Page 108 of Under the Orchard’s Spell

When we finally pull apart, I register that he’s wearing something different: a dark jacket instead of Carhartt tan. A hoodie instead of one of his ubiquitous plaids.

At the tilt of my head, he lifts an arm, motioning downward. “Mason’s. He thought I needed a change.”

“It suits you,” I say.

What I mean is You do.

What I mean is You deserve to be happy.

“Thank you,” he says.

And I let myself hear: I’m finally starting to believe it, too.

“Have you decided where you’ll stop first?” I ask.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and squints at the window. “Seaside, I think. To see the Pacific Ocean.”

He deserves the ocean. He deserves the whole world.

“And then south?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t decided where exactly. It’s hypothetical on a screen. I think I have to experience it to know how I feel. What do you think?”

I look up at the beautiful man framed by my well-loved kitchen cabinets and force myself to picture him somewhere else. Cruising along the highway that rapunzels down the West Coast, his windows down, the din of wind and crashing waves flooding the cab. Pulling over at a scenic vista to squint at the sunset as he runs charcoal over a pad of paper. Wandering sandy beaches with his shoes off and jeans cuffed at the ankles.

Maybe these images don’t make perfect sense to me, but if they make sense to Logan, then that’s all that matters.

“I think I want you to be happy. Whatever that means to you.” I extend the travel mug so I don’t have to hold our eye contact. “Keep this. Use the handle, though.”

Our fingers touch as he takes the mug, and my chest seizes. I yank my hand away to keep myself from reaching for him, closing myself in his arms one more time. Instead, I wrap my arms around my waist, digging my fingernails into my sides.

Logan’s worried frown deepens. He cups my cheek with a tender, calloused hand and says, “I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“No amount of pain could erase what you’ve given me.”

“What was that?”

“The chance to feel safe enough to cry.”

He screws his eyes shut, lips pressed in his own pain.

My eyes won’t stop leaking.

“No,” I insist, brushing the tears back with fingertips before reaching out to lightly shake his wrist. “That’s a good thing.”

Logan cradles the back of my head with one hand and leans his forehead against mine. His breath is warm on my cheek, and I press a palm to his sternum. I can feel his heartbeat—hard, steady—in my fingertips. For a moment, I let myself relish the shape of him, the feverish heat that reminds me of a college kid’s basement. Mason’s bunk bed. My quilts. His cherry-red truck.

“Tell me again,” he says slowly, as a groan escapes with the last syllable. “Remind me why I’m leaving.”

I don’t need to think about this. “Because you deserve it. And because the longer you stay, the more it will hurt.”

He nods, eyes dull, mouth firm.

My heart thumps so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

Then Logan releases himself from my arms, moving toward the door.

I try to breathe around the shards of glass lodged in my lungs. This isn’t okay. Maybe it never will be. I’ll never fall for another man like I have for Logan. My home will never feel complete without him.