Page 99 of Meet Me in the Valley
To get out.To get the fuck out.
Chapter Thirty-One
TIA
Boxes on boxes on boxes. Everything that represents my life in Texas has a special place in its own carefully taped, appropriately labeled cardboard box.
College knick-knacks like my Bevo the Longhorn stuffy Logan won for me at the Austin Rodeo. The kitchen utensils I got for a steal at a garage sale on the east side that Logan took me to. My gag awards from my time at Corrigan Residential Design, including Best Taste in Music—which Logan protested.
I blow a stray hair that has fallen over my eye, hands triumphant on my hips as I scan around my living room that looks more like a warehouse now. The big furniture will be the last to go. My mattress and bed frame are already disassembled and wrapped in plastic.
It’s my last night in this little white house I’ve been renting since I graduated. I’m going to miss the front porch with my two cherry red Adirondack chairs. The massive backyard with its rustic fire pit made of stone and sticks that holds so many memorable nights and heard all the drunken stories.
I’ll even miss the fact that this house has zero closets. It challenged me to get scrappy, lean into minimalism, and flexmy interior design brain with clever under-bed storage and a capsule wardrobe of staple pieces.
I run my hands along the butcher block kitchen island, feeling the small divots from the time Logan and I attempted to make pasta from scratch. We ended up failing miserably and ordered Chinese takeout instead.
Everywhere my eyes land in this house always leads back tohim.No amount of girls nights, post-graduate parties, and late-night work sessions can overpower the memories that live and breathe Logan in this space.
It’s his back-pocket laugh I hear instead of the record player softly humming in the corner. It’s his bright smile I see instead of the street lamp light streaming in through my window. And when my eyes close, I suddenly feel him.Everywhere.
It’s been two weeks since I left him bleeding in Vegas. Two weeks since we’ve spoken. Two weeks of silence from either of us.
After Nora lost her shit on me and kicked me out of her house, I took a ride share straight to the airport and booked the next flight back to Austin to pack up my life. All I brought back with me was a lone suitcase, a broken heart, and my losses.
I had zero messages from Logan—which was expected. I hurt him badly. I threw ugly words that cut him deep. His shared location showed that he stayed one more night in Vegas before I saw his blue dot blinking in Austin the day after. And then the day after that, he unshared it with me—severing us further.
My mind wondered why he stayed one more night. Did he book another room? Did he bring another woman to the place where he consumed every inch of me, bringing me to otherworldly levels of euphoria I didn’t know I could reach?
I wanted to believe he wasn’t doing that. That what he was telling me before I walked out was true. That he was changing.
Thinking about him with another woman after what we’d done together ate me alive. So much so, I spent most of my nights at the gym, rolling for hours until my skin reeked of rubber and sweat and I could barely feel my limbs. I was thankful to have been able to work from home. One day last week, when I knew Logan had to meet a client a town away, I cowardly went into the office to collect the rest of my things and say my goodbyes.
On my desk sat a beautiful gift basket filled with all of my favorite things. An assortment of bath bombs, a family-size bag of sour gummy worms, a handle of Tito’s vodka, and a sweet card signed by everyone at the firm—except one.
I must’ve flipped the card a thousand times, scanning every scribbled note and signature for his name, only to come up empty. Even Krista signed it—a short “Good luck on your next endeavor. Krista”. I practically burned a hole in the card from the heat of my glare as I stared at her name. The name Logan must’ve called out while she was in his bed. The name that makes my stomach thrash with acid—making me physically sick from the force of it.
But I saw nothing from Logan, and I’m not sure which hurt more.
My eyes open to the sound of faint knocks at the door. I tap my phone screen to check the time: 9 p.m.
Who the hell is knocking?
The only person who stopped by to see me today was my landlord, Craig, who dropped off a bottle of wine and a goodbye hug for being a great tenant.
Quickly taking the needle off of my record player, I wait to see if my mind is playing tricks on me. After a few more seconds of silence, I convince myself I imagined the knocking—like my subconscious was playing a cruel joke andwantedme to hearit. Stalking toward the front door, my shoulders jump when the knock comes again, a little louder this time.
So I wasn’t hearing things.
I don’t need to look through the peephole to know who’s on the other side. His gravity is pulling me in. I can feel him.
I rest my palms flat against the door and take a few calming breaths, focusing to slow down my trembling heart. It beats in paradiddles, uneven and staccato. Hand on the knob, I turn it and slowly open the door.
Logan is there, standing on my doormat, hands behind his back with those deep brown eyes. His hair looks freshly cut. Clean on the sides, tapered sharp, but still left long enough on top to tousle. I remember how it felt between my fingers. How I’d grip and tug on it. Whether we were teasing each other or tangled up in something far less innocent.
And now, standing in front of me with that crooked grin taking shape on those irresistible lips, he’s just …unfairlyhandsome.
The hunter green Henley pulls across his chest, sleeves snug around his forearms. His jeans ride low on his hips, molding to his frame like they were stitched just for him. They cling to the muscle in his strong thighs, stretching over the length of him in a way that makes it too hard to look away.
