Chapter Two
I went to the bathroom to take a scalding hot shower and as I undressed, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror.
I had picked out my nicest lingerie this morning, hoping to surprise Tim with it later tonight.
It was a matching purple set with lacy flowers.
The bra pushed up my breasts and made them look amazing, while the panties barely covered anything, and made my waist look tiny.
What a waste.
In the shower, I scrubbed my skin raw, which did make me feel a little better.
But once I got out and dried off, a glance in the mirror revealed my eyes were still red and puffy.
I changed into a more comfortable underwear and put on a pair of sleep shorts and the oversized t-shirt I used as pajamas.
The house was quiet as I made my way downstairs.
Logan wasn’t anywhere to be seen, though I could distantly hear a shoulder running.
I settled myself in the lounge room, intending to sit on the couch and wait for him, when once again I was distracted by the beauty of the room.
In the centre of one wall was a great stone fireplace, but what actually caught my eye was the wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves complete with a rolling ladder.
I wandered over, dragging my fingers over the books.
Bookshelves like these were my dream. My major was English Lit, and a cursory glance at the shelves revealed Logan had all the classics.
There were not only American novels (Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, Morrison) but also British works and translated copies of continental writers like Tolstoy and Dumas.
A noise behind me made me whirl around. It was Logan entering the room. His shoulders were still wet from the shower and he wore a fluffy grey towel that was currently slung low on his hips, revealing rows and rows of defined abs —
We both made surprised noises, and I quickly turned around. Shit. I hoped he hadn’t seen me staring.
“Fuck,” he said. “Sorry, I’m used to the house being empty. I figured you’d still be upstairs.”
“Sorry,” I said at the same time. “I didn’t mean to — sorry.”
“I left some clothes here. Give me a sec.” I heard him move across the room behind me.
Even after he walked away, I didn’t turn around.
My cheeks were hot. I tried not to replay the memory of his bare chest. He’d been built, which, duh.
He was a construction worker. Of course he’d have all those muscles…
What I hadn’t expected was the light dusting of brown hair that had trailed down, disappearing behind his towel —
“I’m back,” he announced, and I turned around, both relieved and (I’d never admit this) slightly disappointed to see he was fully dressed. He wore a black cotton shirt and navy plaid-patterned pants, and somehow, he made the basic clothes look like something designer.
“Hey,” I said. “I was just looking at your collection. Are these for show, or…”
He made a mock-outraged noise. “‘Course not. I’ve read all of these.”
My brows jumped up. “Seriously?”
His lips quirked up. “I have a feeling I’m being insulted in my own home right now.”
My cheeks flamed. “No, I didn’t mean it like that…” I wasn’t trying to be rude, but I didn’t expect a construction worker to be this well read…which, after reflecting on it, was a totally stupid and elitist assumption to make.
Logan walked up next to me, trailing a hand over the dark wood shelves. He had big hands. Long fingers. Short nails. “To be honest, I gave up on Finnegans Wake halfway through,” he admitted.
“Joyce isn’t my favourite either,” I told him.
He raised his brows. “You’re a big reader too?”
“Yeah. I mean, I have to read a lot for college. My major’s English Lit. I don’t know if Tim mentioned that.”
“Ah. No, Tim didn’t mention that. He, uh…he didn’t say a lot about you.”
Well, that just made me feel like shit again.
“You were a mystery. I guess that’s why I was so excited to meet you.” He offered me a small smile. “You like pizza?”
Somehow, that tiny smile made me feel better again. “Who doesn’t?” I replied.
Half an hour later, we were sitting at the kitchen island, destroying a meatlovers pizza. Maybe I’d just had a really shit day, but the pizza tasted like the best I’d ever had.
It had been awkward at first, when Logan slid into the chair next to me, his knee bumping my bare leg, the accidental touch sending a shock of electricity through my body.
He made an apologetic noise and we ate in silence.
But then he asked me about my major, which launched us into a long conversation, where we bonded over our mutual love of Dostoyevsky and argued about which Bronte sister we liked the most.
“I bet you have these conversations a lot,” Logan said after we were done, and I was fiddling with a piece of crust I was too full to eat.
“Not as much as you’d think,” I said. “None of my friends have the same major.”
“Tim must’ve asked you about your studies though,” Logan said. “You’re clearly passionate about it.”
“Um. Not really.” I hesitated, because I didn’t want to criticize Logan’s son in his own house, even though his son totally deserved it. “Tim’s not really the type to ask you questions about yourself.”
Logan grimaced. “He can be a bit self-centered. Although — and this isn’t me trying to make excuses for him — I think he’s more…oblivious…than intentionally malicious.”
“I know,” I said with a sigh. “I feel kind of stupid. I knew from the moment I meant him that he could be self-absorbed, but I thought deep down, he did care about me.”
“I’m sure he did.”
I shrugged. When Tim did show me attention, it made me feel really special, partly because I knew how rare it was.
But looking back, there were a lot of holes in our relationship.
We didn’t have deep conversations — sometimes I tried to talk about my favorite books or what I was learning in lectures, but he always looked bored.
He never asked me about my family or childhood and constantly forgot the names of my sisters.
When I tried to talk to him — like really talk to him, tried to figure out how his brain worked — he just looked fidgety.
We went to parties and we went on dates and we made out and fooled around.
It had been…fun. But not exactly meaningful.
“You want dessert? I think I’ve got ice-cream in the freezer,” Logan said, tearing me from my thoughts. He stood up, clearing the pizza box.
I shook my head. “I’ve had enough unhealthy food for a day. I’m meant to be on a diet.”
“Are you kidding? You literally look like a supermodel,” Logan said, then froze. “Fuck. Sorry I — I shouldn’t have said that. It was inappropriate.”
I felt my cheeks go hot, and hopes they weren’t too red. “No, that’s okay. It’s…it’s nice of you to say.” I looked down at my lap. “Tim told me I could stand to lose a few pounds.”
His comment had hurt at the time, but I’d taken the feedback on. I wanted to be pretty for my boyfriend. Now I just felt a new wave of anger.
“My son’s a fucking idiot,” Logan said. He shoved the pizza box into the trash, and walked over to the freezer. “You sure you don’t want ice-cream? It’s strawberry flavored.”
“Well…I do like strawberry,” I admitted.
He grinned at me — wow, he had a really nice smile — and took out the tub. As he scooped the ice-cream into two bowls, he said, “let me know if you want to take this upstairs. I get it if you want some space.”
I shook my head. “No, I like having company. Better than wallowing by myself, right?”
“You wanna head to the sofa then? We could watch a movie.”
Two minutes later we were seated in front of the TV. I let Logan choose a movie. He suggested a Jane Austen adaptation, probably for my benefit, and while I loved Austen’s stories, I couldn’t stomach anything overly romantic.
“You choose,” I told him.
So he put on an adaptation of Great Expectations . I tucked my feet underneath me, and the movie seemed to flash by in a past. The ice-cream was delicious too — it didn’t taste fake or artificial, but like it had been freshly made with cream and ripe, sweet strawberries.
“That was good,” I said as the movie credits rolled. “Are you a fan of the book?”
He nodded. “Read the book when I was a kid and it’s been one of my favorites since.
When I was young, I related to Pip, the way he wants to improve himself and his situation, you know?
I never thought I’d have a house like this.
” He gestured at the room. “But ultimately, the story’s not about money or social position.
It’s about having a moral character.” He shrugged.
“I know it’s a simple message, but I appreciate it. ”
“A lot of people would probably find the message quaint. Or silly. Everyone’s out here trying to make the most money they can,” I pointed out.
“I get wanting to be financially stable. Especially when you’re young, or when you have a kid to look after. But nowadays…I enjoy the small things. It’s cliche, but all that matters is being happy.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You might think I’m overly sentimental.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all. Actually…so I have two sisters. They’re really smart.
One’s graduated and she’s got this really amazing corporate job, and the other’s studying economics.
Useful, right? But I chose English Lit. Some people have said to me, why would you do that, you can’t get a good job with that.
But it’s what I’m passionate about. If I chose something else, deep down I’d keep thinking about studying literature instead.
So maybe I won’t be a CEO or work in a bank, but I’m happy right now and that’s what I think matters.
” I blushed, suddenly realizing how much I’d blurted out. “Um. Yeah.”
But Logan leaned over, eyes on me like he didn’t think I was silly or boring, but genuinely fascinating. “I think that’s amazing,” he murmured. “Don’t let anyone make you feel bad. The humanities are important.” He paused. “Do you want to become a professor?”
I looked at my lap. “I’d like to,” I said. “I know it’ll be hard though.”
This was the first time I’d admitted it to anybody. Part of me expected Logan to laugh in my face. But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
“You can do it,” he said, voice full of confidence and conviction.
I met his gaze, skin still warm, but not from embarrassment. I’d only met him today, and yet I’d blurted out stuff I’d never told anyone. But somehow, I felt safe talking to him. Maybe it’s because we had interests in common. Or maybe it’s because he’d been so kind to me when I’d had the worst day.
Logan looked back at me. His gaze flickered to my mouth, but it happened so quickly, I might’ve imagined it.
Then he suddenly stood up, turning the TV off.
“It’s getting late. I’ll let you head to bed.
” He hesitated. “My bedroom’s just down the hallway.
If you need anything, come and wake me up. Otherwise…have a good night.”
Right. Of course. We couldn’t stay on the couch all night, talking. I had to let him sleep. “Thank you, Logan,” I said. “Good night.”
I walked upstairs, trying to ignore the pit of dread in my stomach. I wished I could have watched another film with him. Anything to distract me from my thoughts.
I got ready for bed, turned off the lights, and crawled into the sheets, waiting for sleep to take me away.
Five minutes passed. I rolled over to my other side.
Ten minutes passed. I flipped my pillow to the other side.
Thirty minutes passed. I was still awake, staring at the ceiling.
An hour later, I checked the time on my phone and groaned.
I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, I thought of Tim.
I fantasized about following him to Mexico just to slap him in the face.
I imagined breaking down in front of him, asking why he couldn’t care about me, even after I tried so hard to be the perfect girlfriend.
I just wanted someone to appreciate me. I wanted someone to tell me I was good. That I was pretty and special and clever. I wanted someone to say they were proud of me.
Had I asked too much of Tim?
Was I the problem?
I shook my head, trying to dissolve all those thoughts. Ruminating wouldn’t help me. I needed to sleep.
Suddenly, I thought of Logan. His grin. His hands. Him standing in front of me, wearing nothing except that towel. The way he’d made me feel so safe, so seen —
No. No. Stop it, Willow. You need to sleep.
But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, I was still awake, wired like I’d downed a cup of espresso just before bed.
I checked the time on my phone. 2:07 AM.
Before I could really think about it, I was out of bed and walking barefoot down the hallway and down the stairs. I found the master bedroom and knocked on the door.
No response.
I pushed the door open. “Logan?” I whispered.
There was a movement, and then he flicked the lamp on, filling the room with a dim golden glow. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Willow? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Um.” I shuffled my feet. Now that I was here, I felt stupid. “I couldn’t sleep. Sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“No, no, I’m glad you did. Do you need anything? A cup of tea?”
I shook my head. “I just feel really awful.”
“Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”
Part of me was surprised at the pet name, but he was probably still half asleep. I walked over to his side of the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “There’s nothing to say. And the whole thing is awkward because Tim’s your son, so I can’t exactly call him a massive asshole, even though he totally is.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can call him an asshole if you like. I won’t tell.” He mimed zipping his lips and it was so unexpected and childish that it shocked a laugh from me.
“You’re holding up really well, all things considered,” he said. “You’re doing the best you can.”
“Thanks,” I managed. “Can… can I have a hug?” The words escaped me before I could think twice. But I was a hugging type of person, and if my best friends were here, I’d be hugging them while crying into their shoulders.
As soon as I blurted it out, I expected him to say no. Instead he said, “of course.”
I leaned into his arms. His chest was warm with sleep and his neck smelled like soap. My whole body relaxed, like it had been wound up tight and I hadn’t even noticed. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured into my hair.
“Th-thank you,” I said after I had pulled away. I sniffed. I would not allow myself to cry.
He gave me an uncertain smile. “Are you feeling better?”
I nodded. And then I blurted out something I really shouldn’t have.
“Can I sleep here tonight?”