“How do you know where I live?”
Logan shrugged, a small, shy smile on his lips. “You said it was the new housing development past the market. I knew it was called Blackwood and once you’re in there, it’s not that hard to find. Only full house in the place, right?”
Sawyer nodded, hearing the roar of her blood as it pulsed. “You only sent the pink roses?”
Logan stared blankly at her. “That’s all they were supposed to be. Why? Did they bring something else? I don’t have much money, so…”
Sawyer held up a hand. “So all you sent was the pink roses?”
“I’m sorry, I thought that would be good enough—”
“No, no”—Sawyer’s heart caught on a giggle—“sorry, that’s really sweet. They were fine, really pretty. I just—am a little—thanks, Logan. That was nice. You really didn’t have to.”
Sawyer switched her books and slammed her locker shut, shivering at the cold sweat that sprung up under her clothes.
“And I was wondering if…”
She turned to Logan once more. He was twisting his fingers again, the pink in his cheeks replaced by a flaming, all-out red. “Wondering if,” he started again, “you’d want to go out sometime?”
“Oh. Oh.” Sawyer felt sorry for the kid but the idea of dating anyone—Cooper included—suddenly seemed frivolous, precarious, dangerous.
And maybe deadly.
“I really appreciate you asking, Logan, but the truth is, I’m just not ready to date again. And besides”—she took a step toward him, leaning in conspiratorially—“you really don’t want to be with me. I’m—I’m a little messed up.” She smiled apologetically. “Maybe, you know, when I’m up to it.”
The smile didn’t fade from Logan’s face. He nodded at everything she said, and Sawyer recognized the look, the smile, as the pasted-on kind, the kind that a second-place winner keeps on her face until she can break down in private. Sawyer’s heart felt a pang of guilt, but when Logan shrugged and nodded, she felt better for keeping him safe.
The school day continued and passed uneventfully but Sawyer was still on edge, scrutinizing everyone who chanced a glance at her and jumping at the slightest sound, cringing each time she rolled her combination lock, pulled open her locker. She was changing for a lone run on the track in the nearly empty girls’ locker room when she heard the heavy doors press open. Sawyer straightened, that same piercing finger of fear tracing her spine.
“I can’t stand her,” she heard.
“You know she didn’t really care about Kevin. He was her ticket to popularity. I mean look at her; she came right back to school afterward. I was practically shattered and we weren’t even dating anymore.” Maggie sniffled as she rounded the bank of lockers and came upon Sawyer. Maggie’s groupies hung close to her, arms crossed, throwing glaring, challenging looks at Sawyer.
“Why do you care so much about what I do, Maggie?” Sawyer wanted to know.
Maggie batted innocent lashes. “I don’t know what you mean. We were just having a private conversation amongst ourselves. Were you possibly eavesdropping, Sawyer?” She wrinkled her pixie nose. “Such a bad habit.”
Sawyer pulled on her sneakers and slammed her locker. “Whatever.”
“You know Kevin was never really that into her,” Maggie said, her voice low but just loud enough to stab at Sawyer.
“Go to hell, Maggie. He left you for me. So, if he wasn’t all that into me, he must have been completely over you even when you were dating.” Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest and cocked her head, feigning sympathy. “Ooh, that must have hurt.”
Maggie’s mouth fell open, as did the mouths of her cronies. “You are such a bitch!” Maggie yelled, nostrils flared, wide eyes moistening.
Sawyer shrugged and walked out of the locker room, hearing the girls closing in on Maggie, patting her back and cooing, “She doesn’t know anything” and “She’s a totally jealous bitch, Maggs,” behind her.
When Sawyer set foot on the track—leaned in and let herself run—she finally felt free, felt weightless, felt untouchable. The strain of Kevin’s death, of the note, of Maggie, and of Sawyer’s soon-to-be stepsister poured off of her as the sweat started to leave her pores. Suddenly, she didn’t feel needled or pinned down, and by the third lap she was shrugging off the note and the flowers—a coincidence, she told herself—an ill-timed coincidence. But no matter how fast or how far her legs pumped, Sawyer couldn’t outrun the tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head—but what about the peanut oil label? But what about the “you’re welcome” note?
Sawyer clenched her fists and pumped her legs harder, punching at the air as she whizzed down the track. The heat that broke in her legs was punishing, but she relished the aching feeling. It made her feel alive.