Page 57 of Love and Other Chances

I’m desperately pulling on the crook of Logan’s arm, attempting to drag him away from Brooks. “I invited him! We’re dating!” I exclaim.

Logan’s biceps tense even further under my grasp, and he slowly swivels his head to look me in the eye. “What did you say?”

I blow out a breath. “Brooks is here because I invited him. Because we recently got reconnected and started dating again.”

Logan’s eyes narrow on mine. “Teegs . . . what are you thinking? Are you forgetting what he put you through? The things he said—the things hedid?”

Apparently, Logan is aware of why Brooks broke up with me. Fantastic.

“Are you failing to remember the nights crying alone in your room over winter break?” Logan adds, voice still simmering with rage.

Apparently, I was less adept at hiding than I thought I was. Awesome.

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” Brooks speaks up again. He stands up straighter and fully faces Logan. “I was a jerk. And so stupid. I’m worse than scum for the way I treated Teegan. I don’tdeserve her forgiveness, and I certainly don’t deserve another chance to be in her life.”

“But I forgave him,” I jump in. Tugging on Logan’s arm to get him to look at me, I continue. “Brooks and I joined the same small group at our church without knowing it. We slowly reconnected as friends, and Brooks apologized profusely for the past. And I chose to forgive him. And I’m choosing a relationship with him now. I’m not letting the past dictate the present.”

“But Teegan, sometimes we learn from the past to know whatnotto do in the future,” Logan counters.

“I know. The past informed my choices, which is why I took things slowly. We started off as fellow small group members, then as friends. But Brooks has changed. He’s not the same guy he was in high school.” I look over at Brooks with soft eyes and see a similar soft expression in his. “We’ve both grown and changed. And I like who he is now.” I end with a smile at Brooks before looking back to Logan.

“Teegan, I don’t want a repeat—” Logan begins.

“I swear I’d never hurt her like that again,” Brooks asserts.

“Yeah, you probably thought that when you started dating the first time, though,” Logan says. His eyes narrow again. “And look how that ended.”

“I trust him,” I declare, pulling Logan’s attention back. “I’ve matured a lot since high school too, Logan. I’ve learned not to completely tie up my sense of self in another person, to keep myself grounded in my relationship with God. I’ve learned how to maintain my individual identity. I trust Brooks, and I trust myself to take care of my heart.”

There’s stillness in the air as we stand there, each processing our own slew of thoughts. The evening is cold, and I shiver for the first time as my adrenaline wears off.

“Why don’t we come inside and talk about this over dinner?” Mom’s voice cuts in from behind us.

Logan glances back at her. “You knew about this?” Mom nods in response. “And you’re okay with it?” Another nod. He meets my eyes one more time, and I squeeze his arm, trying to channel reassurance through my eyes.

He sighs. “Fine.” Logan follows Mom to the dining room, and I rush to usher Brooks inside.

“I’m so sorry. He was late getting here, and I didn’t have time to tell him,” I whisper. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Brooks wraps me up in a hug, breathing against my ear. “It’s okay, Sneaks. Like I said—I deserved it.” He pulls away, though there’s reluctance in the removal of his arms from around me. “I wouldn’t say no to an ice pack, though,” he says with a smirk.

It’s the most natural thing in the world to reach down and take Brooks’ hand, to lace my fingers through his. A movement so second nature, so familiar, you’d think any surge of delight at the touch would have long since vanished.

And you’d be wrong.

A shiver of warmth races through my body in response to Brooks’ hand possessively curling around mine. My pulse skitters when I meet his eyes and see a mirrored reaction in them. “Let’s go get you some ice,” I murmur.

Brooks holds a bag of frozen corn against his jaw as we carry food from the kitchen to the table. I volunteer to pray for our meal, and then we begin passing dishes and spooning food onto plates.

“How’s work been going, Logan?” I ask, hoping to give Brooks a little recovery time before the grilling session I’m confident is coming.

Logan shares a minimal response, but my mom asks several follow-up questions. She must be picking up on my strategy. I also volunteer ample information about how my semester went, elaborating on each Bible study I led, as well as describing the dynamics of our church small group.

We’re mostly finished eating by the time Brooks’ inevitable turn in the hot seat comes. Logan’s eyes narrow, and I have the urge to throw my body in front of Brooks as though to protect him from the bullet that’s coming.

“So, Murph, how exactly did you go from being high school jackass Murphy to—” Logan gestures across the table at Brooks, “—this Brooks?”

“Language, Logan,” my mom chimes in. “Not at the dinner table. And let’s not forget that high school Logan did some rather immature things as well.”

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