Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
TESSA
It’s been three days since Logan came into the shop. Three very long days. I know because every single time that bell chimes—whether I’m working the counter or restocking supplies in the back—I immediately check to see if it’s him.
It’s made me realize how much I look forward to his visits, just a normal interaction with a kind person.
For those brief moments every day, I don’t feel like myself.
I feel like someone who’s free. I feel happy and hopeful.
Logan makes me feel beautiful and interesting and desired—three things that are usually very foreign to me.
Because the thing is, while Preston may tell me I’m beautiful and that he desires me, they’re just words. Empty, hollow words that mean nothing. Because in the next breath, he hurts me.
I’m not someone he cherishes or even loves. My presence gives him some sick, twisted high. I’m not even sure what it is or why he does the things he does. I just know it makes him feel powerful. Invincible, even.
He’s broken me so much that I don’t ever feel like I can leave, and he knows it. He knows there’s nothing he could do to make me walk away because I truly believe he’s crazy enough to hurt me more if I try.
This friendship with Logan isn’t leading toward anything substantial, and it’s also very clear that I’m going to have to shut it down pretty quickly.
The fact that Logan and Preston haven’t crossed paths yet is a miracle in itself, but I’ve really enjoyed those few minutes of normalcy every day. They’ve made me happier.
But just like that, he’s gone. Three days and no sign of him.
If it were during the season, I’d think maybe he was away for a game, but he told me he’s off for the summer—lifting weights and working out locally. He doesn’t owe me anything. He definitely doesn’t owe me an explanation for where he’s been.
I’m terrified that throwing away his phone number a few days ago is what’s keeping him away. Maybe he’s done trying. And, if so, that’s good. It should be good. This can’t go anywhere.
Still, I can’t help that I miss him every day.
The realization sits heavy in my chest. I miss him. I miss the way he leans against the counter and asks his questions. I miss his teasing smile when I say something that amuses him. I miss the way he looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing.
I miss feeling alive.
Chalk it up to a moment of desperation, but after I get home when my shift ends, I do some digging.
Preston texted that he’ll be home late, so I have all night to stalk the Crane hockey team.
First, I google their roster. If any social media stalking is to take place, names are essential.
I find Logan’s Instagram account, but he hasn’t posted any stories, and the last picture he shared was the night they won the championship—him and his teammates hoisting the Stanley Cup, faces lit with pure joy.
One by one, I go through the names on the roster and look up everyone’s accounts. I get the impression that the team is pretty close, so surely if he’s with them, someone will post something.
A slight pang of guilt hits me. It feels shady, invasive even, but at the same time, I just need to know where he is.
Every part of me knows I shouldn’t be doing this.
Preston would be furious if he ever found out.
Living the life that I do—constantly monitored, constantly controlled—it feels hypocritical to track someone’s location like this.
But I don’t know. I’m so used to having my daily dose of happiness, and not having it for three days has left me feeling more hollow than ever.
I’m starting to give up hope when one Cranes player after the next produces nothing Logan-related. Finally, I happen upon Miles Keller’s Instagram page, and my breath catches.
There’s a picture of Logan and two other guys, all shirtless, grinning at the camera. Turquoise water stretches endlessly behind them. White sand. Palm trees swaying in the breeze. They’re holding up tropical drinks with vibrant straws, the caption reading: Fiji with the boys. #OffSeason #Paradise
I blow out a breath in relief.
He hasn’t stopped visiting because of me. He’s just out of town with friends.
I find it odd that he didn’t mention he’d be leaving, considering he comes in every day like clockwork. But then I remind myself that he doesn’t owe me an explanation. He doesn’t owe me anything.
I’m completely lost in thought, staring at the picture of Logan’s sun-kissed smile, so zoned out that I don’t hear him come in.
“What the fuck?” Preston roars from behind me.
I startle, my heart lurching into my throat as he slaps the phone out of my hand. It clatters across the hardwood floor.
“I can explain!” I shriek, but before I can get the words out, Preston is on me. His hands clamp around my arms, yanking me off the sofa with brutal force. His face is crimson with rage, eyes bulging, veins standing out along his temples and neck.
He launches me across the room.
I slam into the coffee table, the sharp edge driving into my ribs. Pain explodes through my side as I crash to the floor, gasping for air.
I don’t linger in the pain. Survival kicks in. I scramble to my feet, adrenaline drowning out the agony, and before Preston can reach me again, I bolt for the bedroom.
His heavy breathing echoes behind me, shoes pounding against the floor. I know he’s gone into a fit of rage, and he’s not thinking clearly. When he’s like this, he’s at his most dangerous.
Before he can catch me, I yank open my dresser drawer, grab the signed Cranes jersey I’ve been hiding, and throw it at him.
He catches the navy-blue fabric midair, confusion flashing across his face. He halts mid-step, chest heaving.
“What is this?” he demands, veins still popping at his temples.
“It’s your birthday present,” I cry, my voice breaking.
“What do you mean?” he snaps.
“I went—I stood in line at a Cranes fan event after they won the championship because I knew you loved the team,” I rush out, the words tumbling over each other.
“I got you a signed jersey. I was just on another player’s Instagram to see if they were having any more signing events, so I could get you another one. That’s all. I swear.”
“Show me,” he barks.
I hurry past him into the living room, hands shaking as I search frantically for my phone. When I find it—screen cracked from hitting the floor—I click out of the picture and leave it on Miles Keller’s profile. I hold it out to him with trembling fingers.
“Here. I didn’t mean to click on the picture. I was just searching through their profiles, looking for posted signing dates so I could get you more Cranes memorabilia for your birthday. That’s all. I promise.”
Tears streak down my face, hot and relentless. My side pulses with a deep, throbbing agony that makes it hard to breathe.
Preston stares at the phone, then at the jersey in his hand. His jaw works, the muscles in his face twitching as he processes what I’ve said.
For a long, terrifying moment, he doesn’t move.
Then, slowly, his expression shifts. The rage drains away, replaced by something softer. Almost pleased.
“You did this for me?” he asks, his voice quieter now.
I nod, wiping at my tears with the back of my hand. “Yes. For your birthday.”
He looks at the jersey again, running his thumb over the signature—Logan’s signature—and a slow smile spreads across his face.
“This is really thoughtful, babe.” He steps toward me, and instinct makes me flinch. But he doesn’t hit me. Instead, he pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I just—I saw you looking at a picture of some shirtless guys, and I lost it. You know how I get.”
I nod against him, biting down on my lip to keep from crying harder. My ribs scream in protest, but I don’t pull away.
“I love you,” he murmurs into my hair. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Good girl.” He kisses the top of my head, then releases me. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up? We’ll order takeout. Celebrate my birthday a couple of days early.”
I nod and turn toward the bathroom, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my side.
Once inside, I close the door and lock it.
My hands grip the edge of the sink as I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
My face is blotchy and tearstained. There’s a welt forming next to my eye.
I don’t remember hitting it, but it all happened so fast. My hair is a mess.
And beneath my shirt, I know there will be bruises.
Everything will feel worse tomorrow after the adrenaline wears off.
I lift my shirt carefully and wince. The skin along my ribs is already darkening, an angry red that will turn purple by morning.
I lower my shirt and press my palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink. More tears come, though I try to keep the sobs at bay. Each breath and movement sends a sharp stab through my ribs. I lift my head slowly and force myself to look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger.
My lips tremble despite my best efforts to hold myself together.
I’m so pathetic. How did I get here?
I feel like I’ve been fighting my entire life—fighting to survive the foster system, fighting to get through school, fighting to make something of myself—and I can’t seem to win. Not once. Not ever.
Sometimes I have to wonder why I even try.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, cold and familiar. It’s not the first time I’ve asked myself this question. It won’t be the last.
I press my palms flat against the edge of the sink, gripping hard enough that my knuckles turn white. The coolness of the porcelain grounds me and keeps me from spiraling completely.
There was a time when I believed things would get better. That if I just worked hard enough, stayed quiet enough, made myself small enough, I’d finally be safe. I’d finally be loved.
But Preston doesn’t love me.
And I don’t think he ever did.
I close my eyes, and for just a moment, I let myself imagine something different.
A life where I’m not afraid. Where I wake up without checking the expression on someone’s face to gauge what kind of day it’s going to be.
Where bruises aren’t something I have to explain away or hide beneath long sleeves.
A life when someone looks at me the way Logan does—like I’m someone worth knowing.
But that’s not real.
It’s a fantasy. A daydream that only makes the reality hurt more.
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection again.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to the broken woman in the mirror. “You’re fine.”
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.