“Oh? Is this inconvenient for you, then?”
Sarcasm drips from his words, but yes, it is. I feel so painfully vulnerable right now. If anything, it’s terrible luck that he was able to immediately come to my adopted city. “I just think it would be better if we do this through lawyers.”
“Do what?”
I know what I have to say, but I can’t make myself say it out loud—get an annulment, undo the marriage, pretend it never happened.
This is a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. And I don’t want—no, I cannot let it be a nightmare. What I want has nothing to do with what I need to do here.
“I’m going to get some water,” I mutter.
He follows me to the little kitchen at the back of the house. “Your roommates seem fun.”
I yank a glass off the shelf, my hand shaking. “They’re my best friends.”
“Did you tell them that you got married?”
“Of course not. That’s not real,” I say sharply. “It was a mistake. A drunken, impulsive mistake that we’re going to fix, and then we can both move on with our lives.”
I cross to the fridge and focus on filling the glass with water.
When he doesn’t respond, I’m forced to turn around.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can’t read. The anger from earlier has banked into something else. Something that looks almost like... hurt?
No. I’m imagining things.
“Is that really what you think?” he asks softly. “This was a mistake we need to fix?”
“I know it was a mistake. I know we need to fix it.” I cross my arms to mirror his posture, defensive. “But it doesn’t need to be adversarial. You show up at my house, clearly angry?—”
“I’m not angry that we got married, Francesca.”
Oh.
“I was angry that you left.” He pushes off the doorframe, taking a step closer. “And I don’t love you assuming I want an annulment without even talking to me first.”
He cuts himself off as we hear the front door swing open.
They must have sprinted to the store and back.
“We’re back,” Sloane calls out, a little too loudly, as if she thinks that she might find us half naked.
Which is ridiculous.
“In the kitchen,” I call back.
My voice shakes, too, and Logan’s gaze snaps to my face.
“I’m not angry with you,” he says softly. “It’s going to be okay.”
That doesn’t do anything to ease my inner turmoil as my roommates come in, Liz carrying a brown paper bag, Sloane waving a six-pack of beer.
“We’re back with supplies.” Liz sets the bag down and wiggles her fingers at Sloane, asking for a beer.
Both of them immediately hunker down.
“So, Logan,” Liz asks. “What brings you to LA?”
