When I told him, he just smiled, said maybe it was worth keeping.

He'd also done some upgrading to the house, high cement fencing and a security gate. He even got security lights and cameras in certain spots. He told me that there had been a string of burglaries in the area. I knew it wasn't true, but I didn't call him out on it. Honestly, having that extra security helped me to actually sleep easier at night.

I'm better, but I'm not, not really. If I were to use psychology terms, I'd tell you I was quiet, withdrawn, introverted. Not my usual asshole-self. Dad said he missed his asshole. That made me laugh.

I did something stupid today. I drove my car two hours away. Guess where? Not hard. I don't know why I did it. I just wanted to see her, maybe just to assure myself that she was okay. Ethan's jeep was in the driveway, along with a green hatchback. It could be hers.

Three hours I sat in front of the house like a creeper, then the front door burst open. Ethan first, then Alexis, her best friend. And then Tristan. The outside security light turned on, she walked out, locked the door, and checked it at least five times. My hands shook. I sat on them, moved further down my seat and pulled my cap down past eyebrows. Fucking creeper.

Then I heard it. Her laugh. 'Oh my God,' she squealed, holding her stomach.

I drove away.

It was too much.

I shouldn't have been there.

What the hell was I thinking?

At least she was happy.

That's something, right?

A few hours later I had the words that seemed so fitting tattooed on my arm. One day, I swear, I'll look at it, and maybe it won't hurt so much.

*

Three weeks of being home.

I saw her.

I don't think I fully understood how broken I was until my eyes caught hers and she smiled up at me.

Suddenly, it felt like all of the broken pieces of me locked into place, one by one. I felt it physically as much as mentally.

We talked. I can't for the life of me even remember what was said. It's like my heart and my mind were constantly battling, and I didn't know which one to voice. At one point, my heart won out, and I let a familiar comfort settle over my actions, or it could have been the panic that kicked in.

Baby, I called her.

And something in her snapped.

I deserved the slap.

Just like I'll deserve any and all future punishment I get from her.

11

Amanda

I woke up the next morning feeling worse than I did the night before. It had never been my intention to hurt Logan, not even emotionally. What I did was horrible. The guilt of it consumed me.

What hurt the most was his reaction. It was as if he saw me for the first time—who I really was. I thought he'd known me better than that, but I guess a year can change a person's perspectives.

It sure as hell changed mine.

At first, of course I hated him. I hated that he could just leave, without a single warning, not even a goodbye. But slowly, with every day that passed and every visit with his dad, things started getting easier. With each piece of the puzzle that was his life, his decisions and actions began to make sense—to me, anyway. It wasn't as if I forgave, and I definitely wouldn't be able to forget what he did, but I'd slowly begun to accept it.

Each conversation I had with his dad was like peeling away a layer. Logan—he built these high walls around him. He put on a persona so that no one got close enough to care for him. With me, those walls came down. I couldn't tell you why he let me in, or what it was about me, or about us, that led him to believe that it was okay for us to fall in love the way we did. The kind of insanely deep, destructive love.

Destructive.

That's exactly what we were.

Logan.

I couldn't sleep. I spent the entire night staring at the ceiling of my living room. Whatever I’d thought she might have felt when I left, it was worse than I thought. I knew she'd be upset, sad, hurt—but she was devastated beyond words, which is probably why—instead of talking—she chose to slap me.

I couldn't blame her. I deserved it.

I fucked up. The worst part is that instead of talking to her about it, I practically shoved her out the door and into her car because I was too much of a pussy to deal with things. I should have tried to calm her down, to calm myself down, just enough so that we could actually use words to get through the mess we'd created. But I just bailed, because obviously, that's how I deal with shit.

I cursed under my breath and removed the covers off my pathetic bed. You'd think that sleeping on the floor or tiny fold-out beds would make me want the comfort of a luxurious mattress. It didn't.

***

I needed to get out of my head, and out of my apartment. No one knew I was back yet, so there was only one place I could go—the bookstore. It was like history repeating itself. Stupid, regretful, lonely boy finds solace in a random bookstore while he pines for the girl of his dreams that he fucked up with.

Chantal—the owner of the store—paused mid coffee-pour when she saw me. I had to rush over and stop her from spilling it everywhere. Once she placed the coffee back and handed the cup to her customer, she wrapped her arms around me. "You stupid boy," she whispered in my ear. She pulled back and playfully slapped my chest. "Where the hell have you been? I'm so mad at you."

I laughed, and rolled my eyes. "Get in line."

I spent the next hour answering her million questions. I told her about working with Doctors Without Borders for the past year. I didn't offer anything about Amanda, and she didn't bring it up. I respected that a lot.

She stood up when a customer walked to the register. "I know you just got back, but can I ask a favor?"

"Of course. Anything."

"I have a huge delivery at four, can you help out?"

I agreed. It wasn't like I had shit to do anyway.

At four on the dot I was back. "It's not here yet," she said, motioning for me to take a seat. Since the first day I’d come into the store, creepily looking for Amanda, I'd always sat in the same spot. "I'm sure it's on it way."

A few minutes later I heard her voice.

Amanda.

A part of me panicked. A part of me was thankful for second chances. Or, in my case, fourth, fifth, and sixth chances. "Take a seat at your table, I'll bring it out to you," Chantal told her. I braced myself for when she turned around and saw me sitting here. My hands gripped the side of the chair. I was half sitting, half standing, like my body was ready for a battle.

She froze the second her eyes made contact with me. "Whoa," she said. Then she took a step forward, as if unsure. I found myself sitting back down, relaxing slightly. She bit her lip; her eyes cast downwards, and stopped a few feet away. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

I exhaled loudly. "I can go—"

"No!" she exclaimed, at the same time as Chantal came back.

She placed two coffees and a book on the table, then turned to me and said, "You can't go. Besides, that's your chair. It's got your name on it."

I looked at her confused. "What?"