“Good girl.” He kisses the top of my head, then releases me. “Why don’t you go clean yourself up? We’ll order takeout. Celebrate my birthday a couple of days early.”
I nod and turn toward the bathroom, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my side.
Once inside, I close the door and lock it. My hands grip the edge of the sink as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is blotchy and tearstained. There’s a welt forming next to my eye. I don’t remember hitting it, but it all happened so fast. My hair is a mess. And beneath my shirt, I know there will be bruises. Everything will feel worse tomorrow after the adrenaline wears off.
I lift my shirt carefully and wince. The skin along my ribs is already darkening, an angry red that will turn purple by morning.
I lower my shirt and press my palms flat against the cool porcelain of the sink. More tears come, though I try to keep the sobs at bay. Each breath and movement sends a sharp stab through my ribs. I lift my head slowly and force myself to look in the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger.
My lips tremble despite my best efforts to hold myself together.
I’m so pathetic. How did I get here?
I feel like I’ve been fighting my entire life—fighting to survive the foster system, fighting to get through school, fighting to make something of myself—and I can’t seem to win. Not once. Not ever.
Sometimes I have to wonder why I even try.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, cold and familiar. It’s not the first time I’ve asked myself this question. It won’t be the last.
I press my palms flat against the edge of the sink, gripping hard enough that my knuckles turn white. The coolness of the porcelain grounds me and keeps me from spiraling completely.
There was a time when I believed things would get better. That if I just worked hard enough, stayed quiet enough, made myself small enough, I’d finally be safe. I’d finally be loved.
But Preston doesn’t love me.
And I don’t think he ever did.
I close my eyes, and for just a moment, I let myself imagine something different. A life where I’m not afraid. Where I wake up without checking the expression on someone’s face to gauge what kind of day it’s going to be. Where bruises aren’t something I have to explain away or hide beneath long sleeves.
A life when someone looks at me the way Logan does—like I’m someone worth knowing.
But that’s not real.
It’s a fantasy. A daydream that only makes the reality hurt more.
I open my eyes and stare at my reflection again.
“You’re fine,” I whisper to the broken woman in the mirror. “You’re fine.”
If I say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
LOGAN
The first day back in the gym after vacation is brutal. My body protests every movement. It’s detoxing from days of eating garbage and consuming more sugar than any human should. Those fruity drinks were heaven. In fact, I’d go as far as saying they made the entire trip worth it.
Here in Michigan, I don’t normally order fruity beverages because, well, I’m a guy. But when in Fiji, do as the Fijians—or the tourists—do, I guess. I’m going to be dreaming about that pineapple mango one for weeks. Regardless of how delicious it was, I can’t even imagine how much sugar each one contained, and I lost count of how many I drank.
The trip turned out to be a good time. I love hanging out with the guys on the team. I love eating even subpar food. And, as we’ve established, tropical fruity drinks are now my thing. The water was stunning. The beaches and palm trees were gorgeous. I really can’t complain.
But I’m glad to be back home.
And yes, I can’t wait to see her.
