Chapter 11 #2
We sit in the quiet, drinking tea that tastes like grass and too much sweetness. I don’t like it but I drink it anyway.
Outside, the city buzzes—sirens in the distance, late-night voices on the sidewalk below. Life continuing despite the earthquake that just split my world.
Eventually Elena hands me a blanket. "Get some sleep."
"I don't think I can."
"Try anyway."
I close my eyes, but my mind won't settle. It cycles through everything—Jessica's face, Tyler's eyes, Logan's texts, the way he read to my kindergartners last week with different voices for each character. How gentle he was when he held me at his apartment. How he looked at me like I mattered.
I swear I didn't know.
Did he? Could someone really not know?
Early morning, pale light edges through Elena's windows when I wake. Not dawn yet, but close—that gray in-between hour when the city holds its breath.
I'm still on the couch, blanket tangled around my legs. Elena's still in bed. My phone lies on the coffee table, screen dark.
I've been awake for hours, really. Drifting in and out, my mind sorting through the wreckage. But something's settled overnight—a clarity that wasn't there before.
I reach for my phone. One new message from Logan. He’s up too.
Logan: I'm at home. Whenever you're ready, if you're ready. I'll be here.
I read it three times.
Then I scroll up through his other messages. The desperate ones from early evening. The quieter ones after midnight. Each one raw and real.
I think about the man who admitted he was scared because I mattered to him. Who held my hand at the farmers market like he'd found something worth keeping. Who made me feel excited and seen in a way I’ve never felt before.
Those moments weren't fake.
And Tyler—that little boy with Logan's eyes—deserves better than this shit show. If Logan truly didn't know, if this blindsided him completely, then he needs someone in his corner. Someone who believes in him.
I need to hear his side. I need to look in his eyes when he explains. And if he's lying, I'll know.
I push the blanket aside, move quietly through Elena's apartment gathering my things.
My gown from last night hangs over a chair, sequins dull in the early light.
In the bathroom, I splash water on my face. The mirror says I’m a mess but there is something steady in my expression. I’m resolved.
"You're up early."
I turn. Elena leans against the doorframe in an oversized t-shirt, hair mussed.
"I'm going to see him."
She nods. "Figured."
"You sure about this?" Elena asks a few minutes later, watching from the kitchen doorway.
“I’m sure I need to hear him out." I straighten, meet her eyes. "If he's honest—if he really didn't know—he shouldn't face this alone."
"And if he's not honest?"
"Then I'll know what kind of man he is." I pull on my coat. "But I need to give him the chance."
Elena crosses the room, pulls me into a fierce hug. "Call me after."
"I will." I squeeze back, drawing strength from her solid presence. "Thanks for last night."
"That's what I'm here for." She steps back, hands on my shoulders. "Be brave. But also be smart."
"I'm terrified," I admit.
"Good. Means you're paying attention." She releases me. "Now go."
I check my phone one more time. No new messages. I picture Logan in his bed, sleepless and alone, waiting for a call that never came.
My thumb hovers over his contact. A text feels inadequate, but I'm not ready to hear his voice yet. Better to do this in person.
I type quickly: I'm coming over. We need to talk.
Almost immediately, three dots appear.
Logan: Thank you.
Just that. Two words carrying relief and hope and maybe fear.
I slip the phone in my pocket, turn to Elena. "This is crazy, right? Going to him at dawn when his whole life just exploded?"
Elena smiles slightly. "Yes, but so did yours."
She opens the door for me. "Go get your answer."
The hallway is silent, just the thrum of the elevator descending. My reflection in the polished doors shows a tired young woman in rumpled clothes with a determined jaw. Hardly the put-together woman from the gala. But maybe that's better. No pretense now. Just truth.
The lobby's empty except for a sleepy doorman who nods as I pass. Outside, the air bites cold. Dead leaves skitter across the pavement. My breath fogs white.
My Uber is waiting and I jump in.
As the city slides past—just filling streets, dark windows, the early commuters—I run through scenarios. What I'll say. How I'll respond. But I know it'll come down to his eyes. His voice. Whether my gut says he's telling the truth.
In my classroom, I can spot a lie instantly. Kids' bodies betray them—too many details or not enough, eyes that won't meet yours. Logan's face and body last night make me want to believe he’s telling the truth. The shock was real.
Unless he's a better actor than any five-year-old I've ever caught in a lie.
The Uber slows, pulls up outside Logan's building. I step onto the sidewalk. My pulse thuds in my throat.
The tower stretches above me, glass and steel catching the first hint of sunrise. Somewhere up there, Logan awaits.
I could still leave. Call and say I'm not ready. Protect myself from whatever pain might come from walking into his complicated new reality.
But I think about Tyler. About Logan's face on that stage. I need to know.
Courage doesn't mean you're not afraid. It means you're afraid and you do it anyway.
That’s what I told Logan not long ago. Time to take my own advice.
I push through the lobby doors, give my name to the concierge. He calls up, listens, nods.
"Mr. McCoy says to send you up."
The elevator rises. My stomach drops with each floor. By the time the doors open into Logan's apartment, I can barely breathe.
This is the moment.
After this, everything changes—for better or worse, I'll know.
Logan stands there in gray sweatpants and a t-shirt that might have been white yesterday.
His hair sticks up on one side like he's been running his hands through it for hours.
The skin beneath his eyes looks bruised.
Everything about him says he hasn't moved from this spot, hasn't slept, has just been sitting in the dark waiting for me to decide whether he was worth fighting for.
"Reese." His voice cracks on my name, raw with relief.
I look in his eyes. Search for lies, for deception, for any hint that he's playing me. I see only raw vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
"Tell me the truth," I say quietly. "All of it."
He nods, steps back to let me in. "Everything. I promise."