Page 27 of Forgiving Utah

That sentence cleaves through everything left inside of me, piercing right to the bone. All I can do is stare at him and shiver so violently that my teeth chatter.

Both? He wanted to have his fucking cake and eat it too? Bullshit. I was fighting for his attention the entire tour last year, and all he wanted was Salem—even when she wanted nothing to do with him. Then the guy almost fucking dies, and who was the one there for him when he woke up? Sure as hell wasn't his so-called wife.

With a huff, he stands and disappears into the kitchen. Cupboards close, the sink turns on and off, then he comes back with a glass of ice water.

“Sit up,” he says gently, offering me the drink.

“I don’t want—” My stomach roils mid-sentence. I slap a hand over my mouth, breathing through the bile clawing up my throat. Fucking humiliating.

“You’re detoxing,” he scowls. “Dev, this isn’t safe.”

“No shit.” I let out a humorless laugh, snatching the glass before chugging it down. Sweat beads along my hairline. “Told you to leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving.” He kneels beside me again with a glare. “You need help.”

“I need a fucking line. Go play house with your perfect partners and let me die in peace.”

“You think any of this is perfect?” Logan’s lip curls over his teeth. “You think it was easy letting you go after the hundredth missed call? Wondering where the fuck you disappeared to? Mom and Dad have been worried sick about you, Dev.”

I roll my eyes to hide how much they sting, heart thrashing in my chest. “Should’ve been easy,” I mutter. “I made it easy.”

The words I spat at him last year before I ran away assault my memory.

“You know, it’s almost poetic. You spent your whole life pretending to be someone you’re not… and now you’re running after the person who only loved that fake version of you.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly, gaze still on my face. “You did. But I still wanted you.”

Wanted.

“Don’t say shit like that,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “Don’t… fuck, Logan. Don’t.”

“Dev. Please.”

That word. Fuck that word. “Just leave.”

“No.”

It’s quiet and simple. He takes the glass and sets it on the coffee table before putting a hand on my shoulder. I close my eyes because if I look at him, I’ll break. My throat burns.

“Logan…” It’s barely a whisper. Barely anything at all. The tremor in it humiliates me.

“It’s okay,” he says, brushing damp hair off my forehead. “Let me help.”

Fuck, I hate him for being here right now. I hate myself for wanting him to stay, but I don’t have the strength to push him away again.

When I open my eyes, we stare at each other for a minute, heavy emotion flickering in his eyes—an apology, maybe, or just acceptance for what happened between us. Where we are in life, all the vitriol I spewed last summer. Maybe the fact that we almost died together, which I never really gave myself time to process.

He opens his mouth, no doubt about to say something that'll rip my chest open again…

When the front door slams open so hard it nearly cracks the drywall behind it.

Christian storms in, looking pissed, his hair loose and wild around his shoulders. He never came home after walking away last night.

His gaze darts from Logan’s hand on my shoulder to the sweat on my face, and something ugly flashes across his features. “Get up,” he barks, the smell of liquor heavy on his breath. “You’re going to work.”

I blink at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You owe me money, motherfucker, and I got you a job at The Prospector. So get up.”