Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

B eep—beep—beep . . .

For a few moments, time is distorted. Time folds back on itself.

For a moment, I am a nameless young woman lying in a hospital bed with no recollection of myself, my past, anything. I am nothing. No one.

But then I open my eyes, and everything floods through me. Caleb... Jakob. Logan.

The memory. My first full, clear, complete memory from before the accident.

You knew me, Caleb. You've known me this whole time. You let me believe I was nameless. But you knew? You KNEW?

I think I pass out again, because I feel myself waking up once more.

And this time, I am not alone.

"Miss de la Vega." Dr. Kalawat. "How are you feeling?"

I twist my head, see him standing beside my bed, reading a chart. "What happened?"

"You fainted, Miss de la Vega. You took a pretty nasty tumble, I'm afraid. Bumped your head rather badly, but nothing to worry about. Not even a concussion."

Casters rattle, and Dr. Kalawat is pressing a hand to my head, my cheek, feeling my pulse. Checking the dilation and focus of my eyes. I notice a round Band-Aid on my left arm, near my elbow.

"What's this?" I ask, pointing to it.

Dr. Kalawat glances. "Oh. We did a blood test."

I frown. "Why?"

Dr. Kalawat sets down the chart, crosses one knee over the other. "Mr. Ryder tells me you vomited, not long after we spoke."

"Yes. I was feeling queasy, after I saw you. It hit suddenly, and then passed. Why?"

"Might I ask you a rather personal question, Miss de la Vega?" This is rhetorical, as Dr. Kalawat continues without pausing to allow me an answer. "When was your last cycle, can you please tell me?"

I frown. "Um. My life has been rather chaotic lately, so—" Something cold and sharp hits me, flows through me. "Dr. Kalawat... what are you saying?"

A smile at me, kind, gentle. "I had thought you might be pregnant, but the test came back negative. Better to be sure, I think. Yes?"

"So I'm not?"

Dr. Kalawat tips his head side to side. "Well, I am not ruling it out. It may simply be too early to tell. If you are late to get your next cycle, or it doesn't come at all, then I would recommend taking a test, either at home or in an office." With sure, deft fingers, the doctor removes the monitor leads. "You may go. So far as I am able to determine at this time, you are perfectly healthy."

I get out of the bed. "Thank you, Doctor."

Another of those smiles. "It is my pleasure."

The door shuts with a soft click, and I am alone.

Pregnant? Please, no. No. There is no way.

But... my last cycle... I have to think hard. Before Logan gave me my name. Middle of the month, as it has always been, since my first period at twelve years old.

And today... what day is today? What is the date? I cannot remember. Am I late?

I stumble out of the room, to the nearest nurses' station. "Excuse me. What is the date?"

The nurse doesn't look up. "Thursday, August eleventh."

Not late, then. It usually comes middle of the second week of the month.

The relief is not as all-pervading as I would wish. Not as complete.

I find Logan's room. He is typing in his phone once again when I walk in. "Isabel! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I say. "Just bumped my head, that's all."

"You scared the shit out of me, Is. You just... fainted."

I perch on the edge of his bed. "There is a lot going on."

"Isabel." He touches my chin. "Don't hold out on me."

I sigh. "I remembered something. From before."

He lights up. "You did? What?"

"I knew Jakob. Or... Caleb. Whatever. I knew him. Before. I was in love with him, I think. I don't know how we met, just that I skipped school to go see him at a café somewhere. I wanted us to be together, but he—he turned me down, because I was only sixteen."

A long silence. "Holy shit."

"Yes. The implications are worrisome."

"I can see why you passed out." He tangles out fingers together. "He's been lying to you all this time, then."

"Yes. For a very long time, it would seem. He... he let me believe—he let me—" I can't finish it. I shake my head. "I can't. I can't. I can't think about it. I'll have a panic attack."

He pulls me against his chest. His heart thumps reassuringly under my ear. "Don't. We can talk it through later. Dr. Kalawat said I can go home tomorrow. Just give it some time, okay? It'll be okay. You'll be okay. I'll be okay. Everything's going to be fine."

Will it, though?

You are still out there. You haven't let me go. I don't think you can . And until you tell me the truth, I do not know if I can let you go either. If I am capable of just walking away without knowing the truth.

But will you ever tell me the truth? Can you? Are you capable of the truth?

I remember the look you gave me, when I said your name—when I said "Caleb" instead of "Jakob." If I had said the other name, what might have happened? What would you have said? Would you have stayed? Held me? Kissed me? Made love to me again?

Would I have wanted that? Would it have... changed things, somehow? I don't know. I don't know.

I feel sick all over again, because I know I have to tell Logan what happened. Or some of it, at least.

But not yet.

Not while he's still healing.

I cannot drive. Logan calls a car service when he is discharged, five days after the surgery. Walk beside his wheelchair as the nurse wheels him out. Hold his hand as he stands up. Lean into him, duck under his arm and press my cheek to his chest. Walk with him to the black sedan. He reaches for the roof, for balance. Misses.

"My depth perception is completely fucked," he grumbles under his breath. "Gonna take some adjusting." I slide my hand underneath his, guide his palm to the roof of the car, but he jerks his hand away. "Don't need fucking help."

I drop my hand and step back, stung by his outburst. "I'm sorry, Logan. I didn't mean—"

He leans against the door frame of the car, scrubs his hands through his hair, groaning. "No, Isabel, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for. I'm just—" He shakes his head, shrugs. "It's a lot to deal with."

"I get it," I say. "It's fine."

He shakes his head. "It's not fine. It's not fair for me to lash out at you. I'm just not used to needing help."

"And I'll be here to help you. Whatever you need." I offer him a smile, lean into him, wrap my arms around him.

He palms my back, plants a brief kiss to my lips, and then swings himself into the car gingerly, slowly. Slides across so I can get in. It is hard to look at him. Hard to see him thus, the pressure bandage wrapped around his head. Wounded. Vulnerable. Unsteady on his feet. Reaching for something and missing. Logan has always been so capable, so unflappable. But now he needs me, and I'll be there for him, as he has for me.

The drive to his brownstone is long and quiet. Serene. He holds my hand, stares out the window.

The driver turns onto Logan's street, and that's when Logan looks at me, a soft smile on his face. "I don't blame you," he says. "I hope you understand that."

"Well, I do. There's no one else to blame, Logan. Aside from Caleb, that is."

"Don't."

"But Logan, if it weren't for me—"

"Stop." It's an order. Quiet but sharp. "I knew going in that Caleb—Jakob, whatever the fuck his name is—I knew going in that's he's dangerous. I knew you were tangled up with him. I knew I was taking a risk letting myself get close to you. I took that risk eyes open, so this is on me. He's not a man who forgives, nor does he forget, and he certainly doesn't let go of what he considers his. So, this is on me. Okay?"

"You cannot just order me to not feel guilty and expect me to just... obey , Logan. I don't work that way." I shake my head. "And no, this isn't on you, or me, really. It's on Caleb. He shot you, intending to kill you. There's no excuse for that." I feel bile in my throat at the thought of what I did with Caleb, knowing all the while what he'd done.

"I know that. I just mean I understood the risk I was running dealing with Caleb. I'm not blaming myself, just saying, I can't say I didn't know."

"That's a meaningless distinction, Logan."

"Is it, though?" Logan questions. "I lost my eye. I want to be—I am —angry. I want fucking revenge, Isabel. I want to hunt that bastard down and gouge his goddamned eyes out. Now he's not only cost me five years in prison, but my eye, and nearly my life."

"That's totally understandable, Logan—" I start.

But he interrupts me. "I had five years in prison to think about revenge. I had almost a week on my back in the hospital to think about it again. Where is revenge going to get me? I hunt him down and kill him, or whatever. What does that make me? I've seen enough death in my life. Don't forget, I'm a combat veteran. I've killed people. I know what that shit feels like, and I have no desire whatsoever to feel that again. Not even a piece of shit like Caleb, not even after everything he's done to me. Do I forgive him? No. He better hope I never lay eyes on him again."

It strikes me that Logan's outburst is only tangentially connected to what we were talking about. It seems like there's a lot going on under the surface, when it comes to Logan.

The driver halts precisely in front of Logan's address, puts the vehicle into park, gets out, opens Logan's door. He's stubborn, so he's out before I can hop out and run around. He doesn't want to need my help. But he does. He has a hard time getting the key into the lock, but I let him do it. He won't adjust if he doesn't try, right? I hate watching him fumble, though.

We're in, hitting lights, and Logan is working on the alarm. I move past him, to let out Cocoa, his bear-sized chocolate lab. I notice something, though. Tufts of cotton, drifting across the hardwood floor. A scrap of gray fabric, lying partway out of the hallway.

"Logan?"

"Yeah, babe."

"Is there anyone who would have checked on Cocoa?"

"I e-mailed Beth and asked her to check in. Why?" He moves to stand beside me. Another ball of wadded cotton bounces across the floor like a tumbleweed. "Oh. Shit. She must've gotten out."

Another step farther into the house. More damage. A leather loafer lies on its side in the hallway leading to the bedroom, chewed to bits. Another few steps—a hooded sweatshirt, torn to pieces, chewed, wet with doggy saliva. The other loafer, similarly destroyed.

"Goddamn it." Logan sighs, but doesn't seem angry. "Cocoa? C'mere, girl! Daddy's home!"

Daddy's home. That hurts my heart in an odd, terrifying place. I stuff that hurt down, stuff the simmering thoughts and fears down. It's not true. Not possible. It's just not. Just no.

I follow Logan into the hallway. More clothes are strewn across the floor in the hallway, all of them chewed, slobbered on, utterly shredded. No sign of Cocoa, though. A thudding sound is audible, however: thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. A tail hitting a mattress, possibly?

Logan kicks at the piles of destroyed clothing. Shirts, slacks, shoes, boots, a leather jacket. A towel.

We arrive at the doorway of the spare room where Logan keeps Cocoa while he's gone. The doorway is... just gone. Splintered. There's a bit of door attached at the hinges, the shredded, splintered frame, the knob on the floor. But the door itself? No more. Splinters coat the carpet in the spare room, lie scattered across the hardwood floor of the hallway in a blast radius that extends into the bathroom and Logan's room. It looks like explosive charges were leveled at the door.

My heart in my throat, I follow Logan into his bedroom, peering over his shoulder.

The room is wrecked. The TV has been knocked over, shattered. The bedside lamp, same. The headboard has been chewed to splinters, same with the footboard. The blankets and sheets are twisted into a pile on the bed, chewed, slobbered, clawed. And in the middle of the bed, under the pile of sheets and blankets? Cocoa.

Tail thumping steadily. Chin on her paws, ears drooping. Eyes wide. The perfect picture of canine innocence.

"Holy fucking shit, Cocoa!"

I'm not sure what to expect from him. Anger? Frustration, at least. Instead, he kneels on the floor, pats his thigh.

"Cocoa. Come." His voice is low, but firm. Not angry, not threatening.

She shimmies like liquid, inches toward the edge of the bed, but doesn't get down.

"Cocoa, come here . Now, girl."

That gets her. She hops off the bed but immediately goes down to her belly, tail tucked under, head to the floor. Her eyes never leave Logan. She shimmies closer and closer until she's at Logan's feet.

"What did you do , Cocoa?" He seems close to laughter. Holding it in, but barely.

"She looks so sorry, Logan!" I say.

"She missed me. I've never been gone this long. She was afraid." He goes to his butt on the floor, grabs the dog around her middle, and hauls her onto his lap. She rolls to her back, tail beginning to thud once more, and then leans up and licks his chin. Hesitantly, at first, but then with increasing happiness. "I know, girl. I know. I missed you too. It's okay, I'm here."

I have to hold back tears. Something about the sight of Logan with his beloved puppy on his lap—a giant, eighty-pound puppy—reunited, happy, it makes me emotional.

Damn it— no .

I blink it all away, kneel beside man and dog, and scratch Cocoa on her head, behind her ears. She gives me a quick wet doggy kiss, and then goes back to Logan. She scrambles to her feet, backs up, and then seems to notice the bandage. She gives a long, high-pitched whine from the back of her throat and sniffs the bandage covering his eye. Glances at me, as if for answers, and then at Logan. Puts her front paws on his legs and sniffs, sniffs, sniffs. Whines again.

God, that's so sweet. She's worried about him. She sees he's hurt, and wants to know what's going on.

I'm fighting tears again, damn it.

"I'm fine, girl. I promise." He palms her ears and rubs vigorously, until she pulls away and shakes her head so her ears flop wildly.

I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm just... emotional. Nearly a week spent at Logan's side in the hospital, sleeping poorly in the visitor's chair. They let me stay through the night in contravention of visitors' hours, because I have nowhere else to go, and because I think Logan somehow bribed or otherwise convinced/coerced them into letting me. I'm just emotional. There's a lot going on, a lot to be worried and emotional again.

Logan hands me his phone. "Can you call Beth? Let her know what's going and that we need help cleaning up. I don't really do PAs, but she's the closest thing I've got. The code is six-nine-one-five." He stands up, pats his thigh. "Go outside, Cocoa?"

He's gone, the dog's claws scrabbling on wood, doing her happy yes-I-want-to-go-outside yipping bark.

I stare at the phone for a moment. 7-9-1-5; type it in, and the phone unlocks. The picture in the background behind the rows of icons is me. Asleep, in Logan's bed. Before I got my haircut, when it was still long. It's splayed around my head on Logan's white pillow, like spilled ink. My face is twisted to the side, and my hand is curled in front of my face. I look serene, beautiful, at peace.

7-9-1-5.

07-09-15.

The date we met. The date of the stupid auction party I went to with Jonathan.

That sends a spasm of emotion through me too, that the date we met is his unlock code for his phone.

I crush the emotion, ruthlessly, and find Beth's name in the contacts. Dial.

"Hey, boss. How are you feeling? We're all worried about you." The voice is high and sweet, a little too much of both.

"Beth? It's—this isn't Logan. Obviously. It's Isabel."

"Isabel?" A silence, which somehow feels confused. " Ohhhhhh. Isabel. The Isabel?"

"I guess? Unless he knows another one."

"No, no. Just you." Another silence. "So, what—um... how can I help you?"

"Did you come to his house and check on Cocoa at all?"

Beth responds immediately, a little defensively. "Yes! I went over the moment he e-mailed me. I fed her, let her out, made sure she had some water. I even threw the ball for her a bit. She's such a sweet dog."

"She really is. It's just—"

"I went back the next day, too. Not yesterday, because I got swamped with work. I meant to, but I just—" Beth cuts herself off. "Did something happen? Is she okay?" Beth sounds worried.

"She's fine, yes. But she got out."

"Got out? How? I shut the door, I'm sure I did. I even checked to make sure it latched all the way."

"She kind of clawed through the door. Like, destroyed it completely. Along with a lot of Logan's clothes and his TV. It's a mess. He asked me to call you and see if you would come and help clean up."

"Through the door? Geez. Okay, well sure, I'll be right there. But—why are you calling? Is Logan okay?"

"He's with Cocoa. They're reuniting, I guess." I'm not sure what he told her about how badly he's hurt. Best to let him handle that.

"Okay, well, I'll be there in a little bit." Another silence. This one feels bated. "All he would tell me is that there was an accident. Is he—is Logan okay? He's never been gone this long."

"I—I'm not sure what I should say, honestly. That's something he should tell you, not me."

"It's bad. You would tell me if it was nothing important."

"So we'll see you soon?" I really don't know how to answer, so I avoid the question.

A sigh. "Yeah. Half hour, forty-five minutes or so."

"Okay. Thank you."

The line goes dead, and I lock the phone, set it on the bedside table. Stare around me at the mess, let out a haggard breath. I feel so tired, suddenly. But the bed is torn up, and the floor is buried under shredded clothes. The closet door is open, yanked off the track, hanging askew. Clothes dangle partially ripped off hangers, and more hangers are strewn on the floor. More clothes are piled on the floor at the bottom of the closet, but those don't seem destroyed.

I right the TV, set it with great difficulty onto the stand. It is massive, heavy, but I manage it. Strip the bedclothes from the mattress, toss them aside. Begin tossing destroyed clothing onto that pile, handfuls at a time, until there's nothing left but the pile on the floor of the closet.

"Isabel, what are you doing?" Logan, from behind me.

I shrug, gesture at the bed. "I wanted to lie down, but the bed is a mess, and so is the floor. Anyway, Beth will be here soon."

"You should have left it. That's why I pay Beth."

"I thought she wasn't your personal assistant?"

"She's not. But she's always eager for any excuse to get out of the office, so I send her on errands." He rights the lamp. Stares at me from across the bed. "Isabel, I didn't mean to sound like I was handing out orders, earlier."

"Facts are facts, Logan. If you hadn't gotten involved with me, you wouldn't have been shot. That's a fact. The only reason you're alive is because either Caleb is a poor shot, or you got really lucky. You could be dead right now."

"And like I said, I knew there was a risk Caleb would lash out at me at some point. I took the risk to get involved with you understanding that was a possibility. That absolves you of any guilt. If you'd lied about him or something, that'd be different. But I knew."

"That doesn't make it any easier to deal with. You were shot. You lost an eye. Because of me."

Logan rounds the end of the bed, grabs me by the arms, holds me at arm's length. "Stop. Please. I'm okay. I'm alive. Yeah, I'm short an eyeball. But now I get to wear an eyepatch and act like a pirate, and no one can say shit about it."

I can't help but laugh. "God, Logan. You are ridiculous. You would do that, wouldn't you?"

He crooks an index finger into a hook. "Arrrgh, matey. You bet your doubloons I would!"

"That's a terrible pirate voice."

"Oh yeah? Let's hear you do better."

I shake my head and stifle another laugh. "I don't think so."

"Well, then you can't knock mine if you won't try it."

"I can criticize without emulating, Logan."

"Those who can't do, teach. And those who can't teach become critics."

"I'm not saying I'm a professional pirate voice critic—"

Logan bursts out laughing, drowning me out and cutting me off. "Professional pirate voice critic? And I'm ridiculous?"

"Yes." I sound petulant.

"Come on, Is. Just give me one little ‘arrrgghhh, matey!'"

"No."

He ducks so his face is in front of mine and makes a pathetic moue. "You wouldn't say no to a one-eyed man, would you?"

"Oh my God. You're guilting me?"

He shrugs. "If it'll get you to loosen up, sure. Might as well get some mileage out of my... life-altering injury ."

"Logan."

"Too soon?"

"Yes. Way too soon." I glance at him. "And... loosen up? What does that mean?"

"Just that you're a little uptight. Wound tight, you know? You take everything so seriously." A shrug. His voice is matter-of-fact, as if everyone should know this.

"I am not uptight."

He laughs, a sharp bark. "You are too! I think I've heard you say, like, three jokes in the entire time I've known you. That, my sexy little Spanish beauty, is the epitome of uptight. If you don't tell jokes, shit will make you crazy. Lighten up."

"And to, as you say, lighten up, I should speak in a dreadfully historically inaccurate pirate voice?"

"It's a broad caricature, Isabel. It's socially understood to be humorous rather than accurate. If you want to be all uptight about it."

I glare at him. But then, because he has a way of pulling things out of me, I curl my lip and make my voice rough. "Arrrrggghhh."

"She has a sense of humor!" Logan waves his hands in the air. "Gods be praised!"

"I have a sense of humor."

"Then tell a joke."

"A joke?"

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Yes. A joke. Tell me a joke."

"Why did the—"

"That's not a joke. Try again."

I think hard but come up blank. "I don't know any jokes. But that doesn't mean I don't have a sense of humor."

"Did you hear about the pirate movie?"

"What pirate movie?"

"It was rated arrrgghhhh ."

"Oh my God. That's terrible."

"What did the first mate see when he looked in the toilet?"

"Logan—"

"The captain's log."

"That's disgusting."

"Why couldn't the pirate play cards?"

I stare at him. "Logan."

"Guess."

"I don't know."

A beat of silence. For emphasis, probably. "Because he was sitting on the deck."

"That's not even funny."

"Funnier than the joke you told."

"But I didn't tell one."

"Exactly!" He stabs a finger at me. "Now try the arrrgghhh again. This time with feeling!"

I hesitate. It's stupid. So, so stupid. But it's for Logan. "Arrrgghh."

"That was pathetic. You aren't even trying." He clears his throat. "AAARRRGGGHHH!"

"I'm not doing that." But I'm fighting grin.

"Sissy." He sticks his tongue out at me. "Stick-in-the-mud."

"Name calling, Logan? Really?"

"You won't even arrgghh like a pirate. What are you afraid of?"

"AAARRRGGGHHH!" I do it loud and deep.

And Logan's face lights up. "There you go! That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Was it funny?"

He nods. "Hysterical." Pulls me close. Kisses me. "Knock knock."

"Um."

"Jesus, Isabel, it's a knock-knock joke. You say, ‘Who's there?'"

"Who's there?"

"Boo." He leans in and whispers in my ear. "Now you say, ‘Boo who?'"

"Boo who?"

"Hey, whatcha cryin' for?" Another kiss, this one to my throat.

I laugh, because I can't help it. "How can you make jokes at a time like this?"

He shrugs. "How can I not? I don't know how to deal with this shit, Isabel. It'd be all too easy to feel sorry for myself, to let myself get all depressed and mope around like a sad sack of shit. But I refuse to let myself do that. Am I suppressing some of my more negative emotions? Probably. Am I overcompensating with humor? Again, probably. But how else am I supposed to cope, Isabel?" He shoots me a glance. "Have you ever heard the phrase ‘laugh or go crazy'?"

"No, but there's an in-between, isn't there?"

"Not really. I'm not making light of this. I just... I have to cope somehow, babe. Humor is how I'm doing it." He sighs. "If I don't, I'll mope and be depressed and get all ragey. It'll be terrible. So just... humor my inappropriate humor. Okay?"

I nuzzle against him. "Okay. Just... try to let me help you. Please?"

"I'll do my best. That's all I can promise." He taps my nose with his forefinger. "Now, let me hear the arrgghh again. Even louder this time, and with feeling."

I sigh, a dramatic, long-suffering sound. "Fine." Like he did, I clear my throat. "AAARRRGGGHHH!" Loud as I can.

And that's when we hear a throat clear behind us. "Um... hey, Logan. Did I miss the pirate convention?"

He turns. "There ya aarrgghh ! Right on time."

Beth is silent for a very long time. "Logan? What—what happened?"

Unlike many people, Beth's voice and physical appearance match perfectly. High, sweet voice, like a slightly overeager schoolteacher, perhaps; short, slender, not exactly beautiful, but attractive. Bobbed blond hair. Unassuming. It's easy to skip right over Beth in a crowd.

He waves in dismissal. "Nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"That looks pretty serious." Beth seems close to tears.

"I'm fine."

"What happened?"

He hesitates. "I—got mugged. The gun went off. Missed my brain via my eyeball. And now I'm a pirate. Gonna get a patch and everything."

"How can you be telling jokes at a time like this, Logan?" Beth hasn't moved from the entryway, a box of contractor garbage bags in hand.

"This is starting to feel like déjà vu." He groans. "When things are at their hardest and most painful is the best time to tell jokes, Beth."

Beth is just blinking. Staring. "You lost your eye?"

Logan shrugs. "Well, I haven't seen underneath the bandage, but that's what they told me at the hospital, yes." He grabs the box of garbage bags from Beth. "So. We'll just bag up and toss all the ruined clothing and clean up the remnants of my door. Also have to order a new TV and have the broken one removed. I will also need an eyepatch supplier. I don't even know where to get them. Is there, like, an eyepatch store? I'll want cool ones, not just plain boring black ones. You can probably get them online, I'm guessing."

"See, I'm not sure if you're joking or not." A pause. "About the eyepatches, I mean."

"Not at all. I knew a guy in Blackwater who was missing an eye. He was support staff. Super cool guy. A real tough motherfucker. Like, the real deal. Scary as hell. So, if he was in the office, doing everyday sort of work, he left his eye socket empty, didn't cover it, no prosthetic. It was... creepy, I don't mind admitting. Just disconcerting. You couldn't help but stare, you know? That was just how Eric was, though. Didn't give one single shit what anyone thought. If he had to dress up at all, he'd wear a patch. He just had this one. He had a guy in our unit that was a pretty fantastic artist draw an amazingly lifelike eye on the patch, so it was even more disconcerting than without it, in a way. And I always thought, if I were to ever lose an eye, I'd get all sorts of cool shit to cover it. Like, steampunk, or Goth, funny designs, holiday patches, all that. A collection, as it were. And now that I've actually gone and lost my eye, that's what's happening. So, yeah, totally serious. Get me options."

"Sure thing, boss." She seems to be at a loss for words, so she takes the box of bags back and moves into Logan's room.

Plastic crinkles as clothes are stuffed into the bags, out of sight. Logan takes my hand and leads me into the living room. Collapses backward onto the couch, taking me with him. I squeal with laughter as he falls, his arms wrapped around me, taking me down to the couch. Twists with me, so I'm between the back of the couch and his big hard body, my cheek on his chest, his hands possessively cupping my backside.

I can take it for a few moments, and then I get antsy. "Logan. Let go. We should help Beth. Or, I should, at least."

"Nope."

"Logan—"

"I'm paying her time and half for this. And she works best alone. Time to rest."

He's got me pinned. And it's warm here. Comfy. I'm content, drifting. It's impossible not to let myself float away, to pretend, once more, that Logan is all that exists. That this time with him is all there is.

I drowse, doze.

Sink under the warm buzzing swell of sleep, in Logan's arms.

I wake up, and Logan is gone.

Evening light streams through the sliding glass door, deep golden, bathing me in warmth. I roll, and my hand flops over the side of the couch; something wet touches my fingers, and I make a startled noise in my throat. A brown nose appears, followed by whiskers, liquid brown eyes, floppy ears. Cocoa. Before I can even register her presence, she's licking me.

"Yes, oh my God, Cocoa, yes. Hi. Yes, girl, I love you too." I stop her from licking me but don't push her away.

She rests her chin on the edge of the couch and just looks at me. As if she sees into my soul and does not find me wanting. The innocent, complete love of a dog is such a wonderful thing.

I nuzzle against her, rub her ears, her soft fine fur.

"What do I do, Cocoa? Huh? It's all so impossible," I murmur against her neck. "There's no end. There's no way out. But he needs me, you know? And I need him. But then, there will always be Caleb. And now Jakob? How do I reconcile the two? There's no way. And I might never get another glimpse at Jakob. Because, really, I feel like they're two different people, Caleb and Jakob. But Jakob, he's a part of Caleb that he keeps buried way down deep. So deep I don't think that part of him will ever come out again. Which is sad, because that's a part of Caleb that I could have maybe—no. No. I can't go there. Can't think that way."

Cocoa whines, yips gently, head tilted to one side. As if to say, Yes, I'm listening .

I lower my voice to a whisper so quiet it is nearly inaudible even to me, nearly subvocalization. "I love Logan, Cocoa. So much. I really, really do. So... how did I let that happen, again, with Caleb? How can I be that weak? I hate myself for it." Yip, ruff, yip, Cocoa talking back to me. "Will he forgive me? I don't know. I want to believe he will, but... I don't know. Do I even deserve it?"

A doorknob twists somewhere, and I sit up. Logan, a towel wrapped around his waist, emerges from the bathroom. Bandaged, but otherwise incredible. Lean, sharp, gorgeous. "Talking to the dog?"

I smile and nuzzle Cocoa, who pants a couple of times and then licks me once before trotting over to Logan. "Yes. She's an excellent listener."

"Isn't she? Never argues, never gives shitty advice."

"Exactly."

I glance at him, frowning. "You're not supposed to take showers, Logan. You can't get your dressing wet."

He waves a hand in dismissal. "I didn't shower; I took a bath. Didn't get my dressing wet. My hair is gonna be greasy until I can take a normal shower, but I needed to feel clean. Don't worry about it."

"Of course I'm going to worry about it."

He seems about to argue but then takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and smiles at me. "I know you are, and I'm grateful that you care enough to worry."

"I care so much it scares me sometimes, Logan." I gesture at his hair. "See, if you'd let me help you, I could have washed your hair without getting the bandage wet."

"Next time, then. I'm just... I'm not used to asking for help in anything. It'll take time, that's all." There's a moment of silence, and then he reaches down and rubs Cocoa's ears. "I didn't hear what you were saying to her, by the way." He's telepathic, apparently. "I just heard Cocoa making that noise she makes when she's talking back to someone. I swear she understands what we're saying, you know?"

"I do. It did seem that way."

I want to run my hands over his body. Taste his skin. Feel his muscles under my palms. Take his hardness into my hands, feel him love me the way only he can. I don't move, though. I can't do that to him. I don't deserve that with him. Not anymore. Not until I've come clean, admitted my sins and begged him to forgive me, if he can, for betraying him, cheating on him. That's what it was, betrayal, infidelity. I love Logan. Only Logan.

But I am addict. Weak, hooked, unable to control myself.

Logan must see or sense my inner turmoil. He grips the towel and moves to kneel beside me. "Hey. What's up?"

I shrug. "It's just a lot."

"What is?"

I laugh, a bitter, humorless sound. "Everything, Logan. My life. Just... everything."

He sweeps a palm across my cheek. "Talk to me, Isabel."

I shake my head. "Why? The last thing you need right now is to take on my stick-in-the-mud angst. You need to rest. To heal. Not to worry about me. I should be worrying about you ."

He blows out a breath. "Isabel, why don't you get this? I am going to worry about you. I am going to care about your problems. They're my problems, because I want them to be. It's what you do when you're in a relationship."

In a relationship. My gut lurches. "I don't know how to do that. How to be... that."

"Who does? You make it up as you go, babe."

"You make it sound easy."

"Not easy, but simple. You trust me, I trust you. We confide in each other. Depend on each other. Give freely so we're both getting what we need."

"That sounds . . . lovely."

He's close. One knee on the couch, near my hip. Staring down at me. Indigo eyes warm, inviting, fiery with desire. God, those eyes. That look. The expression that says he wants me, all of me, only me. Needs me. Can't go another minute without me, without tasting me, feeling me.

I take a breath to unburden myself of the guilt, but he steals it with a kiss. Buries his palm in my hair, cupping the back of my head. Lifting me up into the kiss. Grabbing a handful of hair at the roots and tugging my head gently but firmly backward so he can plunder my mouth. Leaning farther over me.

I can't not touch him, when he kisses me like this. Smooth my hands over his sides. Roam the curves of his shoulders, the broad plain of his back. Somehow, the towel comes loose. I find myself brushing it away, cupping, gripping, clutching, scratching his backside. Pulling him closer. Feeling him harden between us.

He's propping himself up with one hand, searching for the hem of my dress with the other. Tugging it up, out of the way. Probing with a finger, sliding it under the gusset of my panties. Finding me wet. Hot. Ready. Touching and touching and touching, until I'm gasping against his kiss and stroking his hardness. Lifting my hips, needing him. Ready for him. Eager. Hungry.

He's ripping at my panties, and I've got him gripped in my fist. I can feel by the tension in his belly and the way he's breathing that he's ready. Beyond ready.

"Is... God, Isabel." He murmurs in my ear. His voice is low and rough, but it blasts me with remembrance.

"Logan, wait."

He touches his forehead to my chest for a brief moment, but then he's leaning back, upright. Cock jutting hard and ready, eyes tortured with need. "What do you need, babe?" He stares down at me. "If you're worried about me, don't. I'm perfectly healthy enough for this, I promise."

"It's not that, Logan." I close my eyes tight, summon courage.

"Then what?"

I can't look at him, or I'll forget it all. The desire to obliterate everything with the heat of his kiss and the hardness of his body and the glory of feeling him orgasm in and on and all over me is too strong. If I look at him thus, naked, hard, ready, I'll forget what I need to do.

"Isabel?" Logan's voice, prompting me.

I suck in a breath. "We can't do this, yet. I want to, need to, but I can't."

He shifts, plops to the cushion beside me. Drapes the towel over his lap. It tents, somewhat comically, over his massive erection. I force my eyes to focus on his face.

He sees now. This . . . isn't good.

"Shit." A breath, a palm passed over his face. "Spill."

"I don't even... I don't know where to start."

He eyes me. There's an anger and a hardness in his gaze. "Well, then let me venture a guess: Caleb mind-fucked you again. Got you all mixed up and feeling sorry for yourself or for him, or something. Worked whatever magic hold he has on you, got you to sleep with him again. Is that it? That's it, isn't it? You let Caleb fuck you again."

"Logan, I—"

" Yes —or— no , Isabel?"

A tear slides down my cheek. Another. A whole host. "Yes." A broken sound, a shattered word, a shredded syllable.

"Fuck." He rises, paces away, towel dropping to the floor, forgotten. Stomps angrily to his room. Pauses, head hanging, glances back at me. And then slams his fist into his bedroom door, a furious smashing blow that splinters the door. "Now I need two goddamn doors."

"Logan, wait."

"Just give me a few minutes, okay? I need to calm down, and I need to process this." He's not looking at me. Just standing naked in the doorway, blood on his knuckles, bandages diagonal across his head. "Don't leave. Don't drink. Just... wait."

"All right."

I try to push down the panic. The sobs. The self-loathing. But it's bubbling up and threatening to spill over. It's a very long time before Logan emerges. He's dressed, in loose track pants and a tight T-shirt, barefoot. Band-Aids on his knuckles.

Takes a seat on the couch beside me. Breathes deeply, let it out, and finally looks at me. I keep my eyes downcast. I don't deserve to look at him.

"Is. Look at me."

I shake my head. I can't. Don't. Won't.

He touches my chin, but I resist. Pull away. Feel his fingers slide across my cheek, brushing away tears. "Isabel de la Vega. Look at me now, please."

I have to, the way he says it. The whip and crack of command in his voice is inexorable. "What, Logan?"

"I hate the hooks he has in you. The way he's brainwashed you."

"It's addiction, Logan. Pure and simple."

"Addiction can be broken."

"He's not a substance I can merely stop buying. I can't just suffer the withdrawals, or go to rehab, or a clinic. I can't just quit him. It's not that simple. He holds my past. He is my past. I hate it, too, the way he affects me. The way I can't seem to... not . No matter how badly I want to, no matter how hard I try."

"What was it this time?"

"Jakob."

"So what I told you, you already knew?"

"Some of it. I confronted him about the name on my discharge papers. And he told me about Jakob. But he told it as if it were someone else. Not him. The last thing he said to me was that Jakob Kasparek does not exist anymore. That his name was Caleb. But then... he... he showed me that Jakob does exist. Almost as a separate person within him, but there, nonetheless."

"Excuse me if that doesn't move me."

"I'm not expecting it to." I wipe at my face. "I don't expect... anything from you. Except a good-bye, perhaps."

"No, Isabel. No. Not that. Never that."

"Why? How?"

"Love is not so weak as that, Isabel. At least mine isn't."

"But mine is, apparently."

"I didn't say so," Logan says.

"You didn't have to." I finally look at him of my own volition. It is so hard, nearly impossible, and painful. To see the anger and the pain directed at me... it is nearly too much to bear. "I hate myself for it, Logan. Truly, I do. The moment he left, I—I wanted to undo it."

What I don't tell him, what I don't even allow myself to fully think, is that there is a seed of doubt buried deep within me. Now that I've seen such a secret, vulnerable, human side of you, I cannot help but wonder what else there is within you, that no one else has ever seen. I wonder. I doubt myself. I doubt everything.

And that doubt is murderous. Treacherous.

But I do not doubt Logan. I do not doubt my feelings for him.

I twist to face him. Take his hands in mine. Meet his eyes. "Logan, please... forgive me. If you can. I don't know what this means for us, for the future, but... I do love you. I hope you don't doubt that."

"It's hard not to. I want to believe that if you loved me enough, you wouldn't let anything come between us. But then I tell myself that I'm not in your shoes. I can't understand or fathom what you've been through. But what I keep coming back to is... this isn't the first time you've gone back to him after promising you were done. It's not even the second. And—he's still out there. He still considers you his property, and he'll come for you. And I—I can't help being afraid, especially now, that you might just choose him over me if it came down to it." He touches his lips to my knuckles, all ten, one at a time, slowly. "So, yes. I forgive you. Of course I do. But it will take time. I just... I need time. Stay here with me. Just be with me. And give me time to process it all."

"I swear I—"

"Don't. No promises, Isabel. You can't make any promises to me, not about Caleb."

He's right, and I know it. I know it, and I hate it.

I cry, and he doesn't shush me. Doesn't tell me to stop. Doesn't tell me it's okay. It's not, and we both know it. But he does hold me. He wraps his arms around me, pulls me against his chest, and lets me cry.

Sometimes it's all there is, to cry and know it's not okay.