“Yeah, but he also listens. That’s new.” Logan’s grin turns sly. “Maybe he just likes you.”
My face heats before I can stop it. “He’s my patient.”
“Didn’t say he wasn’t.” But he’s watching me now with an expression that’s a little too knowing for comfort. “Relax, Tori.I’m just messing with you. Bish is... he’s a good guy, under all the grumpy. He’s just been through a lot.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Logan’s voice softens slightly. “Because a lot of people don’t bother to find out. They see the reputation, buy into the rumors, and they think they know the whole story. But that’s not him. That’s never been him.”
I think about Winnie’s warnings. About all the reasons I have to be careful.
Then I think about Zayden in the hallway, looking wrecked over a phone call about his daughter.
“I know it’s not,” I say quietly.
Logan nods, seemingly satisfied. “Good. Then we’re cool.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pretend to do cardio for thirty minutes so Coach doesn’t murder me.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. I’ll need it.” He heads for the door, then pauses, looking back. “Hey, Tori?”
“Yeah?”
“For what it’s worth? I think you’re good for him. Whatever this is.” He waves vaguely between us—meaning me and the absent Zayden, I assume. “I’ve known Bish for two years. He doesn’t let people in. Like, ever. But with you...” He shrugs. “I don’t know. He seems lighter or something. Less like he’s carrying the whole world.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me alone in the weight room with Taylor Swift still thumping through thespeakers and my heart doing something complicated in my chest.
He seems lighter.
I check the clock. 7:58.
Time to go put my hands on a man I definitely don’t have feelings for and pretend everything is normal.
This should be fun.
10
PURPLE DRESS
Zayden
Sienna is late.
Not by much—fifteen minutes—but Maisie has been standing by the window for the past hour, watching every car that passes as if it might be the one. She’s wearing the purple dress she picked out herself, the one with the sparkles on the sleeves, and she brushed her hair herself this morning, even though it took her twenty minutes and the part is crooked.
She wanted to look pretty for her mom.
I wanted to cancel this whole thing. I’m pretending to read the newspaper at the kitchen table, but the words blur together. I haven’t turned a page in twenty minutes.
“She’s here!” Maisie’s voice is bright and hopeful, and it hits me right in the chest. She’s already running for the door before I can say anything, and I follow, bracing myself for whatever version of Sienna is about to walk into our lives.
The answer: Instagram Sienna.
She steps out of an Uber looking like she’s about to walk a red carpet. Hair perfectly styled, makeup flawless, outfit probably straight from her latest haul video—looking like she spent more time getting ready than she will spend here with Maisie today.She’s holding her phone in one hand—already filming, I realize—and she crouches down as Maisie runs toward her.
“There’s my baby girl!”
The hug looks good. It’ll look great on camera, actually—the loving mother reuniting with her daughter, sunlight catching the tears in her eyes. Except I know those aren’t real tears. And I know that Maisie’s arms around her neck are stiff and uncertain, like she’s not quite sure this is allowed.
