The days were slipping by in a haze of routine and restless waiting. Dr. Foster had said the tests would take a few days, but it felt like years. Each day dragged, filled with questions I couldn’t answer and truths I couldn’t face yet.
To take my mind off from worrying, I tried to focus on my job. It was one of those ordinary nights, or so I thought. The usual crowd filled the tables, the murmur of conversations blending with the clink of glasses and the hum of the jukebox. I was behind the counter, wiping down glasses and trying not to think about anything too deeply, when the door opened, and Logan walked in.
Still, underneath it all, the waiting gnawed at me. Every night, I’d lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining what the test results would say.
The usual crowd filled the tables, the murmur of conversations blending with the clink of glasses and the hum of the jukebox. I was behind the counter, wiping down glasses and trying not to think about anything too deeply, when the door opened, and Logan walked in.
I froze.
He looked good. Too good. His dark hair was slightly messy, his blue eyes scanning the room before they landed on me. The intensity of his gaze made my stomach flip, and I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the glass in my hand.
“Hey,” he said, leaning against the counter.
“Hey,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
“You can't always run away from me, Emma. You don't talk to me at school, you don't reply to my messages nor take my calls..,” Logan said, his tone matter-of-fact.
“I’ve been busy,” I said quickly, not meeting his eyes.
“But not too busy for Caleb right?”
I sighed, setting the glass down and finally looking up at him. “What do you want, Logan?”
“To talk,” he said, his eyes softening. “That’s all.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?” he asked, his voice lowering slightly.
“Because...” I hesitated, my throat tightening.
“Because of Caleb?” he pressed, his jaw tightening.
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s not about him.”
Logan leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Then what is it, Emma? Because whatever it is, it’s killing me.”
His words hit me like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. I opened my mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, I reached for the whiskey bottle on the counter, pouring myself a small glass.
“Really?” Logan said, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t even drink.”
I shrugged, downing the shot in one go. The burn was sharp, but it gave me something to focus on other than the knot in my stomach.
Logan watched me closely, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Emma, talk to me. Please.”
The desperation in his voice was my undoing. I looked at him, really looked at him, and suddenly, everything else melted away—the guilt, the fear, the uncertainty. All that mattered was the way he was looking at me, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“I don’t want to talk,” I said softly.
“Then what do you want?” Logan asked, his voice barely audible.