It was a terrible idea since I had homework to do and didn’t have a stitch of clean laundry left in my bag.
Obviously, I said yes.
_____
I did eventually go home, and the following week was chaos. School. Work. By day, I had lectures, studio time, and meetings at the gallery. I finalized wall texts and refined the proposed student-programming schedule for submission to Douglas and the provincial grant committee.
By night, more often than not, I was at Logan’s. I told Jenna and Lindsey I had a group project. A late shift at the gallery. Over the weekend, I was staying at my parents’ to help with holiday baking.
But Jenna and Lindsey weren’t idiots. I was happier than I’d ever been, and they knew it wasn’t a paycheck or sugar cookie that made the difference.
I should have felt worse about the secret life I was leading, especially when I didn’t come clean with Maddie. I did feel guilt in flashes. But then Logan would open his door, hair damp from a shower, wearing sweats and a T-shirt, and everything else would go out the window.
On Sunday night, I lay in his arms, curled against his chest. He’d been quieter than usual, more intense.
“You played so well last night,” I murmured, dropping a kiss on his chest.
He blew out a breath. “My positioning was off.”
I traced a slow circle around his belly button. I didn’t argue. I’d learned not to try and make him feel better about something that frustrated him. Especially when it came to hockey.
Logan threaded his fingers in my hair. “My mom called this morning.”
I tilted my head to look at him. “Oh yeah?”
“She asked if we’d stayed in the same room in Banff.”
I snorted. “What did you say?”
“I said that was what Norman booked for us. She said . . . she was disappointed in my choices.”
I barked a laugh. “She’s disappointed?She’sdisappointed?”
Logan wasn’t laughing.
I pushed up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down my shoulder. “Logan, you have to call her out on this.”
Logan stared at the ceiling. “I grew up thinking they were the ideal. Perfect couple. Dad made the money, Mom stayed home and took me to the zoo, and art museums. She drove me to practices. They both came to all my games.”
I didn’t interrupt, not wanting to say anything that would spook him from continuing on. For all the vulnerable physical conversations we’d had, there were still a few topics Logan avoided like the plague. This was one of them.
“And now,” he said slowly, “I’m looking at them and realizing that for all I know they were faking it the whole time.”
I watched him, my heart aching. I didn’t have a single thing I could say to make this better. He’d used the word “fake,” and that immediately made me think of us. The past few days, I’d tried a couple of times to bring up the gallery opening and what we would look like after. In response, he joked around, teased that at least I wouldn’t be so desperate for sex like I thought.
All of it made me feel like my insides had been scooped out. He didn’t want to talk about his parents, and he didn’t want to talk about us. Which hadn’t been a problem until I started being honest with myself. About what I was feeling. What I wanted.
After a few moments, Logan rolled out of bed, grabbing his sweatpants from the floor. “I’m going to the gym.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “Is it open this late?”
“Yeah. For another two hours at least.”
“You have practice in the morning.”
“I know.”
“Logan—”
