“Let me answer it, okay? He will just keep calling, and this way I can get you some answers, yeah?” Nodding, I sit back on the couch, pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them. Logan rests his hand on my foot and gives it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.
“Hello,” he answers and switches it to speaker phone. Gone is the soft voice he uses with me. Instead, he sounds harsh and angry.
“Logan, is Hannah with you?” I hear my father’s pained voice over the line. It sounds like he is in his car.
“Yeah, she is.” Logan raises his eyebrows, silently asking me what he should do. I shake my head vigorously in reply. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, sir.”
“So, she has seen the posts then?” My father sighs heavily. “I’m so sorry this is happening, Logan.”
Seriously, why the fuck is he apologizing to Logan? He should be on his knees begging my mother for forgiveness right now.
“We have,” he responds curtly, adjusting his position so he can pull me close.
“I’m sorry to ask you this, son, but can you please bring her home? I’m sure she has questions, and I want to answer all of them, but not over the phone and not by text. I’m on my way back home now. Hannah, honey, I know you are listening. I know you don’t want to, but will you please come home so we can talk?” I nod at Logan, agreeing silently to my father’s request. I need to go. I need answers, and I need to see my mother as soon as possible. This is so fucking bad.
“We will leave soon,” Logan confirms.
“Thank you. Drive safe – it’s starting to snow here.” I look out the window and notice that the snow has started falling here as well since we fell asleep. He clears his throat, emotion thick in his voice, and he continues, “I love you, honey. It’s going to be okay, I promise,” he says before the call disconnects.
How? How does he possibly think any of this is okay? My mom doesn’t spend much time on social media, but there is no way this information hasn’t reached her yet. I just pray she didn’t see the pictures. Her mental health isn’t fabulous, and this is going to be absolutely devastating to her.
Chapter Two
Logan and I quickly and quietly pack our overnight bags. I think we are both in shock. What do I even bring home to a “sorry I’m having an affair” visit? I throw in a couple of changes of underwear, socks, and comfy clothes and zip up the bag. Logan grabs our toiletries from the bathroom and puts them in his backpack. We have school tomorrow, but there is no way we will get back in time for classes. Emerley is a two-hour drive north and with the snowy weather probably longer. I take one last look around and make sure I have everything I need. Logan slips his arms around my waist and pulls me in for a hug.
“Are you okay?” he asks gently.
“Nope. Not even a little bit,” I say, resting my forehead to his chest.
“I’ve got you. Whatever you need, okay?” He bends down and kisses the top of my head.
“I know.” Looking up into his brown eyes, I ask, “Have I told you how much I love you today?” Logan is my person. Always has been. Always will be. I can’t imagine my life without him.
“You showed me earlier,” he smirks down at me trying to lighten my heavy feelings, “but I’m not sure you have actually told me, though.”
I playfully pinch his side. “I love you, Logan James. You are my favourite.”
He smiles softly as he pushes my hair behind my ear. “And I love you endlessly, Hannah Knight. You are my favourite. We will figure this shit out together, okay? I’ve got you,” he repeats.
“Thank you.” Standing on my tiptoes, I place my hands on his chest and gently kiss his lips. Turning, I reach into the closet and grab Logan’s winter coat and boots and hand them to him, then pull on my own down coat, boots, and toque. I will be so glad when this winter is over, I’m sick of the endless cold and snow. “I’m ready when you are.”
Outside, he opens the door to his red 2004 Silverado and helps me get in. His truck is old, but he takes great care of it. The four-wheel drive will be much safer than my small Kia. Taking his keys, I start the truck, to give it a chance to warm up. He takes a few minutes to brush the snow off the windshield and hood, then climbs into the cab. He looks over at me as he raises the console of the split bench seat. “Slide over, I don’t want you so far away from me.” I scooch towards him, and he helps me buckle up. I lay my head on his shoulder and after putting the truck in gear, he places his right hand on my thigh and squeezes a couple times reassuringly.
The winter sky is darkening and it’s getting colder as the snow continues to fall. I think February is the worse month of the year, because it’s so grey and dreary. But this is pretty; it looks like we are in a winter wonderland. I wish I could appreciate it.
I’m grateful when Logan suggests stopping for coffee before we leave the city. I haven't eaten anything since mid-morning. I can’t even think about food right now. I’m hoping the caffeine will help me ward off the dull ache in my head. Logan got me a bagel and cream cheese and a donut just in case I change my mind. He has the heat cranked up high and the volume of theradio low. The snow is coming down heavily, but he’s a confident driver so I’m not worried. At least not about that.
He keeps the conversation flowing as busy highways turn into quiet, winding country roads. The topics stay light as he tries to distract me from my intrusive thoughts. Tales about classmates in his third-year economics program. Hometown gossip he heard from our friend Riot. Let's face it, there is always gossip and now my family has been thrown into the centre of the rumor mill.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper over the sound of the windshield wipers when there is a lull in the conversation.
“Talk to me, baby. What are you afraid of?” He glances down at me before putting his eyes back on the slippery road.
“I don’t know what we are walking into. I’m worried about Mom and how she is going to handle this. Do you think he has already told her or is he waiting for us?” Taking a deep breath, I confess my biggest fear. “What if he leaves her?”
My mom was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when I was a little girl. The doctors initially thought she was experiencing postpartum depression, but as more symptoms presented and stayed, they altered her diagnosis and treatment plan. Finding the correct medication has been an ongoing nightmare for her. I’m terrified she won’t be able to manage this level of stress and betrayal.
Taking his hand off the wheel, he lightly squeezes my knee. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I wish I had answers for you.”
