Chapter 3
The shock hits me like a tidal wave, drenching my bones with anxiety. I’d braced myself for several scenarios like I always do when I go somewhere new. The receptionist could be super rude. Or the inside of the lodge could stink of garbage. Perhaps, in some of my worst mental scenarios, a fire would erupt just as I walked in, and I’d have to save the receptionist from the burning building while avoiding certain death myself.
I can’t yet process whether the actual reality facing me is better or worse than these scenarios. All I know is that panic seeps through me as I scrutinize every detail and expression on Logan’s face at lightning speed.
How could he possibly be here? What sort of quantum universal coincidence would have brought him to Nova Scotia, of all places—and specifically, at this exact resort at the same time as me?
It’s too much at once. The glee and dread collide in my chest and erupt like a colossal volcano, and before I know it, I turn away from him to escape.
I can barely feel my feet pounding against the gravel as I run, run, run. I can’t breathe, but I keep going. My vision blurs and I’m almost certain my heart is going to rip away from my chest. I don’t know where I’m even headed.
Anywhere but here.
Before I know it, I’m standing behind the motel building, my back against the wall. There’s nothing but forest in front of me. My knees buckle under the weight of the moment, and suddenly, my I can’t breathe problem becomes the opposite as I begin to hyperventilate.
Logan. Logan. Logan.
My entire body burns. I’m breathing as fast as my brain is chanting his name. Black dots appear in the corners of my foggy vision. Nails rake against both my arms, and I realize they’re my own only seconds later.
I sense movement from the corner of my eye. A mop of curly brown hair and a warm radiance from his body. It can’t be anyone else. Logan kneels next to me. Shit. Shit. Shit.
His hands grab mine and pull my nails away from my arms. “Avery,” he whispers faintly. Or at least, that’s what it sounds like. The thunder in my body is so deafening I can hardly hear it.
Someone’s counting. Three, four, five … one, two, three …
I don’t know how long it takes me to realize the countdown is coming from Logan, who’s trying to guide my breathing—my hands and arms trembling under his touch.
My breathing starts to slow. The black spots fade from my vision. Next to me, Logan continues to count in a velvety voice. “—four, five … one, two, three, four, five …”
My entire body still feels like it’s full of lead, and my heart is hammering away against my chest, but at least I can breathe normally.
I have no idea how much time passes like this, with Logan’s voice guiding my body back to a state of … not so much ‘calm’ as ‘not about to die.’ Slowly but surely, the panic and dread reduce to my regular levels of anxiety, although the aftermath continues to wreak havoc on my body.
Logan stops counting. He’s motionless next to me, and I sense his gaze burning through me. I can’t look at him. Not yet.
Guilt rises through me—why is he helping me?—but I can’t let my fears win again. I take another deep breath and close my eyes. This doesn’t make sense. Of all the panic-stricken people on Earth, I’m the last one who deserves Logan’s help. Not after the way things ended. After the way I ended things.
But the last thing I want to do is attack him with questions after he’s helped me calm down. I finally deign to look him in the eyes.
A pang hits my heart. He’s so familiar, yet so different. He still wears his glasses, but their thick rim is a style that suits him much better than the skinny ones he used to wear. His downturned eyes have the same spark, but there are new lines in the corners, just like mine. Long stubble now covers his cheeks and jaw, although I noticed a small patch where it hasn’t fully grown in. A worried smile occupies his lips as he catches me staring.
Yet what stands out to me most is the familiar tingle of electricity I feel where his hands meet my arms.
Even though the worst of the panic attack has passed, the aftershock doesn’t hold back. My body is weak after everything it has gone through, and without me being able to control it, the tears start pouring—his fingers reach my cheek to brush them away.
Suddenly, it’s as if no time has passed at all. I’m thirteen again, having a breakdown before Christmas exams, and Logan is wiping tears from my eyes, his touch soft like a butterfly’s wings. I’m ten, holding his hand tight as we jump together into the lake. I’m eight, alone in the schoolyard in a new town with no friends, and he’s smiling at me for the first time, asking me if I want to play with him.
Somehow, we’re still intact.
We’re still friends.
I close my eyes to absorb the moment. But Logan’s hand doesn’t stay on my cheek for very long. He snaps out of whatever reverie we’ve been caught up in and pulls away. Still, his other hand remains on my arm.
“I’m sorry you still have to deal with those attacks,” he says, finally breaking the silence, and for the first time, I notice his voice is nothing like the high-pitched tone I once came to know as Logan.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Obviously, his voice changed. At thirteen, he was a late bloomer, so I don’t know why I expected him to sound the same seventeen years later.
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. This is a regular occurrence for me post-panic attack. It’s like there’s a disconnect between my mouth and my brain—I can move my lips, and I can form the words in my brain, but the two won’t reconcile.
Logan knows what this is. So he nods silently and flashes a gentle smile. That’s when I notice his teeth. He must have gotten braces shortly after I moved because they’re now perfectly straight.
The smile does something to my insides. I can’t recall the last time I’ve felt a twinge like this. And suddenly I’m giggling, the last of my tears falling away on my chin.
Logan laughs. Despite the change in his voice, his laugh sounds exactly the same, just deeper. It’s throaty in a way that feels so genuine and contagious. Hearing this makes me laugh even harder, and before I know it, I’m leaning against his chest, unable to contain my emotions again. But this time, I’m on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum.
His scent is both familiar and different. I recognize the smell of clean cotton and soap from when we hugged as kids, but there’s something new here as well. Something musky, comforting. And slightly salty, like the sea.
The warm tingle between my thighs wakes me out of my laughing fit, and I pull away as quickly as I leaned in. My laughter stops short, although I force an awkward smile to stay on my face to match his genuine grin.
“Sorry,” I say in a voice that’s shakier than I expected, although I’m relieved I can already speak. “And thank you.”
“No worries,” he says, his smile toning down a bit. “I couldn’t bring myself to hope it was really you when I saw your name pop up in our reservation system. You probably want to get settled in your room—I can give you some space.”
“Oh, right!” I exclaim, remembering the reason I’m here. I’ve rented a cabin. And Logan works here. Logan works here. Why does Logan work here?
“No rush,” he adds, seeing that I’m still not a hundred percent back to myself. “We can talk later. I definitely want to catch up, but for now …”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I slowly ease myself into a standing position, using the wall behind me as leverage.
“I’ll stay quiet for now.” I can’t believe he remembers everything. My panic attacks started during the last school year we spent together: seventh grade. I still remember the horrible numbness and shakiness I’d felt in my body when I’d told him we needed to move back to my home city of Montreal. All because of my dad’s job. And I remember how my heart melted for him when, despite his pain, he never wavered.
He was the one who gave me the idea to plan a seventh-grade graduation party to replace the eighth-grade one I’d never get. And he was there while I figured things out with how the panic attacks worked and how to best deal with them. Seventeen years later, he still recalls I’d rather remain quiet after an episode.
Most people would try to fill the awkward silence. But it only becomes awkward when someone feels that way. I’d rather just take the time to recuperate. And hanging out in silence with Logan was never an issue. We’d spent so much time together that silence was second nature after a while. And for us, it was comfortable.
But today feels different. As he silently guides me to my cabin, I can feel that ease erode. It’s been too long, with too many questions left unanswered. The silence weighs on my shoulders like a ton of bricks.
“I’ll give you your own set of keys later, but for now, I’ll unlock your door with my master key,” he says once we reach the cabin.
Right away, despite everything, it’s love at first sight with this place. The small red building is triangle-shaped with a small deck at the front overlooking the cliffs and the sea. As Logan fiddles with his keys, I can already see inside from the large window at the front—the triangle shape creates a high ceiling for the single room, giving it an air of effortless luxury.
I’ve even got a barbecue on the front deck, along with some plastic lawn chairs and a wooden picnic table. Fun.
Logan finally manages to unlock the door. He holds it open and steps aside, motioning for me to come inside. “All yours,” he says with a tight smile. Whatever ease we had back a few moments ago is now gone, and he knows it, too.
Despite that, I slide by him to enter my cabin. It’s clean, simple, and minimalistic, but lovely. To my left is a small kitchenette, complete with a stovetop and coffeemaker. The fridge is on the other side of the cabin to the right, and while it’s not full-size, it’s plenty big enough to allow me to stock up for a month.
The open space from the triangle ceiling makes the cabin feel airy and spacious. At the center of the single room sits a king bed that’s whispering my name. I see the door to what’s probably the bathroom to the left of the bed.
If I wasn’t so shaky from my recent panic attack, and nervous from an impromptu encounter with the man who used to be my favourite person in the entire world, I’d be damn pleased with all this.
“It’s perfect,” I manage to say as I turn to face Logan. He’s still holding the door, perhaps not quite sure what to do with himself.
“So …” He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m gonna let you settle in. Take all the time you need. Then you can come get your car, and I’ll give you your actual set of keys.” His eyes dart away like he’s nervous. “And if you’re feeling up to it …”
Even though the sight of him fills me with wonder and dread all at once, I know what he wants to say—and I want the same thing he’s proposing. “Yes, Logan. I’d love to catch up.”
A smile appears on his face. His eyes light back up. This is the Logan I know.
No, knew. “Awesome. We can grab a drink and a bite at the lodge. They have a patio. But like I said, no rush. I know how drained you must feel.”
Although he’s right about how exhausted I am, I also can’t help but feel warm and fuzzy inside. Even after all these years, he’s still so kind and caring with me. As if we were never apart. If it wasn’t for his awkward stance and his grown-up frame, I wouldn’t be able to tell any time has passed at all.
I force a stilted smile. Even though I’m excited to catch up, I can barely muster the energy to show it. “Okay. Sounds good.”
“Great.” He pauses, then gives me a quick nod. “All right. Take care.” Then, within a moment, the door closes, and he’s gone.
And I’m left to myself, with nothing holding me back from collapsing on the bed.