He speaks, or rather, he seethes. He knows my intention, and he’s angry. “Where are you going?” His words are snarled in his fury.
“I want to go home.”
“That’s not the deal.”
I’m angry, too. “Fuck your deal!”
I turn on my heel and head out the door with him trailing behind me. He catches up to me in the small vestibule, and as I pull the door open, he reaches around me and slams it shut. He leans down and between gritted teeth commands, “Get upstairs … now.”
I try pulling the door handle again, but his hand is still holding the door shut. It’s no use. I spin toward him, push past him, and go back upstairs. He is right behind me, and he is fuming. He immediately lays into me once the door is shut. “What the fuck were you thinking, going out in the middle of night in the dead of winter? Does hypothermia sound like a good idea to you? You want to be pissed at me, fine. I’ll deal with that, but don’t ever think of breaking our agreement, because I don’t care what I’ve done to piss you off; if the agreement is broken, your little secret will be anything but.”
The whole time he’s talking, I’m standing, facing him but unable to look at him—my own fury building to critical mass. And when I hit my limit, I finally explode. “Fuck you! I can’t stand this. I’m not some little pet project. I don’t need you treating me like some incompetent child. And right now, I’d rather be at home with him than you in a second. I’ve been taking care of myself for some time now and doing just fine.”
“Really! I seem to recall a bloody lip not so far in your past. Is that your idea of doing fine? Please. You don’t know what fine is. You may be good at getting by, but you don’t know the first fucking thing about having a real life. You leech off the life of my family because you don’t have one of your own. But unlike family and far more like an immature child, you run away the first time you don’t get your way. It doesn’t work that way. You want to take care of yourself, then learn to deal with this!”
Hurt is an understatement. I can barely breathe after hearing his comments, and I do the only thing I can do. I push past him and into my bedroom, slamming the door before breaking down in tears on the bed. Is it not enough that I think of myself as a leech already? Did he have to remind me of exactly how I’m seen by him and his family? I lie there most of the night, replaying the evening and not sleeping at all. I’m supposed to join his family for Christmas in the morning, and the thought of having to endure his company, let alone the company of his family, is gut-wrenching. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.
I’m determined to give escape one more try, and at five o’clock, I rise again. I sneak from the apartment and am greeted by the cold, blustering, Michigan wind. I know that it is stupid to walk home in this weather, but I have a good coat and would rather freeze than deal with seeing him this morning. It takes me an excruciating forty-five minutes to walk home, and that is jogging most of the way. I know he’ll be furious with me; hell, I know there’s a good chance he’ll decide to follow through and call the cops, but at this moment I don’t care. My pride has gotten the better of me, and I refuse to let him call the shots. When I arrive home, it is barely starting to get light out, and when I enter the house, the dining room table is as I left it, and my father is passed out on the couch. Good. I’m tired from not sleeping and want nothing more than to crawl into bed for the rest of the day. Merry Christmas to me.
I know my phone will be ringing, and I’m prepared to tell Sara I’m sick again today. They will be leaving at first light tomorrow morning to catch an early flight out of Grand Rapids toward Denver. The Harringtons will be staying at their condo in Frisco, skiing for the next week, and won’t return until the day before New Year’s Eve. In years past, I’ve gone on family trips with them, but this year I decided to work during the holiday to make extra money. I want Logan as far from me as possible, and I am thankful I declined their offer to join them this year.
Like clockwork, my phone rings at ten o’clock, and I make my excuses. She says nothing of Logan, and I take that as a good sign he’s keeping his mouth shut. I hibernate in my room for the entire day, only coming out for food and the bathroom. That night as I lie in bed, I’m depressed. I’m so angry at Logan but also heartbroken I haven’t heard from him today. Tomorrow he’ll be gone, and I won’t see him for at least five days. I miss him already, but it’s likely for the best.
Chapter 8
The next few days pass like a fog. I work a lot and make really good money with the holiday crowd in town. I need the money for a car, not to mention when Sara and I move to Ann Arbor next fall, and I am again thankful I decided to stay home. I try not to think about Logan, but that is a near impossibility. I want to see him, but my anger is intense and unrelenting. I want to hurt him the way he’s hurt me. He’s probably not even thinking of me at all.
The first I hear from Sara is on the thirtieth when she calls me to say they’ve arrived back in town. She asks me to come over for dinner, but fortunately I have to work that night. I don’t want to lie to her, but there is no way I’m going to go over there and risk seeing Logan. I don’t ever want to see him, except, of course, that’s a lie; I want to see him so much I’m miserable from it. We make plans to go out the next night for New Year's. I don’t know what Sara has in store for us, but she’s made me promise not to back out. Sara’s a socialite, and I often find myself in places I would never dream of going on my own. I’m shy in a crowd even if she’s the center of attention. I’m sure she has some party lined up, and I’ll probably end up getting drunk just to keep my cool.
The next night, Sara picks me up and we head out for the evening. After grabbing dinner in town, Sara lets me in on her plan. “Okay … so … we’re going to a frat party, and before you sulk, just hear me out.” I’m already sulking, and by the feigned look of warning and the chastising finger she wags in my face, she’s going to tolerate none of it. “Jeremy is going to be there.” And there’s her lust-struck look.
Don’t get me wrong, Sara is not promiscuous. Not in the least, but she gets attention. She always has. She’s as beautiful as Logan, and guys drool over her. She falls into lust, they trail after her, she decides she’s bored with them or they’re too stupid, too intelligent, too bossy, too nice, too … something, and then she’s off to the next suitor.
“Who’s Jeremy again?” Of course, I know who Jeremy is. She’s been going on about him for the better part of two weeks. I smirk; it’s hard given my piss-poor demeanor.
“Stop it. I love Jeremy.” Her words are exaggerated and completely contrived, and I’m surprised to see she’s not using her arm-across-the-forehead fainting move.
“You do not.” Even though I fall into the familiar role of chastising her, her ridiculous dramatics have me smiling for the first time in over a week.
“Fine, but I might some day, and you wouldn’t want to be the one to stand between me and the love of my life. Would you?” She’s feigning desperation again. The drama this girl can throw down when she wants to get her way.
“I’m banking on this being just another guy you decide you hate in a week. I don’t belong at a college party, Sara. You do. You fit in anywhere. I just look out of place.”
“I won’t desert you, I promise.” And she never does, bless her heart, but it’s terrifying nevertheless. This is her life, not mine. This is her fun, not mine. “I haven’t seen you for a week. And quite frankly, you’ve been distant lately, and I don’t like it.” Enter the guilt trip. But she’s right, and I should feel guilty.