A mistake.
Chapter thirty-six
Nothing beats a good shower sob
Lulu
The car ride home is mostly quiet, except for the wipers squeaking against the windshield and Zoe muttering curses at every red light.
“I’ve got tissues, chocolate, and a murder playlist,” she says, flicking her turn signal with unnecessary aggression. “Pick your poison.”
I stare out the window, the city lights smearing into watercolor. “Got anything for erasing the last three hours of my life?”
“Vodka,” she replies. “But it’s at home, not in the glovebox, so we’re already off to a disappointing start.”
A sound slips out of me—something halfway between a laugh and a sob. My voice feels shredded and my hands won’t stop shaking.
Zoe glances over, her expression softening. “He’s okay, Lu. Chase texted. They cleared him at the rink, he’s under observation for the night, and he’s already arguing about being benched. Typical Logan behavior.”
“Conscious,” I repeat. The word feels thin, like it could splinter if I breathe too hard.
By the time we pull into my driveway, my whole body hums with leftover adrenaline. Everything inside me is still caught in the noise and flashing lights of the arena.
Zoe kills the engine, but neither of us move.
“You gonna sit here till your showcase tomorrow?” she asks gently.
“Maybe.”
She reaches across and gives my knee a squeeze. “Come on. Shower. Tea. We’ll watch trash TV and pretend the male species is extinct.”
I open the door on autopilot, the cold air biting my face. My porch light’s still on, and for a second I think the house looks the same, as if nothing’s happened. Like I didn’t just watch the man I love get knocked unconscious and then have my brother try to murder him.
I’m halfway up the path when I notice movement next-door—curtains shifting in a warm yellow glow.
Betty’s face appears in the window, haloed by lamplight and lace curtains. Her brows lift, her mouth forming a small, worried 'O' as she takes one look at me. She disappears for a second, then her porch light flicks on and out she comes, wrapped in a floral quilted robe and fuzzy slippers, marching straight toward us.
Zoe exhales beside me. “Oh, good. Reinforcements.”
Betty doesn’t stop until she’s in front of me, eyes sweeping my face, cataloguing every reason to bake me something.
“Sugarplum,” she says softly, her voice rich with that no-nonsense affection that always undoes me. “You look like hell’s waiting room.”
I blink hard. “He got hit, Betty. And then—”
“Oh, I saw,” she says, lowering her voice. “Whole damn neighborhood heard me yelling. Poor Rat Daddy got carted off too, didn’t he? I nearly threw my wine at the TV when that Dallas goon went for him. I told myself if they don’t suspend him, I’ll drive down there and do it personally.”
Zoe snorts. “You’re a national treasure.”
Betty lifts her chin. “Darling, at my age, they can’t arrest me. It’s just calledconcerned citizen involvement.”
I force a small smile, the kind that hurts to hold.
Betty tips her head toward my door. “Inside, Sugarplum. You don’t need to be brave out here.”
Zoe reaches for my elbow. “And I need wine before we attempt feelings.”
The warmth of the house hits like a wave when we step inside. It smells faintly of vanilla and lemon cleaner, as if the morning never ended and the world didn’t just tilt on its axis.
