“This is hard for me, too.” I want to share her heartache as I reach out and stroke the soft skin of her cheek.

The porcelain skin shudders under my light touch, and her eyes fill with tears, threatening to spill yet again. I lean to her mouth without hesitation and kiss her gently. I want to take away her hurt, and I take my time as I take her lips with my own. When her mouth becomes greedy, I know she’s stowed her pain for the time being in exchange for the passion we find so easily together. But the moment I think she’s set aside her sadness, the gears shift in her mind yet again.

And when she speaks, she breaks my heart. “I can’t do this anymore.” She is whispering with a strained look on her face. And my own agony clutches my heart and squeezes until I think I can’t stand it any longer. She continues. “I’m sorry. It just hurts too much. More than I ever imagined it could.”

I can’t move; I can barely breathe. I’m not ready to lose her. I can’t lose her. I don’t know how to lose her. But the light in her eyes has suddenly dimmed. Her beautiful face, now slack and defeated, just stares over my shoulder. She won’t look at me, and as the reality sinks in, it hurts—physically, emotionally, every last muscle of my body aches for her. She is gone from me. I stand up on shaky legs; my own tears sting my eyes at this sudden and unwelcome rejection and loss. She’s not angry at me. She’s just done. I’ve hurt her too much. I’ve taken too much of her and refused to give her what she needs. To her, making love is everything it should be; born of her young idealistic mind, it is love and nothing more. It is what she has been trying to give me for so long now. It is the emotion, the intimacy, the surrender of herself to me. And it is what I won’t give her. It translates loud and clear in her mind. I’ve withheld my love and emotion and every last bit of myself she needs by refusing her. And regardless of whether my intentions were valid and honorable, it has broken her heart for the last time.

When I return to my room I lie awake, staring at the ceiling for hours. I drift off to sleep in the early morning hours, and I dream of Grand Haven. I replay every moment of our time there and how much I enjoyed her that night. We were just a couple, like any other. It was real, and it was incredible. And when I wake, I’m content for half a moment until I remember just how far I am from that reality.

As I rise and make coffee, I discover she’s gone for school already. I have no way of knowing at this moment, but this will be our new co-existence for the next couple of months—Rowan conveniently side-stepping any interaction with me. Why should I think she’d be any less capable of evading me than she does her father? She’s well practiced in the art of avoidance, and the next long weeks promise to be agony.

Chapter 21

The days slip by like a grotesque ticking clock. Tick tock tick tock. The days slowly become weeks, and as much as I’m dreading the loss of Logan, it looms ever closer with each passing minute. The whole painful countdown is all the more agonizing because I’m angry, uncharacteristically and inappropriately angry, at Logan. I want him desperately in one breath and hate him in the other. I’ve used my hurt to punish him. He doesn’t deserve it, I know, but it is somehow easier to hate him than to hurt all of the time.

I’ve taken to spending nearly every night I can with Sara. I’m also working far more hours and evenings than I ever have before, and while I’m struggling to keep up with my last semester of school, I don’t care. It’s the very best way to avoid Logan. On the rare night I don’t have plans to stay with Sara, I show up late from work and retreat to my room without so much as acknowledging Logan’s existence. I feel his eyes watching me pass through his home—he watches, but he never speaks to me. I feel terrible for how I’m treating him, but he’s giving me my space. He’s giving me exactly what I’ve asked for. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? I’m sure he regrets ever meeting me, and sad as it may be to admit, I think that’s probably for the best. The odd time or two I’ve been forced to actually speak with him have been the most strained and uncomfortable conversations of my life.

Sara hits me up about moving into Logan’s apartment for the summer a couple of weeks after I broke it off with Logan. I’m hurting constantly and bouncing back and forth from resentful anger to absolute sadness. It’s almost laughable when she asks, given my current situation, were it not such a glaring reminder of just how dishonest I’ve been with her.

“Come on, Row. It will be fun. They don’t even want us to pay rent.”

She obviously sees the hesitation in my expression. Staying at his place is hard now, and once he’s gone I’m terrified that it will be nothing but a gut-wrenching reminder of what I’ve lost. “I don’t know. It seems like a lot of effort just to turn around and move again a few months later.” My eyes shift from hers in my guilt, but not before catching hers drop and her face slacken. I’m hurting her.

She hasn’t missed my sullen, depressed mood lately, and I know she worries. “Please, Row.” And then she unloads her wounded heart in my lap and leaves me wanting to beg her forgiveness. “I can’t stand not knowing what’s going on with you right now.” She has tears in her eyes, and they threaten to spark my own. “You’re so far away from me, and I hate it. I can’t help fix what is going on in your life when you won’t talk to me, and … I know if you wanted my help, you’d tell me about it. I know that, and it hurts. You’ve never shut me out before. Please just at least let me be here for you.” Now her tears are falling, and so are mine. I feel awful. I feel guilty. I’ve set her friendship aside in exchange for my own sorrow. I’m hurting one of the most important people in my life, and I hate myself for it.

I manage nothing more than “Okay,” in my voice that is fighting hard not to break down into sobs.

Sara has every reason to hate me, but she doesn’t, inexplicably; she’s just concerned. I can’t help wonder if I would be so gracious if the tables were turned. I’m more blessed than I deserve with her. I know I’m bitter as hell pretty much all the time, but even I, in all my piss poor attitude, have to admit I’m being a monstrous bitch, and staying in Logan’s apartment is without doubt the best place for me to be, even if the thought is excruciating.

In truth, I suspect Logan is the one behind this whole scheme, but I have no other real options lest I destroy my relationship with Sara. I won’t survive the next year without her, and I can’t allow myself to push her away in my pain. She doesn’t deserve it.

Over the next weeks, my ever-watchful best friend worries incessantly about me. Most days, it’s hard just getting out of bed in the morning, let alone reassuring her I’m fine. She asks, but I’m sure she doesn’t expect to get much response from me at this point, and eventually she gives up asking and does her best to just support me. And she does. Patiently and quietly she sits by day after day waiting for me to talk. But I can’t talk to her about this, and it just furthers my sadness. Still, she’s happy I’ve agreed to move in with her for the summer, and it seems to bring her some degree of reassurance.

Every day is a struggle, and I wonder if it will ever feel better. Ending my relationship with Logan was my choice, and I know it was the right decision. However, there isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t reconsider and have to fully fight the urge to beg him to take me back. But the fact of the matter is there is nothing to go back to—a relationship destined to die from the start. A relationship built on coupling more than anything else—and coupling in the most juvenile of terms at that; I am, after all, still a virgin. He just didn’t want me enough, or did he respect me too much; what was the excuse he fed me? It all feels the same, and it hurts. It doesn’t really matter how you slice it.

But truly hating him is an impossibility, and through all my bitterness and anger I still love him desperately and painfully. Love. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Then again, the past half year should never have happened. I remember the first night I spent at his apartment. Never in a million years could I have imagined going from awkward encounters standing in his kitchen in the middle of the night to finding myself in his bed, to ending the most satisfying and amazing relationship I could ever have imagined. And I want to regret it. But I don’t. Instead, I would give anything to go through it all again … perhaps with a happier ending.

* * *

I bow out of Logan’s graduation ceremony as gracefully as is possible, though I’m sure the Harringtons find it strange I should miss such a big day in Logan’s life. Logan, on the other hand, is ever present on my own graduation day, and as Sara and I take our turns receiving our diplomas, it reeks of finality to this last school year, and I’m not sure I’m ready for the life that lies in front of me. My father manages to make it to the occasion, though the stench of last night’s booze is following him. I’m far past being embarrassed by him, and as we approach the Harringtons after the ceremony, Marcus holds a hand out to him genially. Logan appears to be seething with hatred, and as my father’s stale cigarette and alcohol stench reaches the group, a few noses wrinkle. Okay, I take it back; I’m embarrassed. Still, they are pleasant as I stand by nervously and uncomfortably rocking on the outside edges of my wedge sandals.

Having given up hating my father with his eyes, Logan is now concentrating on me, not paying attention to any of the pleasantries around us. Logan’s parents are congratulating me generously and graciously. Marcus puts an arm around me and gives me a good squeeze before kissing my cheek. Ronnie pulls me into a tight hug, crying the whole time. These aren’t new tears, though; she’s been going on since Sara and I woke up this morning. Logan’s family looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to congratulate me as well, and with the eyes of his entire family watching, he takes both of my shoulders in his hands and leans down to kiss my cheek gently. His lips linger a moment too long, and I blush furiously as his lips meet my skin that has been so deprived of his touch for so long. My knees weaken as the breath leaves my lungs, and as my breath hits his neck so very close to my mouth, he inhales sharply. My body has been on fire from the moment he closed the space between us, and as his lips leave my skin, my body cries out for more.