Logan put his callused, sturdy hand to my cheek, and we looked at each other in silence before he said, “Don’t be scared, Mace. Everything will be okay. I promise.”
I got home a few hours later, and just as we pulled into our driveway, the rains came, and they made everything red.
It rained and rained and rained…for four days and four nights straight. The back roads overflowed, and the Jacksons and Coles had to go to a shelter for the week because their basements flooded. The creek was so swollen you couldn’t sit by it for a month. They compared the rain to blood here because if you tried to go to the river, the bank was so muddy when you walked everything turned nearly rust red.
Logan called it the blood of our ancestors, the sins of our parents being washed away. After what had happened to him in the barn a few months earlier, and now me, we were feeling pretty low.
When it finally stopped raining, Logan and I stood by the river for hours, our feet in the mud. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. He held me in his arms and said he wished we could lie down on the bank together.
Well, we didn’t lie down because I can’t imagine what would have happened if we had. I can’t help myself sometimes. I just want to touch Logan Wild all over.
I clear my throat and dare to raise my eyes to Logan’s.
His are so intensely focused on me that a throaty noise escapes my mouth.
Logan closes his eyes and when he re-opens them, there’s that neutral barrier that’s been between us since he came home engaged.
“Keep reading,” he encourages me. “You’re doing good.”
I force my eyes back down to the page.
But I’m only a kid, and I must be crazy or something because kids don’t know what they want. That’s what Mama tells me all the time, at least.
To commemorate our bad year—the year we both got branded with scars from our parents—Logan said we should get tattoos. He wanted us to re-brand ourselves with love instead of hate. Logan cried a little when we talked about his father. He turned away so I couldn’t see, but I did. I pretended I didn’t, though. Boys are funny that way. They hide their emotions, maybe because they’re scared.
I look back up at him. “I didn’t write your story in here. Just so you know. I didn’t feel like it was mine to tell.”
His eyes warm. “I appreciate that.”
“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t remember every single second of being in your barn and watching you take on your father to protect what was yours.” I touch his leg. “You were my hero that day. You kind of always have been.”
“Macey.” Logan chokes up, and his eyes—they’ve got this strange look in them. Like he’s keeping something from me.
I put down the diary. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He nods and points at the diary. “I’m fine. Keep reading.”
We walked into the new tattoo parlor on Main and decided on red raindrop tattoos. I got mine on my left breast, and Logan chose his right bicep. I felt so close to him.
“We’ll remember forever,” he said as he leaned in to give me a kiss.
Logan said he loved me for going under the needle with him. He claimed he didn’t know anyone else who would do that for him. Because no one else is as crazy as I am, I teased. I think he just said mushy things because he was emotional. But I loved him for it.
Okay. This is getting intense.
I dare to look up at Logan, whose eyes are on my face. We stare at each other for several heartbeats, with the only sound being the refrain of crickets and the occasional moo of one of his family’s cows in the background.
60
“That was easier,” I say in all honesty. “Reading it aloud like that. It was almost like we were back there again at the tattoo parlor. And that made the other part less painful.”
“The part at The Cowherd?” he asks me.
“Yeah.” I make a face. “You know I don’t like reminiscing too much.”
“Do you think this is necessary? To go back through all of it?”
“For some reason, I do.”
