Page 50 of The Breakaway

Chapter

Eighteen

I strode down the sidewalk,my violin case clutched in one hand and my backpack slung over the opposite shoulder. A gust of wind cut right into my coat. Should’ve grabbed a scarf, but that would’ve ruined my dramatic exit.

I heard his footsteps before he called out.

"Shar, wait up!"

So Logan wasn’t a total idiot.

I didn't slow my pace. He caught up to me, his blond hair ruffled from running, cheeks flushed. "Babe, I’m sorry.”

I pursed my lips, walking faster.

“Hey.” He clamped a hand down on my shoulder and pulled me to a stop. “I said I’m sorry.”

I jutted out my chin, my eyes flashing. “For what?”

He wet his lips. “For . . . forgetting that you had a routine?—”

"It's not a routine. It's my life! Music is important to me. Doing well in my classes is important to me. Could you imagine if I called your hockey practices a ‘routine?’” I used air quotes.

Logan blanched. “I'm sorry, I didn't think?—"

"Exactly, you didn't think." The words came out harsher than I intended. Guilt stabbed at me but weeks—probably months—of frustration and hurt were bubbling over inside of me like toxic waste.

Logan put his arm around my shoulder, and we walked in tense silence for a minute, our breath puffing out in white clouds. Another gust of icy wind swept over us and I couldn't suppress a violent shudder. Goosebumps prickled my arms.

Logan pulled me closer, trying to shield me.

"I'm fine," I said through chattering teeth.

He ignored my protest, pulling a toque from his pocket and stretching it over my head.

"Thanks,” I murmured.

He walked me to the arts centre, and by the time we passed the bookstore, the anger had drained out of me. I stopped in front of the steps. "I can do a condensed practice. Then we can grab lunch, and maybe we’ll have time to hit the market.” I pointed to the glass windows of the atrium. “There are couches in there, or you could go back to the house.”

“Why don’t I just come with you?”

I raised an eyebrow. “To the practice room? They’re small.”

“If you don’t want me to?—”

“No, that’s fine.” I nodded, my heart picking up speed. Logan wanted to listen to me practice? Or was he just doing this to hammer home his apology? Because he thought it was the right thing to do?

I couldn’t tell how I felt about it as we claimed an empty practice room and I unpacked my violin. Logan sat in a chair, long legs stretched out as he leaned back, watching me.

As I tightened my bow and applied rosin, a sense of déjà vu washed over me. On stage. With Rob hiding in the curtains.

I glanced over at Logan and pulled out the sheet music Franck had given me, then started tuning my strings.

My blood wasn’t rushing in my ears. My hands weren’t trembling. Playing for him felt as natural as breathing. Zero butterflies. I wasn't sure what that said about us.

I launched into my warm-up, scales and arpeggios flowing from my fingers. Logan watched raptly at first, but fifteen minutes in, his leg started bouncing. He fiddled with the zipper on his coat. Restless energy rolled off him in waves.

Usually I got lost in the music, the outside world fading away. But Logan's presence nagged at me like an itch I couldn't scratch. Each sigh and shift in his chair snagged my focus, made my bow wobble.

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