His voice is back to being neutral, but I almost prefer that anger to the weariness and the worry.
“Well, Dolores went around… she found someone…” I rest my head against the frame of the door. “She found someone whobought one of my paintings for eighty dollars.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know… someone!”
My own anger is back, but it’s a different kind than before. I hate the way he’s shutting me out, the way I’m at a loss to grasp the situation.
“Where? In town?”
“Uhm…”
“Not in town, Lia?” he insists. “She sold it somewhere else?”
“She sold it… inatown…” I hedge.
He blinks rapidly. “She knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the safety perimeter. It was clearly defined. Why would she have left it?”
“She… I…” It’s a struggle to swallow, my mouth is so dry. “We wanted to surprise you.”
“Right.” He passes a hand over his eyes, then straightens suddenly, as if he’s just thought of something. “The painting—what was it? Flowers, or some shit?”
The swallowing gets even harder, because although I can’t fully understand it, the gravity of my fuck-up is slowly dawning on me. “It was of… of… Aurora.”
There’s another heavy silence, as I stare at him helplessly, understanding at last.
I’d forgotten the danger. Two years of happiness had made me forget it.
“Please, Logan…” I whisper.
He doesn’t respond, instead pushing my foot inside the bedroom and locking the door.
I hear his footsteps grow dimmer as he walks away. Then I collapse on the floor, succumbing to violent sobs.
Only now, the only person I’m furious at is me.
Can he ever forgive me? CanI?
38
Logan
It’sokay. It’s okay. It’s okay.
I repeat the words like a prayer, sucking air in and out of my nose.
It’s my fault, all my fault.
I’m back to being fifteen years old, imagining myself on my knees before the girl I’m hopelessly in love with, blaming myself for everything she’s done wrong.
My fault.
I should have kept a better watch on her. She was miserable, she wanted freedom—my fault. I should have done a better job of making her forget her cage. I should have shown her more love. I shouldn’t have spoken about the present. Who the fuck cares about a present anyway?
She couldn’t have risked so much just to buy me a present, could she?
I lock myself in the kitchen, my heart swelling and my chest tight with pain when I take in the balloons, the cake, the painted banner. There’s a likeness of me on one side, and if I weren’t so scared right now, I would laugh. It looks terrible.
