Heat Wave

But the act seems worthless. Because she’s already won. She’s right.

My fingers go to the ring, the beautiful ring, and twirl it around, trying to gather strength from it, trying not to cry. Could I be the one to call it off? Do I tell Logan what just happened? Do we try and find a solution together?

Or would that ruin everything anyway? I know Logan. He loves me. He’s stubborn. And he’s not going to let me go without a fight. If I tell him what we’re faced with, he’ll give up the hotel. He’ll let my parents take back Moonwater and he’ll lose all that he’s worked for in order to keep me.

Can I live with myself if that happens? Can I marry him knowing I ruined his life, that I made him lose it all?

Or do I get up and walk away to save him.

Do I tell Logan the biggest lie I’ve ever told and break his heart in order to keep this piece of paradise for him?

I sit down on the couch, numb.

This is going to hurt beyond belief.





CHAPTER TWENTY




They say that life isn’t measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

I have to agree with that.

When I first laid my eyes on Logan, I was breathless. I knew he would have a significant impact in my life, even though I had no idea he would become my life. He was Juliet’s for so long, and I accepted that as much as I could. Everything else was a shameful, hopeless dream.

And I am breathless now.

Because I am breaking.

Breaking inside, fragments, jagged and sharp.

Breaking in slow motion.

I am paralyzed by this decision, a decision that can only be mine, one that will destroy everything I love no matter what I do.

I don’t know how long I stand in the middle of the living room. I don’t know where to go, what to do. I’m a robot, I’m on autopilot, I’m a zombie.

This can’t be happening; this can’t be happening.

But you knew it, I tell myself. You knew it would be this way. You knew you would never get away with it.

And yet I still had hope. Sometimes you tell yourself to expect the worst, sometimes you let yourself become jaded and realistic, because you know the chances of getting burned are high. And yet, no matter how much you try and harden your soul, shackle your heart, hope has a way of getting in. As the late Leonard Cohen said, the cracks are where the light gets in. And with that light comes hope.

I knew this was coming, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I still had hope, foolish hope, that refused to be buried. Hope that Logan and I would be allowed to live out our happily ever after under the sun, stars, and moon.

It’s that persistent sliver of hope that’s killing me right now.

I have to break up with Logan.

I have to return the ring.

I have to leave him.

I know my mother’s threats weren’t made in vain. I know what it’s like to damage her pride and reputation. I know she will fight back with everything she has, and in order to preserve what she is and what she’s fought for, she will take this away from Logan.

I can’t be the cause of that. I can’t. I couldn’t live with myself if Logan ended up stripped of everything he fought so hard to get. As much as I love him, as much as he loves me, I can’t be worth more than this place, and I won’t let myself be.

Logan.

Losing Logan.

The thought makes me double over, my knees hitting the tile floor with a sickly thud. I cry out in pain but it’s not my knees, it’s my heart, seeping open and bleeding. The pain is physical, deep, a fish hook that I can’t reach.

I cry out but there is no sound. My mouth is open, gaping and I can’t scream, I can’t breathe. Low, guttural noises rip through me as my lungs strain and strain.

I can’t make this choice.

I can’t throw all of this away.

I crawl to the couch and pull myself up, fingers digging into the cushions like an injured animal. I can’t imagine life without him, without being here. There has to be another way, there has to be.

Taking in a deep breath, I turn my phone over in my hands.

With what strength I have I call my father’s cell phone.

He answers right away, not even giving me enough time to process what I was going to say, let alone how to figure out how to speak.

“Veronica,” he says, his tone is hushed. I already know that my mother must be somewhere near him and that thought causes a dark, thick rage to boil inside my throat. “Is that you?”

“Daddy,” I say, my voice is so low and broken it doesn’t even sound human. “How could you?”

He sighs unsteadily. “Listen, dear, you know we love you.”

That was always my dad’s thing, to tell me “you know we love you” without having to tell me that they love me. If I knew they loved me, this wouldn’t be happening. I wouldn’t be who I am and I wouldn’t be begging my father.