Mr. Wild had found Logan’s paintings. He’d seen them lying around before in the barn, but he’d never seen them while he was drunk.
And he was drunk that day. So drunk he swayed in front of Logan as he demanded that he tear his paintings in half right now or he’d whip him silly.
Logan said no. Mr. Wild said he would do it for him then, and he grabbed the first one in his hands. The paint hadn’t quite dried on the image of Logan and me sitting by the lake with the red sun lighting up the huge sky and Logan’s arm around me. We sat by the lake whenever we needed to get away from our families, whenever we needed space, and whenever we needed each other.
The canvas wouldn’t tear at first try.
But I screamed anyway. I ran down from the loft and shouted at his father to stop.
I needn’t have worried. Logan had already taken the first strike. He pushed his father backward just hard enough to get him to release the canvas in his hands. I picked up the painting and scurried off to safety behind the hay bails. But before Logan could step away, his father rose up, pulled his heavy crucifix off his neck and slapped Logan across the face with it.
I could hear the sound of metal on bone in my head for days.
Logan went to the ground, and blood was everywhere. Everywhere. His father knelt to the barn floor and wept, begging for his son to forgive him.
I stayed where I was and called 911.
And when Logan came home from the hospital with twenty stitches on his face, I brought him a present.
“The bull ring you got out of the gumball machine at the County Fair.” He winced as he grinned at me.
I looked back at him. “Because one day you’ll be the undisputed bull of your family, Logan, and you’ll never treat anyone the way your father treated all of y’all. You’ll be the best bull ever because of what you went through and how you learned to protect what you love.”
Logan pulled me close to him in a hug. “And you’re getting the painting of us by the lake,” he said into my ear. “For standing by me when my father tried to take it.”
“No,” I said firmly. “That painting should stay with you, Logan. I won’t accept it. Because it belongs to you.”
“Okay,” he said. “But someday, I’ll make it up to you.”
Two days after being stuck in a jail cell until he sobered up, Mr. Wild went off to rehab and was there for three months.
He never touched his lips to alcohol again.
And he never struck any of his sons again.
However, until this past spring when Logan drove out West, Mr. Wild kept fighting him to quit on his painting dream.
Remembering all this makes me realize: Logan never will quit on himself. So, maybe it’s time I stop thinking I need to protect him.
Maybe it’s time I let him go so he and Gigi can be happy together.
I refocus my eyes on the duplex and on Gigi in front of me. She’s holding my present. But she’s Logan’s future. I’m his past.
“Gigi,” I say quietly. “Why don’t you just take the quilt? Free of charge.”
I’d have thought I’d be upset, but I want to get away from her so badly I don’t much care at the moment. The pain will come later.
“Oh, thank you, Macey—you’re the bestest!” She leans in and kisses my cheek. Twice—both cheeks, even though I’d told her no before.
54
Gigi leaves my place with a huge smile on her face.
I wait until she’s gone before I slump down against my front door and call George.
He’s known me for years, and he kindly offers to stay at The Cowherd for the next couple of hours so I can take some time for myself. So I do.
My hands are shaking as I sink onto my couch and open up my diary. I have no idea what I’m looking for, but Ginny told me I needed to purge my past. And this is the only constructive thing I can come up with.
