Lila
Hampton, Virginia
LOGAN: Coffee? My treat.
The text lights up my phone just as I finish pulling my quickly curled long hair into a high ponytail.
I stare at it, chewing my lip. I swore I wouldn’t reply if he texted me, swore I needed more time. But I type back, my resolve apparently in full freefall.
LILA: Okay.
I stare at myself in the mirror, adjusting the long-sleeve, dark green bodysuit tucked into high-waisted wide-leg jeans. The fabric hugging me as if perfectly coordinated clothes can somehow protect my heart.
I grab my cream-colored wool coat and head outside, the cold air biting at my cheeks. Logan’s lifted black truck pulls into my driveway and my stomach twists into a knot.
He steps out and the cold doesn’t feel so sharp. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray hoodie under his leather flight jacket. Casual, yet effortlessly handsome. His dark hair is still wet from the shower, and the sharp line of his jaw is covered in a couple days’ worth of scruff.
He looks incredible. He’s been on leave since the morning he surprised me in my office so we haven’t seen each other. Haven’t had to pretend in front of people who know better.
“Hey,” he says, his voice warm as his eyes meet mine.
“Hi,” I manage, hugging my coat to my chest.
He steps closer, holding open the passenger door. “Ready?”
I nod, sliding into the warm truck. The inside smells faintly of leather and cologne. He closes the door behind me, then jogs around to the driver’s side.
The drive is quiet. I keep my gaze fixed out the window, watching the scenery blur by. I can feel him glancing at me every minute, making our short ride seem longer than it is.
We pull into the parking lot of a small coffee shop. It’s one of those cozy, hole-in-the-wall places with string lights framing the windows.
Logan parks, but neither of us moves to get out right away.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turns to face me fully, his gray-blue eyes soft but unwavering. “You don’t have to know. Just let me try. Please.”
There’s so much raw emotion in his voice that it takes me a moment to find mine. “You hurt me, Logan.”
His jaw tightens, and he nods. “I know I did.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod and open my door.
Inside, the coffee shop is warm, filled with the rich aroma of espresso and freshly baked pastries. Logan orders a black coffee, and I get a caramel latte. We find a small table near the window. The tension between us is thick but not exactly uncomfortable.
Logan takes a sip of his coffee, then leans forward slightly. “Can I say something without you bolting?”
I meet his gaze, my heart pounding. “That depends on what you’re going to say.”
He chuckles softly, but there’s no humor in it. “I’ve been a lot of things in my life. Stupid. Reckless. Selfish. But the one thing I’ve never been until now is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” I ask, my voice softer than I intend.
“Afraid of losing you,” he says simply, his eyes locking on to mine. “Afraid that I already have.”
The words settle over me like a blanket and they’re somehow comforting. I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches across the table, his fingers brushing against mine.
“Lila,” he murmurs, his voice breaking.
I shake my head, trying to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t let me. “You can’t just say things like that,” I whisper. “You can’t just show up and expect me to forget everything.”
“I don’t expect you to forget,” he says, his grip on my hand firm but gentle. “I just…I need you to know how much I love you. And I’m not going anywhere. No more running. No more bullshit.”
Something in me snaps. I push back my chair and stand, my heart pounding in my chest as I rush from the coffee shop. He follows me outside, coffees in hand, the cold air biting at my face as I whirl around to face him.
“I’m so mad at you,” I say, my voice trembling.
“You should be,” he says, setting the coffees on his tailgate and stepping closer.
“I hate how much I miss you,” I admit, my tears falling freely now.
“I miss you too,” he says, his voice raw. “So damn much, Lila.”
Before I can say anything else, he cups my face in his hands, his touch both hesitant and desperate. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispers.
I don’t tell him to stop.
His lips crash into mine, and it’s like every piece of me that’s been broken suddenly fits back together.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathless, my hands gripping the front of his jacket.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I say, my voice shaky but firm.
“I know,” he says, his forehead resting against mine. “But it’s a start.”
Then he kisses me again.