As I buckle my seat belt in my lap and pull it tight, the last of the mountain air deflates from my lungs. This is it. I’m going home. And to be totally honest, I’m feeling about a hundred different ways about it.
For one, I’m proud. At least a little, I think. After all, I did what I set out to do—I helped Logan. Maybe it didn’t happen how I expected, but the man I left back at the cabin is so different from the one I met when I arrived in Lost Haven.
He’s calmer now, more in touch with his feelings and how to deal with them in a healthy way. Mission accomplished, as far as counseling goes, which means it’s time to head home. Back to Boston and back to my normal life, where I don’t have to sit through violent dinner table arguments or psychoanalyze an entire family of brothers with broken pasts.
Things will be easier back home. Just me, my studio apartment, and my work. The way it’s always been.
And that’s where pride ends and depression sets in. Because maybe the way it’s always been isn’t what I want anymore.
My throat prickles, but I wrestle the tears down as best I can. I’ve made it this far without crying in public. Maybe I can make it home before I fully break down.
Swallowing hard, I focus on the flight attendant’s demonstration. She buckles and unbuckles a seat belt, pivoting so that everyone onboard can see, but hardly anyone is paying much attention.
The two other people in my row, a mother and her teenage son, aren’t even pretending to listen. They both have earbuds in, each of them bobbing their heads to their own preferred playlist. When one of the boy’s earbuds falls out, his mom reaches over and tucks it back into his ear, and he gives her the sort of half smile that tells me it’s far from the first time this has happened.
Of course, they remind me of Logan and his mom, and the prickling feeling climbs up my throat to my nose until the tears push past my eyelids. Jesus, I should have gotten this out on the tiny biplane from Durango to Denver. At least then there wouldn’t be an audience to witness my sobs.
I turn toward the window, fixing my gaze on the wing of the plane as the tears start falling steadily. Soon, the sleeve of my cardigan is wet with tears and snot, and all I can do is pray that my seat partners have their earbuds in tight. It’s not like me to cry in public like this, but then again, it’s not like me to fall in love with one of my clients either.
And that’s what I did, isn’t it? I fell in love with Logan Tate. Faster than I thought was humanly possible and harder than I thought my heart could handle.
And maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe that’s why I ran off so fast. Maybe I thought that would be easier somehow. I know now that I was wrong. I’ll miss the smell of a wood-burning stove and Logan’s winter-air scent.
The plane rumbles beneath me, and I realize the flight attendant has wrapped up her presentation and taken her seat, ready for takeoff. I must have missed the part where they tell us to turn our phones to airplane mode.
Reaching into my carryon, I grab my phone and swipe it open. But before I kiss my service good-bye, I open up that email from Les, scrawl my digital signature on the paperwork he sent over, and press SEND.
There. Logan is all set to return to the ice the second his suspension is over. And just like that, he’s no longer my client. It’s a thought that stirs up a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest.
If he’s not my client, maybe he could be something else. Like my boyfriend or, eventually, my . . .
No. I shut that thought down quicker than I can power off my phone.
I am absolutely not allowing myself to think about Logan’s insane proposal right now. It had to have been the post-sex endorphins talking, or maybe he was just living out some sort of weird domestic fantasy of his. Either way, he didn’t actually mean it. And even if he did, I’ve known the man for all of fourteen days.
Fourteen magical, whirlwind days.
My heart swells as each one of them plays through my memory like a highlight reel. From the first time I stepped into that house, there was something about him that I was instantly attracted to. And then that night Jillian sent him to build a fire in my cabin, that’s when I felt the first spark.
But this feeling in my chest now is much larger than that. It’s a roaring wildfire that torched any chance I had at being professional. That was made quite clear last night . . . and again this morning.
Heat floods my system at the memory of his strong arms around me, his warm lips at my neck. Last night, I felt like I was living for the first time, not just existing. Maybe that’s what a life with Logan would be like. A life worth living instead of merely going through the motions.
An ache builds deep inside me as the rumbling stops and a weightless feeling builds inside me. Takeoff. I’m officially no longer on Colorado soil. Time to leave it all behind me.
Once we reach cruising altitude, the tears subside, leaving me completely exhausted. At least it means I can sleep through this flight.
• • •
I hardly remember making the decision to sleep, but in what feels like two blinks and a yawn, the rumbling touchdown of the plane in Boston wakes me from my dream about—you guessed it—Logan. You can take the girl out of Lost Haven, but I guess you can’t stop the memories from following her home.
Once we’ve deplaned, it’s only a ten-minute cab ride back to my Southie apartment, where everything is exactly as I left it.
The coffee mug in the sink and the hamper of half-folded laundry remind me of what I thought this trip would be. A quick turnaround, no more than a day or two. Get in, persuade the client to work with me, and get out. I should have been back before the produce in my fridge went bad. It’s almost a funny thought now.
Exhausted, I let my duffel drop to the hardwood with a thud that echoes through the empty apartment, reminding me that, for the first time in weeks, I am really, truly alone.
With a sigh, I set aside my laptop bag, flip on the lights, and sink into the cushions of my couch, flipping on the TV to have some background noise.
The chatter of some sitcom family instantly calms me and simultaneously revs up my imagination. I wonder what the Tates are up to tonight. Maybe Austen built a bonfire and they’re cozied up around it, drinking home-brewed beer and swapping stories about growing up.
I check the time on my phone. It’s early enough that they could still be eating dinner, with Jillian carving up a perfectly cooked venison roast. I’ll bet they’ve already put away that extra chair they pulled out specially for me. The thought stings.
And then it really sets in. The loneliness. And not the usual kind, either. This is something deeper. Heavier.
For so long, I’ve been used to my life, my little studio apartment that I don’t have to share with anyone. I reported the ins and outs of my life to my journal or social media instead of calling my mom, like my friends get to do. I was perfectly content not knowing what I was missing.
But for a short time, I had a family. Friends. A man I was hopelessly falling for. And the hollowness in my gut tells me maybe I shouldn’t have left it all behind.
But it’s too late now. I left. I threw away whatever precious and fragile thing we’d built. It’s over.
And it’s all my fault.
21
* * *
LOGAN