Chapter Eighteen – Logan
A part of me assumed it’d be Sloane opening the door for me, Sloane standing there with ice in her gaze and maybe even a knife in one of her hands.
Her threats weren’t spoken like your typical threat: full of hot air with no substance behind it.
No, she spoke them like she meant them, like she’s followed through before.
Just for kicks I looked up the Karnagy family once, just to see who exactly she was and why I got such a weird vibe from her. Turns out, she’d been surrounded by death an awful lot, and the easy threats that came from her made me wonder if, just maybe, she had a hand in some of those deaths.
Doesn’t matter, though. It’s not Sloane who opens the door. It’s Wren, the girl I came here to see. The one I’ve been dying to see. My muse.
I don’t know how long I stare at her, but it must be a minute or two before I ask, “Can I come in?” The words come out full of trepidation, so unlike me, but if there’s one thing Wren taught me, it’s that I’m not myself when I’m around her. I’m someone different, someone new.
Someone who wants desperately to be better.
She doesn’t respond right away. She only stares right back at me, her brown eyes semi-squinted at me. The way she looks at me, like she doesn’t quite trust me, threatens to crack my soul in two.
But then, after an eternity, she says softly, “Sure.” She moves to the side as she holds the door, averting her gaze from me, like she can’t stare at me for too long.
I step inside the house, moving past her, not allowing myself to get too close to her in the process.
If I get too close, I might be tempted to do the same thing I did the last time I was at this house, and I know she’s not ready for that.
As badly as I want her, as much as I want to take her into my arms and hold her, taste her lips on mine again, I don’t want to push her too far.
We wind up in the living room, sitting on the couch together, although there is at least a cushion and a half between us. Enough distance that I can’t off-handedly grab her and pull her onto my lap.
Neither of us say anything right away, and it’s a heavy sort of silence that permeates the space between us.
I can’t believe how uneasy I feel; it’s not something I’m used to.
Then again, nothing about Wren is what I’m used to.
No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, everything I want when it comes to her is new.
Wren is the first to break the silence between us, “So, what do you want?”
Everything, but I don’t say that. Don’t want to overwhelm her like I overwhelmed her the last time I visited this house. Instead, I don’t exactly answer her question. “I miss seeing you all the time. It was like everywhere I looked last semester, you were right there, every time.”
“Yeah, well, none of that was on purpose.”
I look at her, taking in how she sits, how her arms are folded over her chest. Those baggy grandma clothes… I used to make fun of them, but now all I can think about is how badly I want to take them off her.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“You didn’t come over just to ask how I’m doing.”
“No, but I still want to know. I… I should’ve been there for you after the accident. I really am sorry I wasn’t.” I should’ve fought harder for you, but I’m a pussy. Somehow, that particular sentence dies before it has the chance to come out.
Wren sighs and shakes her head once. “I’m fine.
Better than I was last semester. Last semester was…
not good, in more ways than one.” When she says that last part, she shoots me a glare.
Her walls are up. What happened the last time was too much, too fast. She wasn’t ready for it.
She doesn’t believe I’m here for any good reason, and I can’t blame her for thinking that.
I haven’t given her reason to trust me at all.
The old me would’ve made excuses for past me’s behavior, but all I tell her right then is, “I’m glad you’re doing better. Last semester was rough, especially for you. I was worried you’d transfer somewhere else or something.”
She rolls her eyes. “As if you really would’ve cared.”
“Yes, I would’ve.” I angle my body toward hers, but she stares straight ahead, not looking at me. “I know I don’t have your trust. I know you don’t believe anything I say, and I can’t force you to. I just… I want you to give me a chance.”
That finally gets her to turn her gaze toward me. “And why do you deserve a chance?”
“I don’t.” My bluntness makes her blink, but she doesn’t say anything, so I plow on, “I don’t deserve another chance. Hell, I didn’t deserve the first, and I fucked that up pretty fast. Used to be I never gave a shit, but with you, I mean it when I say things are different.”
“I find that very hard to believe.”
“And you have every right to think that.” A part of me was hoping, prior to coming here, that she’d melt instantly and give in. That we’d somehow wind up so entangled in each other that the only logical thing to do would be to take things upstairs, undress, and devour each other.
But that’s fairytale shit, and my life is no fairytale.
“Logan,” she says, “why did you come here?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper, and I toy with that paper for a few moments before I lean over and hand it to her. Or, I offer it to her, and she stares at it like it’s some trick to get into her pants.
It’s not. I mean, if I get into her pants because of it, that’d be a benefit, sure. I’d never be able to resist a benefit like that.
“What’s that?” When I don’t answer her, she grumbles quietly and snatches it from my hand. Within a few seconds, she has it unfolded and she’s reading the flyer. I know exactly what it says, because I stared at it for a long time before calling and signing up for a slot.
Open mic night at the same karaoke bar she and I sang together at.
She frowns slightly. “What the heck is this?”
“It’s an invitation. I signed up for a slot.
It’s at ten fifteen. I know the last time we were there, shit really hit the fan, but I really would like it if you came.
” I still have to get some guitar riffs nailed down for the song, but I’m getting there.
The lyrics are pretty much as polished as they can be.
I don’t know that I’m ready to get up on a stage by myself, but…
But I will, because the song is for her.
“You really think I’d come to this?”
“I hope you will. I can’t force you, but… but I really do want you to come.”
“And why should I? Why should I show up and support you when you did nothing to support me when I needed help?” She shakes her head once and mutters, “You’re such a hypocrite.
Even now you think I’ll just trip and fall over my own feet to worship you like you’re used to all your groupies doing.
Why don’t you get one of your other girls to show up and cheer you on? ”
With everything I told her last semester, she has every right to say that, every right to assume, but she couldn’t be more wrong.
“There are no other girls for me,” I say, and I say it so quietly it’s hard to hear.
“There’s only one, and right now she wants nothing to do with me.
Rightfully so. I’m a fucking asshole, but I’m trying to be better for her.
I’d do anything for another chance, if she’ll give me one. ”
Finally, there’s a crack in her steely exterior.
Her shoulders slump somewhat, and her fingers don’t clutch the flyer as hard as they did moments ago.
The expression in her eyes isn’t as distant, and the sigh she lets out right then is soft, quiet, the kind of sigh someone gives when they’re giving in.
Or maybe that’s just me being strangely hopeful.
“I… I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know if I can make it. I might be busy that night.” A non-committal answer is better than an outright refusal, even if the old me would’ve taken that as a denial.
“That’s okay,” I say, trying to sound as if it’s no big deal when in reality it is everything. “I just thought… I wanted to invite you. I wouldn’t have even thought of doing something like this if it wasn’t for you.” And that is the truth.
Before she can say anything else, before she can come to her senses and outright tell me there’s no way in hell she’ll ever show up to mic night, I stand and say, “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’ll go. I, uh, hope to see you then.”
Though it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do, I walk away from her. I don’t linger and wait for her reply. I can’t. I leave that house, and as I do so it feels as if I leave a part of me behind, a piece of me only Wren can keep alive.