“You’re going to regret that,” I said, trying to sound playful. I wasn’t quite up to that task.
Logan chuckled as he cracked open a soda. “Just please, I’m begging you, not ‘The Notebook,’” he said. “I’ll poke my eyes out for sure this time if I have to watch that girl get it on with two guys and complain about how terrible her life is.” He drew his index finger across his neck.
He knew. I was going to puke.
No, wait. He was grinning now, stacking the leaning tower of potato chips. He didn’t know anything; the movie reference was just a dagger-driving-into-my-heart coincidence.
“No. Definitely not ‘The Notebook,’” I said as I headed into the living room. I loved the movie, or I had loved the movie, but I’d been on the same page with Logan. I could never feel sorry for poor little rich Allie, having to choose between two gorgeous men who worshipped her. Some people’s lives must really suck.
My opinions on Allie Hamilton the two-timer had changed in twenty-four hours’ time. She had a tough time deciding between her first love and her fiancee; I had a tough time deciding between my boyfriend and a guy I’d known all of a week.
Not that I had a decision to make anyways. I’d probably never see Cole again, unless in passing. I didn’t have a Noah Calhoun waiting for me if I broke it off with the man I was supposed to spend my life with.
I almost had to slap my cheeks to stop that train of thought.
Instead of plopping down on the couch in front of the TV, I headed up the stairs towards Logan’s room. He had a small TV and movie collection in his room, and since his parents didn’t let us hang out in there together when they were home, I walked right into his room and crashed down on his bed.
Logan’s room was a lot like him: comfortable, warm, and a tad boring. He still had the same sports ball wallpaper border he’d gotten in grade school running along the ceiling, the same twin sized bed, and the same trophy shelves hanging above his dresser, though the number of trophies had grown over the years. Other than the few pictures of Logan and me at our senior year dances and his pair of work boots, I could have been walking into the eight year old Logan’s room.
Change wasn’t encouraged here in the Matthews family.
I was starting to suffocate again.
“Hey.” Logan stood in the doorway, his overflowing plate in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. He looked uncomfortable.
He looked even more uncomfortable when I patted the space on the bed beside me.
I had to be with the only teenage guy in existence who didn’t jump at the opportunity to crawl into bed with his girlfriend.
“I’m tired and wanted to put my feet up,” I said, scooting over as Logan took a few tentative steps inside. “I might even pass out for a while before work, so I wanted to be comfortable. Do you mind?”
I could see from his face that he did, but he kept walking towards me. I didn’t get any satisfaction out of making Logan uncomfortable, but the guy wanted to marry me tomorrow and was uncomfortable lying next to me on his bed. Fully clothed, watching a movie, and maybe, maybe, a little hand holding.
“No, it’s fine. Dad and Mom aren’t going to be home until later anyways.” He set his plate down on his nightstand before taking a seat on the edge of his bed. If he sat anymore on that edge, he was going to fall off. “It will be our little secret.”
Little secret. Dirty little secrets. I couldn’t seem to not think about Cole for longer than two minutes.
Scooting back, Logan leaned into the headboard and tried to get comfortable. He still wasn’t quite there, but he got points for trying.
“I made some tea for you.” He held out the steaming mug where I saw a familiar tag swinging from a string.
Every day before this one, I’d taken the tea and drank it down like a champ.
Every day until this one.
“Logan,” I said, propping up on my elbows. “I don’t like tea. In fact, I hate it even. And if I could pick the kind I hated the most, it would be earl grey.”
I watched Logan’s face go through a few stages, from confusion to contemplation, before it ended on hurt. I could tell because he wouldn’t look at me—that was always the dead giveaway that I’d hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” I said as he set the mug down on his nightstand, looking dejected. “I could have said that in a nicer way.”
“It’s okay,” Logan said, leaning his head back and staring at his ceiling where the glow in the dark stars we’d stuck up there in third grade still were.
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
His gaze drifted down to mine. “I’m not upset because you just told me you don’t like tea,” he said. “I’m upset because you haven’t told me until now. Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t like it years ago?”
Because I was in need of some serious psychiatric help.
“Why didn’t you ask?” I replied.
Logan’s eyebrows came together. “I . . .well . . . I guess I just . . .” His eyes drifted from the cup of tea to me a few times before his face relaxed. “I’m sorry, Elle. I guess I just assumed you liked it.”
I softened right away. “I didn’t exactly give you any reason not to assume I didn’t.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Really.” I placed my hand over his. “It’s all right. It might have taken us a couple years to figure it out, but now you know I. Don’t. Like. Tea.”