“I know.” He rubs my arm. “I want it to be right. When it happens with us, I want it to be right. And you’re just not there yet.”
I shake my head. “No. I wish I were, but I’m not. He has answers I need, and until I get them, he has a hold on me I just can’t break. It’s not fair to you.”
“Life isn’t fair,” Logan says. “It never has been and never will be. If it were, my best friend wouldn’t have died, and I wouldn’t have gone to prison. If life were fair, Caleb would have gotten arrested instead of me, and you wouldn’t have amnesia. If life was fair, we’d be able to be together and there wouldn’t be anything standing in the way.”
“But life isn’t fair.”
“Not even close.” A sigh. “I’m not saying I regret what we did together, but I just . . . it makes it all the harder for me right now. Because I’ve tasted you. I’ve gotten a little glimpse of what it’ll be like when we can be together with nothing between us.”
“But I’m weak, so there is something between us.” I choke on my next words. “Caleb is between us.”
Once again, Logan is left with nothing to say. It’s true, and we both know it.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because I have no idea, and I’m curious.”
Logan tilts his wrist to glance at his watch. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon.”
“I’m tired.” I want to open my eyes, but I can’t. They won’t cooperate. “I’m sorry. I’m no fun right now. I’m just . . . so tired.”
“I’m here, Isabel. Just relax. Let go. I’ve got you.”
I’m always falling asleep around Logan. Maybe because I feel safe with him.
I dream of Logan. Of being naked with him. Nothing between us. And then I dream of shattering glass and twisting metal, and darkness and rain. And then Logan is in the darkness with me, in the rain with me, standing just out of reach.
Just out of reach. In the dream, as in life.
? ? ?
I wake alone, terrified. Sweating. Crying. Dream residue coats my mind with fear, fragments of nightmares flapping in the spaces of my soul like bats in a belfry. Hungry eyes, red in the darkness. Bright lights blinding me. Ice in my veins. Loss. Confusion. It’s all there, in my mind, disordered and wild and jumbled and visceral but meaningless.
I try to breathe through it, but I can’t. I can’t breathe. My chest is compressed by iron bands, preventing me from breathing. My hands shake. Tears track down my cheeks, flowing freely, unstoppable. I ache to breathe, but I cannot. Terror batters at the inside of my skull and squeezes my heart so it beats like fluttering sparrow wings.
Where is Logan?
Where am I?
I’m in his bed. The mattress is wide, and empty but for me. The blankets are kicked back to the foot-end of the bed, the sheet tangled around my thighs. I’m drenched with sweat. It’s dark outside. A digital clock on the bedside table near to hand reads 1:28 A.M. All is dark. Lights are off. Moonlight streams in through the window, a river of light silvering the floor and my skin. I am naked but for bra and underwear. I don’t remember undressing.
I manage a thready gasp. Another. My voice rasps. “Logan?”
Nothing.
“Logan?” A little louder.
I tumble out of the bed, feet hitting the floor. The hardwood is cold under my bare feet. The bra is too tight, constricting me. I can’t breathe. I fumble at the clasps and rip the garment off, toss it aside.
I’m still dizzy. My mouth is dry. My head aches. Pounds.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe without Logan.
I find him asleep on the couch, clad in a pair of loose shorts and nothing else. A laptop computer is on the coffee table, open, screen dark, and his cell phone is near it, along with a pad of paper and a pen. There are several phone numbers written down, all local New York numbers, 212 area codes. Scribbles, things crossed out, doodles. Abstract designs, swirls of ink, squares merging with triangles, becoming trees of curlicues and arcs. He’s written something at the bottom of the page, underlined it several times.
Jakob Kasparek.
Underneath that are two more words, connected to the name above by a darkly inked arrow: Signed out.
What does all this mean?
Just seeing him calms me. But he’s restless, tossing and turning. I lower myself to the couch near his head, feather my fingers through his hair. He murmurs something unintelligible, shifts forward, closer to me. I pull his head onto my lap, and he makes a small, boyish sound of contentment that melts something in me. His hand rests on my thigh, and I scoot lower on the couch and prop my feet on the coffee table, and his arm wraps around my waist, between my back and the couch.
I do not fall back asleep, but I am able to rest, to close my eyes and relax and let a sense of peace permeate me.
I need this man so much it hurts.
TWELVE
I doze through to dawn.
At some point past sunrise, Logan wakes suddenly and immediately, blinking up at me. “Isabel?”
I smile down at him. “Hi.”
His eyes flit over my breasts. He struggles to pull his gaze away from them. “What . . . um. What happened?”