Chapter 11

11

Amanda

Trying to maneuver a two-hundred-pound man-child is tough on any day. Trying to maneuver a two-hundred-pound drunk man-child is almost impossible.

“I can walk,” Logan slurs.

“I know, baby.” He can walk, just not necessarily in a straight line.

I throw the towel over my shoulder and guide him toward the door with my arm around his waist.

“Why do you have a towel?” he asks.

“You’ll see.”

I open the door, and come face to face with Heidi and Roman, who are holding hands.

Logan chuckles. “Nice,” he says, hand up to high-five Roman.

I push his arm down at the same time Heidi and Roman release each other. “Excuse him,” I say, moving us to the side so they can step in. The cool air hits my cheeks the moment we step out, closing the door behind us. Then I “help” Logan down the steps and toward the side of the house.

“It’s fucking cold,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?” I pick up the hose, aim right for his face. “You’re about to get a hell of a lot colder.” Then I pull the trigger.

“What the fuck, Amanda!” he grunts, his hands out, trying to block the stream.

I release the trigger, tell him, “I’m cleaning you up!” Physically, sure, but hopefully a little emotionally, too. It’s obvious he’s been deep in his feelings tonight, and I can’t blame him. I’ve been the same way. The difference? He’s trying to heal through alcohol. Each new beer is like applying another internal Band-Aid. Soon, that’s all he’ll be—a man made of Band-Aids who never actually heals. “Just stay still, okay?” I tell him, my tone much more soothing. I guide his head lower so I can get a better look at the mess in his hair.

Logan doesn’t argue. He just does as I ask, wincing from the icy temperature of the water. His teeth chatter, his entire body overcome with shivers. I work as quickly as possible, then drop the hose and cover his head with the towel to keep him warm. After taking his hand, I lead him toward our car. “Get in the back.”

Logan faces me, his smile wide, even when his eyes droop. He unzips his fly.

“No, baby.”

“Oh.”

Again, he does as I ask while I bring the car to life, put the heat on full blast. Then I get in the back, climb over him and straddle his lap.

He starts to unzip again. “Fuck yeah.”

I slap his hand away.

“Oh.”

As gently as I can, I dry his hair, hoping the warmth of the heater and the quiet around us create a sense of calm within him. He settles his hands on my thighs, and I listen intently to the way his breathing slows.

“That’s nice,” he hums. “ You’re nice.”

Done with his hair, I grasp his jaw, force him to look up. There are still remnants of egg and whatever other food he’s been attacked with tonight, and I use the edge of the towel to wipe off as much as I can. His gaze shifts from my eyes, to my nose, to my mouth, and back again, as if he’s searing my face into his memory. In the decade we’ve been together, he often looks at me that way, as if I’m going to up and vanish one day, and he’ll never see me again. Just to be clear, this man is my world.

My life.

My light.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” I finally admit.

“Who?” he asks, suddenly sitting taller. “Amanda, I’m drunk. I can’t be throwing blows with some random guy tonight. I’m going to get my ass kicked.”

I shake my head, crack the faintest of smiles. “I meant Micah, you idiot.”

“Oh.” His shoulders relax, and he rests the back of his head on the seat. “Well, I don’t want to throw blows with him.” His eyes drift shut, and I know what I’m thinking, but Logan—he says it out loud. “He’s had enough of that already.”

“Do you know who did that to him?” I’ve been thinking about it all night, but I couldn’t find the right time to ask.

“His dad.”

My stomach drops. “Where was his mom?”

Logan heaves out a breath before answering, “I suspect six feet underground, considering she’s dead.”

“And the rest of his family?”

He adjusts both of us until he’s more comfortable, a clear sign that he’s ready to talk. He may not be in the right state of mind for this conversation, but I’ll take what I can. For now. “The social worker has only been in once to see him. She says she and the cops are trying to find a next of kin, but… it’s not looking good.”

I set the towel aside and place my hand on his chest, right above his heart. He covers my hand with his, the other going to my face, stroking my cheek with his thumb. He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me, those sad, solemn eyes making me weak. I ask, “What happens once he’s better? Where does he go?”

Logan shrugs, dropping his hands to his sides. “Probably a group home.”

I suspected as much, but still… “That doesn’t seem right.”

“That’s life, babe.”

“So you’ve said,” I whine, my tone harsher than expected. “And you said there’s nothing more we can do.”

“There isn’t,” he deadpans.

“Who says?”

“Reality says.”

“Why can’t he come home with us?” The words are out before I can catch them, but Logan doesn’t seem at all surprised by them, as if maybe… maybe he’s been thinking the same.

“As much as I love you for thinking of that, and as much as I want to, I’m still doing my residency, and you have clients who need you. The timing?—”

“Why can’t he be my client?” I cut in.

“He can, but that’s all he can be.”

Tears well in my eyes, and Logan looks away. He can’t stand to see me hurt as much as I can’t stand to think what Micah’s future might be like if we don’t do something about it.

Logan adds, still refusing to look at me, “It’s not as if we can just sign him out of the hospital and bring him home with us. I’m pretty sure we’d need to be screened by?—”

“We would,” I inform. I’ve dealt with this side of things before with clients of mine. “We’d have to qualify to be foster parents.”

“We live with my dad, Amanda. And on paper, we’re just a couple in our late twenties. We’re not married. We’re not even engaged. Those are things that could disqualify us.”

“You’ve thought about it a lot, haven’t you?”

“Of course I’ve thought about it,” he admits. “But that’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him earlier? Why didn’t you come to me?”

“What was I supposed to say? There’s this beaten kid at the hospital and he reminds me of me, and I want to take care of him?”

“Exactly that!” I almost cry. Almost . Because I didn’t just see Micah lying in that hospital bed. I saw Logan, too . I saw them hurt and alone and desperate for someone to love them and care for them the way they deserve. “Logan, we’re a team. What matters to you, matters to me.”

“Amanda,” he sighs, his eyes meeting mine. He’s quick to wipe the tears that cling to my lashes. “It’s a lot. We know nothing about him. What if he has developmental or behavioral issues? The hours I’ve spent with him in the hospital might differ completely from what he’s like every day.”

“And that means he deserves less?”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

It takes him a moment to answer, and when he does, the ache in my chest only amplifies. “What if we can’t fix him?”

“But what if we can?”

“I can’t be home for him twenty-four-seven,” he utters.

“But I can,” I assure, and I realize I’m pushing the subject harder than I should, especially in the state that he’s in, but I can’t seem to help it. “I’ll change the appointments for my clients when you’re home. I’ll work around your schedule. That way, he’ll have someone with him all the time. You can help him physically, and I can help him emotionally. We’re exactly who he needs right now.” And I don’t understand how he can’t see that.

“For how long?” he’s quick to say. “And when our time’s up or they find a family member, what happens to him? Do we just let him go? Is he going to feel unwanted again? And how are we supposed to go on being responsible for him feeling that way?”

It’s clear now that Logan hasn’t just “thought about it” in passing. He’s thought about every aspect of it. Aspects I haven’t even begun to explore. “I think…” I swallow the knot in my throat, trying to see things from his perspective, but every time I try, all I can picture is Micah in that bed. And then Micah is replaced by the many, many other kids in the same situation.

“You think what?” Logan asks.

Shaking my head, I heave out a breath. “I think this is one of those times where we need to put his safety and feelings before our fears.”

For a long moment, he does nothing but search my eyes, as if hoping to find the answers to the many unspoken questions infiltrating his mind. He starts to speak, then hesitates, before dropping his gaze between us. “I worry you would only be doing this for me,” he murmurs. “And that something might happen to make you regret this decision, and I’ll be at fault.” He holds me to him, his embrace gentle yet firm. “I don’t want to lose you, Amanda. I can’t . Not again.”

“That won’t happen,” I try to assure, but I know it means little right now.

“You don’t know that.” His hold on me loosens, and I pull back so I can watch the million emotions cross his face. “You don’t know how messed up I was when my dad found me. You don’t know how hard he worked to get me to—” A quiet sob breaks through his strength, and I’m quick to wrap my arms around him. He buries his face in my neck, saying, “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Okay.” I lace my fingers through his hair, attempting to soothe the parts of him I can’t cure. Not with a Band-Aid. Not with my words. Not even with my presence. “We won’t do this now, but soon, okay?

“Okay.”

For seconds that could be minutes, or minutes that could be hours, we stay exactly how we are. I listen as his breaths slow to a calm and mine do the same, until eventually, our hearts beat as one again.

He pulls away, the back of his head hitting the seat. Then he’s searching the darkness around us. Eyes narrowed, he leans forward, looking out the window. “Dylan and Riley were still inside when we left, right?”

I tilt my head, trying to recall. “Yeah.”

“And nobody took off while we’ve been in the car?”

“No.” I look out the window, trying to see what he sees. “Why?”

“Where the fuck is his truck?” He faces me, a mixture of confusion and intoxication swirling in his eyes. And then he busts out a laugh. This joyful, beautiful sound that I’ve missed all night.

It takes a moment for my mind to catch up to his, for clarity to hit. “He’s going to be so pissed,” I laugh out.

“He’s been on edge all night. Jumping at every sound,” Logan chuckles, opening the door. “We have to stay to see his reaction.”

We’re still laughing as we make our way back to the cabin. The second we open the door: eggs. Multiple. Right at Logan’s face.

He freezes beside me, his eyes closed, his nose flaring with every harsh exhale. Our friends stifle their chuckles, but I already sense what’s going to happen before Logan makes his first move. He smiles, wiping the egg off his eyes. “You motherfuckers,” he deadpans, and then he charges forward. All the boys—aka the culprits—run in the same direction, into the living room, shoving each other out of the way, or in Cameron’s case, backward and directly into the path of Logan. Logan takes his chance, jumps on his back, until they’re both on the floor, wrestling.

“Get him good, baby,” I call, moving to the couch for front-row seats.

The boys are yelling now, telling each of them what moves to make, as if any of them have a single clue. Then Cam suddenly gets a burst of strength to push Logan onto his back. Meanwhile, Lucy sidles up to me, grasping a bottle of wine. She parks her tiny ass right on my lap, saying, “This is very erotic.” A sip and a hiccup later, she adds, “I’m getting turned on.”

I giggle, hugging her closer.

“Go, Logan!” Lucy shouts, lifting the bottle like a trophy.

Cam sits up, looks at her. “The fuck?”

Logan takes the opportunity to roll out from beneath him, and I catch a glimpse of something on the floor next to him. My eyes narrow, physically zooming in on it, and when I realize what it is, I let out a gasp. I stand, effectively dropping Lucy to the floor with a thud. I offer a half-hearted apology as I take the few steps toward the object, now sparkling under the ceiling light. Slowly, carefully, I pick up the gold band, the diamond setting brilliant and… huge.

“Shit,” Logan mutters, and I snap my eyes to his. He’s sitting up now, his knees raised, arms resting on them. Head between his shoulders, he shakes it slowly. “Amanda…”

I feel like I should be elated or in a daze of some sort, but I’m more curious than anything. “Did this fall out of your pocket?” I ask, because I highly doubt Cam has a use for it. Lucy’s ring is her mother’s. She’d never replace it.

Logan looks around as he releases a sigh. “Yes, but it’s not for you, baby.”

The room is silent. If the house had a clock, its ticking would be the only sound you could hear.

“I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. He doesn’t need to be sorry. We’ve spoken about marriage. We agreed to wait until his residency was over, and we were both in a position to plan the rest of our future together. We’re not there yet. But if he has the ring, and it’s not meant for me, then… “Who’s it for then?”

Mikayla steps forward, taking the ring from me. “It’s mine.”