Page 117 of Here We Go Again
She feels instantly lighter as those words float in the space between them. Because even if Logan takes those words and uses themagainst her, she said something profoundly true without fear of the pain that will come after.
“You’re… pretty sure?” Logan asks cautiously.
Another deep breath. “I’ve never been in love before, but I’m pretty sure it feels like this. Kisses that feel like waking up. Touches that feel like dreaming. Love is finding someone who helps you rewrite the story of yourself.”
Rosemary waits for Logan to take another step back. She waits for her to run away. But she doesn’t. Logan doesn’t move or speak or breathe.
“Actually, that’s not entirely true,” she corrects. “I have been in love before. With you, back when we were kids. It just took me a long time to recognize my feelings for what they were. But I loved you then, and I fell back in love with you now, and I’m not ready for things to go back to how they were before.”
All at once, Logan is moving and speaking and breathing heavily. “You don’t love me,” she says sadly. “This is grief talking. Joe is dying, and the entire world is falling apart, and you’re trying to find something to cling to in the wreckage. But it’s not me. It shouldn’t be me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not the woman you fall in love with!” She pushes herself away from the railing and paces in a tight circle across the porch. “I’m a fuckboy, remember? I’m everyone’s fun time and no one’s forever! Hell, even my own mom couldn’t stick around for me.”
“Logan, that’s not true—”
“It is! Don’t cling to me, Rosemary. Because I’ll fuck things up. I’ll disappoint you. And you’ll get bored of my whole schtick sooner rather than later!”
Tears prickle in her eyes, and she’s not sure if she’s crying for herself or for Logan. “I could never get bored of you.”
Logan stops pacing. “Don’t love me, okay? I’m not worth it.”
She sees Logan through her tears, but she doesn’t see a callousfuckboy. No, she sees an eleven-year-old girl with bruised knees who just lost her mom and blamed herself; she sees the little girl who didn’t understand her own brain, the girl who thought no one else would ever understand her brain either, the girl who pushed everyone else away. The girl who kissed her in the garden and pretended it didn’t matter because she was so afraid of rejection.
Hurt first, so she’ll never be hurt at all.
Leave first, so no one ever leaves her.
Careful, not careless.
“You are worth it to me,” Rosemary says with all the conviction she can muster. Logan’s warm legs under the blankets, her loud laugh and her sharp eyes and the way she can completely envelop Rosemary in arms like Bubble Wrap, so nothing can ever hurt her. “And I won’t leave you. If you decide to stay.”
“I-I don’t want to leave you either,” Logan chokes out. “But… but I need a minute to think, okay?”
“Okay,” Rosemary says. And then Logan does leave.
Rosemary wakes up the next morning with her neck cricked against Joe’s shoulder, the imprint of his wool cardigan against her cheek.
Guillermo hasn’t arrived yet, but the kitchen smells like fresh coffee. “Hey,” a voice says, and Rosemary realizes there’s a hand on her shoulder. Logan is hunched over her, fully dressed. The world is still dark.
“There’s something I need to go take care of,” Logan explains in a whisper. “I’m going to leave for a little bit, but I’m notleaving.”
It’s four-thirty in the morning, and Rosemary doesn’t really understand, but she says okay.
Logan gives her shoulder a squeeze, then she bends lower and plants a kiss on Joe’s forehead. “Please don’t die while I’m gone, old man.”
Joe grumbles in his sleep, like he does understand.
Chapter Thirty-Five
LOGAN
She leaves the cottage before sunrise, and she’s already on her third Dunkin’ coffee when she enters the White Mountain National Forest. She drives too fast on the twisty, tree-lined highway, fueled by iced coffee and misplaced hope.
She’s not even sure what she’s hoping for, but her racing middle-of-the-night thoughts convinced her she will find the answers in Vermont.
It’s just her and Van Morrison and the pressing need to push forward, to understand a piece of herself that doesn’t make any sense. The piece of herself that’s so afraid tofeel. The piece of herself that’s so afraid to be loved.
