He gives up trying to convince me or talk me through my pain and once again kisses me. I finish turning my body to his, crawling up to straddle his body. Every move I make hurts, but I don’t care, and as I close the last inch between us I can feel his body finally against mine. He’s aroused, and though I know I can offer him no relief, I don’t want to distance myself from him either. He holds me tight against him, and I savor the feel of his erection so firmly against my body.
After a long time of clutching one another, he stands, letting me slowly down to the floor and helps me up to Sara’s room. He closes the door and crawls quietly in next to me. I want to face him or let him curl himself around my body, but lying on my side is impossible with the pain. It makes cuddling nearly impossible as well, but he pulls himself up to his elbow next to me and does the next best thing. He kisses soft trails on the skin of my face. He moves down to my neck, studying my bruises before touching and kissing them as well. He unbuttons my top and trails his kisses lower to my breasts. He pulls one nipple gently into his mouth, running his tongue over the hard erect bud. He moves to the rest of my bruises, covering each with kisses. He stops short of crossing my waistline and doesn’t allow his touch to become more than what either of us can bear. He finally re-clothes me, and lying next to me he laces his fingers through mine and strokes my hand with his thumb. I fall asleep to his deep breathing.
When I wake, it is early and he is gone. This time, he’s left me a note.
Row,
You won’t be sad forever. I promise. I’ll see you soon.
Logan
But I’m already sad.
Chapter 29
By the time my first physical therapy appointment is over, I want to punch the therapist. My body is screaming at me, and I want nothing more than to take it out on her. Mindy. I have a feeling I hate her, and like the poop nurse before her I have a feeling we’re not going to be friends. She’s bubbly and optimistic, and she makes me want to burst that stupid bubble she floats around in. It’s not her fault. I know she’s just doing her job, but I’m upset, I’m sad, I’m in pain, and I just want to hit the rewind button and go back to when Logan was still here. But I can’t.
Over the next couple of weeks I continue meeting with Mindy three times a week. I stretch and work the muscles of my body to keep them loose and strong while I’m recovering. The therapy is less about my injuries and far more about keeping the rest of my body as strong as possible. I do deep breathing exercises to keep my lungs healthy as well. When I started, my entire body ached all the time from the bruising and battery I sustained and general atrophy from lack of movement during the first week of my recovery. My body is used to being used, stretched, and exercised, and the lack of use was quite apparent. It was this atrophy more than anything that was going to be difficult for me to rebound from once my ribs are healed.
Thanks to Mindy—yes, I got over hating her—my range of motion and flexibility stayed intact, and two weeks later she approved my returning to Anthony for flexibility training. I continue to see Mindy twice a week and Anthony twice a week as well, and with every passing day my body continues to return to normal in some small measure. My ribs still hurt, but the ache is dull and not nearly as crippling as it initially was. I can breathe deeply without having to psyche myself up for the soreness, and I am back to moving through my ballet positions smoothly, gracefully, and staying in balance. I’m not 100 percent, but I am getting close. I’m not allowed to do any jumps or strenuous moves until six weeks after surgery, but that’s coming up soon enough.
Sara and I will be moving to Ann Arbor in mid-August, just over a month away, and that leaves me with little time to get back up to peak performance. I haven’t notified the Performing Arts department of my little injury and have no intention of telling them unless I absolutely have to. I can’t afford to lose my scholarship or worry any of the faculty. My hope is no one will be the wiser once my first practice starts in late August. My scholarship is dependent upon my dancing, and I don’t want to draw any negative attention to myself so early on.
I haven’t heard from Logan for the few weeks he’s been gone, and as much as I want to ask when he’ll be back, I have no intention of saying anything to his parents about him. I could call him, of course, but I won’t. I’m not sure why; I just can’t seem to bring myself to cross that line. If I were to call him, it would just restart the countdown clock to when I can get over him and move on with my life, which is ridiculous because soon enough I’ll see him again. But calling is like somehow acknowledging I’m not ready to move forward, and I have no choice but to move forward. I want to say I won’t see him when he returns again, or I won’t see him alone, or I won’t touch him or let him touch me, but I know full well once he’s here that won’t be a decision I can uphold. In a way, I want it over. I want him here, I want what will happen to happen, and then I want him gone so I can feel the pain and get over it. But I know getting over it will take a long, long time. And I dread it, knowing it will be just like the first month we were apart—every moment a struggle, every day torture.
But Logan continues to keep his distance. Two more weeks pass with no sign of him. Maybe his trip was cancelled. I wouldn’t know if it was, and I know he wouldn’t call me. The understanding of that fact hurts just as if he wounded me with unkind words. I want him to reach out to me, but I know he can’t. He can’t for all the same reasons I can’t. It hurts too much. It’s like an alcoholic taking a sip of wine; the pleasure of the indulgence would be immediate and swift, but the aftermath would be devastating. And with each passing day, I realize, with sadness, he isn’t going to be making any trips home soon. What’s worse, his family, not understanding my complete obsession with Logan, says nothing of his absence. And I can’t very well say anything lest I be ready to admit my utter infatuation with him. I doubt that would go over well.
Before I know it and before I want it, I find I’m only two weeks away from moving with Sara. She already has her boxes packed. She’s excited, and I once again envy her carefree optimism and wish I could share it desperately. Logan still hasn’t made an appearance, and at this rate I’ve given up thinking he will. I know it’s for the best in the long run, but I can’t help but long for one more moment with him, one more touch, one more anything—hell, I’d take a fight even! Just some contact so I know he’s still there and he still cares.
The only thing I’m even moderately interested in is getting to Ann Arbor and starting dance practices. The schedule is brutal and fast-paced. If anything can steal me from the always-present depression that hangs over my head, it is dance. And the more dance the better. We start performances three weeks after the start of the semester, and learning the new routines on top of my classes will leave no time for anything else, including thinking about Logan. I’m counting on my schedule filling the void that has been left by Logan. I’m desperately counting on it, in fact.
Chapter 30
Sara’s parents have asked Sara and I to go to the lake house with them for one last summer weekend trip on the coming Friday. I think Ronnie is starting to dread our move, so when she asked me I went out of my way to find someone to cover for me at the Bistro for Friday and Saturday night. But when Friday rolls around, Sara tells me mid-afternoon that there’s a change of plans. Instead, Ronnie and Marcus are going to take us out in Grand Rapids for a sort of going away dinner, and we’ll leave for the lake house the next morning. They’re taking us back to the French restaurant in the historic district of Grand Rapids we celebrated Sara’s birthday at.