“Seriously?” I say in surprise.
He scoots closer and slings his arm around me. “Kiddo, I don’t care what you do as long as you’re happy,” he says, echoing what Wyatt said when he asked me to go with him. “I think your mom would probably prefer if you graduated, though.”
“I will.”
“And this tour… You want to go?”
“I don’t know. Part of me does, but another part of me is scared.”
“Scared of what?”
My teeth dig into my bottom lip again. “That he doesn’t actually love me and that maybe someone like Mollie May makes more sense for him.”
Dad chuckles. “Sweet pea, life isn’t about what makes sense on paper. It’s about who makes you feel like breathing’s easier when they’re around.”
Tears sting my eyes. “I pushed him away after the hospital. Like, I’ve been so horrible to him, Dad. Partially because of hormones—Imean, I was a dick to everyone.”
He snickers. “Yeah, the hormone monster wasn’t fun. But we understood. And so does Wyatt.”
“But I kept pushing him away after the hormones settled,” I moan. “I was insecure, and I ruined everything.”
“So fix it.”
“Uh-huh. Because it’s that simple?”
“Of course it is. You want him back, you feel bad about how you treated him, then grovel.”
“Grovel,” I echo dubiously.
“Yes. Beg. Apologize. Tell him you messed up. Tell him you love him, because we both know you do. And then prove it to him.”
I let out a choked laugh. “Since when are you a romantic?”
“Since always. Ask your mom about the poem I wrote her once.”
“Bullshit.”
“Nope, I think she still has it in a scrapbook somewhere. It was beautiful.”
I narrow my eyes. “I believe you wrote the poem, but I donotbelieve it was beautiful. Also,why?”
He grins at me. “Because I messed up and had to humble myself to get her back. The reality is if you let a good thing walk away because you’re too proud to beg, you’re always going to regret it.”
“So…grovel,” I say slowly, testing out the word.
“Yes, sweet pea. Because you’re a Logan, and Logans grovel.”
Anxiety skitters through me. “You don’t think it’s too late?”
He shrugs. “Only one way to find out.”
Chapter 57
WYATT
I ADJUST MY HEADPHONES, TRYING to act like I’m not sweating under these lights. Or maybe it’s the pressure that’s making my collar damp. The radio studio is smaller than I expected. Dimly lit and soundproof, with a glowing, redON AIRsign flashing over the booth window. I don’t know how I let my manager convince me to do a live interview instead of a prerecorded podcast or something that could be edited in case I make a fool out of myself.
But no.Liveradio. Fucking hell. Kill me.
