24
Bellini
When I got home, I wrapped myself up in a second coat and headed out to our back deck to stare at the Swan Mountains. They were hiding themselves in the darkness. Inside our home, the lights of our three Christmas trees shone in the darkness.
The kisses with Logan had been spectacular. I’d almost lost control of myself. I was surprised I hadn’t yanked him underneath the town’s Christmas tree and straddled those hips to show him how much I missed him. I should award myself a badge. The badge could read, “She Controlled Herself Around Logan for Once.”
Logan was a true man. Strong. Measured. Protective. Tough. Decisive. Smart. Serious. He was playful, too, flirty. Loyal. Funny. Confident enough to support his wife in whatever she wanted to do and be.
I needed to stay away from him. Not only for me, but for him, too. He did not need me to mess up his life again. I’d broken up with him with a ridiculous excuse that he never bought. I could not make love to him…and then leave him.
Again.
When I was younger, I’d thought we’d be married by now. We’d have a house on his mother’s land, the land Logan so loved, away from his father. We’d have a bunch of kids. He would be an architect, and I’d write children’s books. We would have a wild sex life and a huge bed with a canopy, and we’d put the kids to bed early every night so we could take a tumble together.
I knew I wouldn’t marry again, and I wouldn’t have children. I tried not to let that sad, bitter realization knock me off my feet.
Bells.
I heard bells. Jingle bells. Then I heard the first lines of “Jingle Bells” until it faded into the trees, the words swirling up toward the top of the mountains.
This did not make sense. There was no one outside ringing jingle bells. I was exhausted, that was all it was. I did not hear “Jingle Bells,” did I?
I noticed there was a piece of lettuce in the middle of the kitchen table. My mother had written a note.
It said, “Well done, warrior.”
25
Bellini
Logan’s mother died when he was fourteen years old. We had already started “officially” dating as boyfriend and girlfriend, to no one’s surprise. We took it slow. A kiss here and there, more kisses here and there, and, well, things heated up over the months and years. We were best friends, had been best friends since kindergarten, and this new turn in our relationship was exciting and passionate, as one would expect with two in-love and in-lust teenagers.
And then Logan’s mother slammed into a tree while skiing. Laina had been skiing with friends and my aunt Minie. Her death was instant. Minie was inconsolable, as we all were, but she’d seen it happen. She told me recently that she’s never gotten over losing Laina.
Logan’s father came to school to get him. Logan and I were in history class, sharing one book, reading through information on the Civil War. Beck, Colt, Jaxi, and Helena were nearby. All the sudden, his dad was at the classroom door, towering, hard, harsh. Drake was pale and said, “Let’s go, Logan,” and out Logan went, shocked his dad was at school.
Laina was so gentle and sweet. She was also a ton of fun, always laughing with Logan, although I noticed that she hardly laughed when Drake was around. She was silent, cowed, and avoided Drake like the plague. I would go to Logan’s house to play only if he told me his dad wasn’t there. Drake scared me, and I picked up on his corrupted personality. It was as if a streak of evil ran through him.
Laina’s death was devastating for Logan. At the funeral, I sat in the pew behind Logan with our friends, many of them my cousins.
Logan gave the eulogy. I helped him write it, though he kept crying when we were working and had to stop and take breaks. I kept crying, too, for Laina and for Logan’s grief. He talked about everything he and his mother did together on her land—they rode horses, cross-country skied, hiked, drove four-wheelers and tractors, and played with the dogs. They had cookouts and camped in tents on the back acres and swam in the lake. She painted pictures of their property.
Together, they grew a garden and planted fruit trees. He learned to love gardening from his mother. He learned to love nature. He learned all the names of the birds who crossed over their land or lived in the trees. He watched deer and elk and owls with his mother by his side. They watched sunsets and sunrises.
He talked about what a generous person she was, an excellent mother and friend, strong and resilient, loyal to him and to everyone she loved. She could paint and draw and cook and bake. She worked hard and brought sunshine to everyone.
The eulogy had everyone in tears. When he was done, he leaned over the pew and gave me a hug, and soon our friends were standing with us, a sad, tearful group hug.
I knew—our best friends knew—that whenever Drake was in a drunken, violent, or raving mood, Logan and his mother escaped to the land, riding horses, taking a run together through the valleys and meadows, taking the dogs on long walks while they talked and hid from Drake until he calmed down or passed out.
Laina’s death was a tragedy that would never leave Logan. At least he would still be able to see her on their property and visit her grave in the family graveyard nearer the mountains.
Logan hardly spoke or smiled for a year. I, and our friends, all understood. I hugged him, held his hand. He got no comfort from his father. Drake was still driving Logan way too hard, criticizing him, no matter how well he did in school, no matter how well he played in sports, no matter how much his coaches and teachers liked him. He played sports to stay away from home as long as possible and worked at the hardware store, where Mr. Tyson treated him like a son.
Everyone in town knew what had happened, and I saw so many people reaching out to Logan—teachers, coaches, the administration at our school, and Mrs. Kerns, who insisted that he keep dancing. “Dance for your mom, Logan,” she said. “And dance to fight the grief.”
We started playing chess more together. We did homework together. We read books together. We hiked across his property for hours and sat at the lake where he and his mom used to sit. We rode horses. I took his mom’s horse, Whitey. We stopped at their favorite places. We cried.
