Page 5 of Hypothetical Heart
Of course, Logan’s gift prompted my dad to ask, “Is there anything going on between the two of you?”Not anymore.
And just like every other year, I give my standard reply of: “No, Dad, we’re just friends.”
Not that he would care, especially after all the years of Wren (Logan’s mom) and my mom conspiring for us to get together, and even more of it from Wren after my mom died. She would be ecstatic if we got together. Everyone would be.
It has become an ongoing tradition, ever since 8th grade, when he declared I would be his permanent valentine, that Logan would give me some type of gift.
I find it funny if I’m being honest. I’ve always adored Logan, and him doing these types of things just to make me feel special has always made me feel a little mushy inside. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. This is the ultimate dream: getting Valentine’s Day gifts from the boy I’ve had a crush on my entire life.
I throw my covers to one side of my bed with a smile on my face as I step into the slippers on the floor of my bedside, getting up to examinethe flowers myself.
And yet, as I hold the vase, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty.
I’m well aware of what everyone thinks about Logan and me, how they think we’re dating, or that we are both oblivious to the fact that we are both in love with one another.
But I’m always highly aware of my feelings toward Logan and his for me, even though we both choose to deny them for the sake of our friendship.
I would be lying if I said being friends with Logan hasn’t always felt like I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
As if the two of us are in some type of silent competition to see who can go longer without doing something about our feelings for the other.
But this is how it has always been. Logan and I work around the fact that we have both been obsessed with each other since we could comprehend the feeling, and everyone else seems to be waiting for us to realize.
However, we both know the truth. We already tried once, and it didn’t work out. We admitted it to each other once, and it blew up in flames. I’m not ready for that to happen again and destroy us.
I move around my room as I get ready, my eyes always landing back on the flowers when there’s nothing else for me to look at.
There’s something so hard about seeing the physical display of affection, knowing it’s going to die because the real thing I want is something I won’t allow myself to have.
The real thing I want is the boy who gave me the flowers.
“God, get over yourself,” I mutter under my breath, tearing my eyes off the vase yet again.
I do the daily tasks of making my bed and brushing my teeth before making myself comfortable in my bedroom’swindow seat. The book I’m currently reading is the type that makes me want to go to bed late and then get up early just so I can read a few chapters before school.
I know the implications of reading the types of books I read, which is why I read them in the comfort of my home.
Romance books are tacky to some, or pose unrealistic expectations to others. Either way, people love trying to find a way to make things women enjoy seem more pointless than they are.
I open my blinds, seeing the light snowfall that is likely going to be gone by dinnertime. Then I see a flash of movement in a window next door.
I peer out the corner of my eye to see Logan shirtless with his back to the window, and I force myself to look back down at my book.
My eyes scan the page, desperately trying to find something more interesting within the pages than the person across the yard. And when I can’t help it any longer, I glance up, covering as much of my face with my book as I can.
You’re trying to be inconspicuous, Winnie.
Nothing else would match my luck except making direct eye contact with the piercing brown eyes that belong to none other than Logan Callaghan.
He waves, and I have no option but to wave back, setting my book down as I do.
He’s still shirtless, with gray sweatpants hanging low on his waist. I would be lying if I said his physique didn’t flood my brain every time I read one of my romance books.
“Good morning,” he mouths.
“Hi,” I mouth back, silently cursing myself for the reply.
He mouths something else that my brain isn’t able to comprehend, and I stare blankly back at him.
