“I think I could fly in for the weekend. That might be the right time to tell your parents. If you could get excused to stay at your parents’ house? And if, um…” She exhales, and I realize her fingers are shaking.
I open my eyes and look at her.
“If they wouldn’t mind me staying there with you?”
“They won’t mind at all.” I sit up quickly. “Yes, please come. They’re going to love you.”Because I love you.
Fuck.
Just say it, Logan.
The longer I wait to say it, the bigger it gets. But every time I think about saying the words, I remember that she needs to see it first. She won’t believe words, only actions. She's spent her whole life being told, in a thousand subtle ways, that she's too much or not enough. That her needs don't matter. That love is conditional.
So instead of saying I love you, I take her in my arms and hold her close enough that she can feel my heartbeat.
"My parents are going to adore you," I murmur into her hair. "And they're going to be thrilled that I found someone who makes me this happy."
Before the season is over, I'm going to make sure Frankie knows—deep in her bones—that she is loved. Completely, unconditionally, forever.
And then I'm going to say the words beating like a drum in my chest.
CHAPTER 46
FRANKIE
Logan's departure is harder than I expect.
I drive him to the airport early Sunday morning, and we sit in the car, neither of us wanting to say goodbye.
“I’ll see you in a month,” I promise. That’s the only way we’re going to get through this, if we find visits at least every four weeks. This week has shown me that’s my limit.
“And then I get to make out with you in my childhood bedroom,” he says, playing with my fingers. “A real treat for both of us.”
“Don’t make me laugh when I want to cry.”
“I have this fleece blanket that’s easily twenty-five years old…”
I start giggling.
He tugs me closer and brings my hand to his beard, his throat, the back of his neck. I hold on tight and he kisses me.
“What are you going to do for the rest of the day?”
“I have to make a plan for next week. And I might go the suture lab this afternoon.”
“Talk stitches to me, Dr. Francesca.”
I trace a scar on his cheek. “You’ve got lots of experience with them.”
“Maybe one day you’ll have to fix me up.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“Make me.”
Now it’s my turn to kiss him, and it’s hungry. Time is running out. Did we have enough sex? Did we see enough of LA to make a decision for a house when he’ll be far away?
When we break apart, it’s really time for him to go.
