”
“Yes,” Beck and I say at the same time.
Sophie hums. “Okay. So you’re doing the thing.”
I narrow my eyes. “What thing?”
“The ‘I’m going to stand here and suffer in silence like it makes me noble’ thing,” she replies. “It’s a favorite of your species.”
“It’s not noble,” I bite. “It’s—”
“Fear,” she finishes for me instantly. “Yeah. I know.”
My chest tightens.
Sophie’s eyes flick to my face. Softer, just for a second. “What did you say to her back then?”
Beck answers before I can, “He told her that no one wants a desperate girl.”
Sophie’s expression changes.
Not shocked, Sophie doesn’t shock easily, but something sharp slides into place, like she’s suddenly furious on Sloane’s behalf.
“Ouch,” she says quietly.
I swallow hard. “I know.”
Sophie studies me for a beat. “And you’ve just…let her carry that?”
I clench my jaw. “I’m not proud of it.”
“No kidding,” she says. Then she points toward the yard. “Go.”
My stomach drops. “Sophie—”
“Go,” she repeats, firmer. “Not to start a fight. Not to pull some possessive caveman shit either. Go apologize.”
Beck nods beside her. “She’s right, man.”
I glare at both of them. “You two are ganging up on me.”
Sophie smiles, all teeth. “Correct.”
Beck adds, “It’s for your own good.”
I look back at Sloane. The guy is still too close. Still too comfortable guiding her like he’s entitled.
Sloane’s posture is tight, her laugh not real, her eyes scanning like she’s looking for an exit and doesn’t know where to find it.
My chest aches.
Sophie steps closer, lowering her voice so it’s just for me. “Logan. She’s drowning. You can’t fix that. But you can stop being one of the weights tied to her ankles.”
The words punch straight through me.
I swallow, throat burning with guilt trying to claw its way to the surface.
Beck claps my shoulder gently. “I’ll run interference.”
Sophie smirks. “And if you chicken out, I’m telling everyone you’re terrified of Sloane Rhodes.”
My head snaps toward her. “You wouldn’t.”
Sophie smiles sweetly. “Try me.”
A laugh nearly escapes me—quick and surprised.
Sophie’s expression softens a fraction. “Go,” she says again. “Before she disappears.”
I exhale slowly and shift my weight forward.
One step.
My crutch taps the ground.
I take another.
And as I start moving, Sloane turns at the same time—guided by the guy’s hand on her elbow.
Her gaze flicks back across the yard.
Finds me.
For half a second, her eyes widen—surprise, irritation, something else sharp and unreadable.
Then the guy pulls her back into the house.
The sliding door shuts behind them.
I don’t go after her.
I tell myself it’s restraint. Maturity. Respect.
But really, it’s fear.
It’s the same fear that’s kept my apology lodged in my throat for two years—because if I say it out loud, I can’t pretend I didn’t mean it. I can’t pretend she didn’t matter. I can’t pretend I didn’t want her in a way that made everything complicated and dangerous.
Beck’s voice follows me as I turn back toward the house. “You’re gonna regret that.”
Sophie adds, louder, “You’re such a—”
I don’t let her finish. I cut through the crowd, through the heat and noise and bodies, and I leave before my pride makes a worse decision than my fear.
I tell myself I’m only in the kitchen because of Pops.
Because it’s late. Because she’s out. Because she’s not in the habit of asking for help, and I’m not in the habit of sleeping when the house feels like it’s holding its breath.
That’s the version of the story I can live with.
The other version—the real one—is uglier.
The real one is that I watched her get pulled across a backyard by some guy’s hand on her elbow, and it lit something ancient and violent in my chest. Like I was seventeen again, standing in a crowd with a drink in my hand and no idea what to do with the fact that I wanted her.
So I drove home.
And now I’m here, leaning against the counter, staring at the dark window over the sink like it’s going to hand me a better personality.
The house is quiet in a way it never used to be. Not peaceful. Just…thin. Like sound is afraid to take up space.
Down the hall, Pops’s door is cracked. A nightlight glows low, and I can see his chest rise and fall. Slow. Steady. The only thing in this house that doesn’t feel like it’s about to splinter.
He’s asleep.
Good.
Because I can’t explain myself to him. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe.
My knee throbs, brace still on because taking it off feels like admitting I’m broken. My phone buzzes once—Beck.
Beck: she home? or are you already hiding?
I don’t answer.
Another buzz.
Beck: bro
I flip the phone face down like I can erase the whole night with a gesture.
I should go to bed.
I should stop waiting for her like I’m entitled to her time, her attention, her air.
I should stop acting like I get to care.
But I stay.
Because the truth is, I’m not waiting for her for Pops.
I’m waiting for her because I saw that look on her face in the backyard—tight, controlled, not really laughing—and it made something in me go cold.