Chapter 17 #2
“Is it?” His gaze swings back to mine, lips set in a grim line. “From what I've been seeing, I'm not so sure about that. No offense, Sally Mal, but you're kind of a bitch.”
I shove him away from me with a scowl. “Fuck you.”
“It's the truth. What has Logan ever done but worship the fucking ground you walk on? He does everything you ask and jumps when you say so. Guy's down bad for you.”
“Not everything,” I mutter, suddenly aware that the shower is no longer running. “He won't sign the divorce papers.”
“Good for him.” Taylor grins, ducking to avoid the blow I aim his way. “Look, I'm just saying. He sacrificed his shitty, boring career and his relationship with his fuck-ass of a dad to come on this tour because you asked him to. Give the guy a chance.”
“You act like I’m supposed to be grateful that he threw his life away just to follow me around like a lost puppy.”
Tayraises an eyebrow. “And you act like you're the only one who had to give up something to be here. Logan’s done a lot of compromising. Maybe you could bend a little.”
That shuts me up quickly, his words slamming into my chest like a freight train. My attention falls to the silver band hanging heavy beneath my shirt, pressing into my skin like a brand.
Deep down, I know he's right, but he doesn't understand. There's only so far you can bend until you break, and I watched my mother do it repeatedly. So many sacrifices—including her own daughter—for the sake of love. For the sanctity of marriage. She gave up her own soul.
“You don’t have to fix it tonight,” he adds gently, squeezing my shoulder. “Just… Maybe stop trying to kill him whenever he's around.”
The bathroom door creaks open, and we both freeze. Logan steps out, a towel draped around his neck, damp hair clinging to his forehead. He looks at us briefly before turning to grab a shirt from his bag, and the sight of his bare skin sends blood rushing to my cheeks.
Two dimples rest just above the waistband of his jeans, little divots I know very well. I squirm at the memory of digging my thumbs into them, a swooping sensation building in my stomach.
When he retreats into the bathroom again without a word, shutting the door softly, Taylor and I burst into a quiet fit of laughter.
“Think he heard the part where you called marriage a misogynistic hell trap?”
I groan as I drag a hand over my face. “Fuck, I hope so. Maybe it’ll finally scare him off.”
“Doubt it. That guy would let you light him on fire and thank you for it after.”
Smiling mirthlessly, my gaze drifts back to the closed bathroom door. “He really would die for me, huh?”
Taylor doesn’t laugh this time. He just studies my face as the humor fades from his eyes. “Yeah. He would. Are you just going to stand back and watch him do it?”
By the time we get to Indianapolis, my conscience won’t shut up.
The tension in the RV is unbearable. Arya talks Devon into a game of strip poker and Huck keeps trying to get Logan to talk.
He doesn’t speak unless necessary, and when he does, his voice is flat and professional, like we’re all coworkers or something.
Like we didn’t scream in front of everyone and throw our every insecurity in each other’s faces.
My conversation with Taylor plays repeatedly in my mind.
“Maybe you can bend a little.”
“You're kind of a bitch to him."
Okay, maybe I deserved what he said to me. Not all of it, but… some of it.
Most of it.
I’ve been mean. I’ve been spiteful. And I don’t even know if it’s because I’m angry at Logan or because I’m still angry at myself for marrying the guy.
So when we pull into the hotel parking lot—a cheap one—and the others pile out of the RV, I hang back.
Christian pulls up a group reservation on his phone, but I open a separate tab on mine quickly and book three rooms: one for the horny trio, one for Taylor and Huck, and one with two beds for me and Logan.
I could’ve booked separate ones, put him on the couch, or made him stay in the RV, but Taylor was right. If we’re going to keep working together, keep doing this slow, bitter undoing of everything we once were, then we need to find a way to exist without tearing each other to shreds.
Maybe this is my peace offering. Or maybe it’s just guilt. Either way, when I hand out the keys in the lobby, I don’t say a word. I just hold his out to him and wait.
He takes it from me without meeting my eyes, but when he sees the room number, something ripples across his face. “We're sharing?”
“Mm-hmm. Keeping to the budget, like you asked.”
See? Compromise. Take that, Taylor. Bitch.
Logan doesn’t thank me, or respond at all, but I don’t expect him to.
When we step into the quiet room and I drop my bag on the nearest bed, he silently sits on the empty one with his fishbowl in hand.
Maybe it’s not forgiveness, but it’s not another fight, either. I've always believed that actions speak louder than words, and I've never been good at saying I'm sorry.
From the way Logan nods and kicks off his shoes before settling into the covers, I think he agrees.
We both acknowledge the moment for what it is: A stalemate. A ceasefire.
Not peace, not yet. But maybe this is one step closer to that end.