The Relationtrip, page 14
Logan sighs and rolls his head. “Men are not really…your typical romance author. I’m not just an author, Sloane. I write romance novels.”
“So what?” I ask.
“You don’t get it,” he says. “You’re a woman. It’s fine.” He moves past me and adds, “I think our van is here.”
“It’s not fine.” I spin to follow him. “Don’t just walk away. Finish the explanation.”
He turns back to me so fast I almost ram into his chest. The backpacks swing wildly, and I certainly hope he’s remembered to zip them both closed. A can of sunscreen that was tucked into the outer pocket of mine goes clattering to the ground.
We both ignore it, because we’re chest-to-chest, eyes blazing, in the parking lot.
Logan’s mouth barely moves as he says, “This isn’t about you, Sloane. It’s about me, and how I felt like other people would handle what I do to pay my bills.” His eyes are ice cold, as is his tone. In fact, I shiver at the suppressed fury I find behind those chilled blue flames in his gaze.
“It’s always been easier to say I owned my own business and leave it at that. People admire that. I don’t have to worry about their judgment that way.”
Though we stand inches apart, he manages to look down to my feet and back to my face. He definitely doesn’t like what he sees, if that lip-curl is anything to judge by.
“Out of everyone, I thought you’d handle it the best. I’ve been scared but excited to tell you. Your reaction…is precisely why I don’t tell people. So thanks for confirming that.”
He turns and walks away for good now, leaving me to deflate like a blow-up bouncy house that has just had the plug pulled.
Chapter Eighteen
Logan
For two terrifying moments, I think Sloane will stay in the parking lot. She’s frozen to the spot, and since I’ve already gotten in the van, I can’t yell at her. The driver takes a few steps toward her, and then thankfully, she thaws and flies into motion.
She exchanges a few words with the driver, then climbs into the van. It’s a six-seater, and there are only four of us on this excursion today. She could easily choose to move right past me and sit in the back row all by herself.
I keep my gaze out the window, my heart already in a pile of tiny shredded ribbons. I don’t even want to imagine what will happen to my pulse if she doesn’t sit beside me. Right now, it booms through my whole body—boom! Boom! BOOM!—in the few moments it takes her to decide.
Then the bench seat I’m on shifts, and relief pulls through me so hard, I hum. I don’t know what I mean by it; I barely know I’ve made a noise at all.
“Please,” Sloane mutters as the van door gets slid closed.
I don’t really want to continue our argument in front of strangers, so I lean my head back against the rest behind me and close my eyes. I’ve been up for a couple of hours now, getting newsletters ready to send and dealing with one of my cover designers. Then, of course, Alicia had called, and what should’ve been amazing news has turned into a giant wedge I can’t see past.
I hate celebrating the news that I’ve sold another novel with myself. My stomach rolls and pitches, because I was literally five minutes away from telling Sloane all about my career.
“You have fifty-two novels?”
I look over to her at her question. She has her blasted phone out, and she lifts that gorgeous face, her pretty baby blues meeting mine. “Wow, Logan.”
I look away without answering. Her reaction still cuts through me, the blade the serrated kind that saws at me with every move I make, every thought I have.
I can’t believe Alicia called me back. Even worse… “I can’t believe you answered my phone,” I hiss to her. She had no right to do that.
Without truly looking at her, I cut a look in her direction out of the corner of my eye. Her surprise fades into a look of defiance. Of course. Sloane Sanders is always right.
“She called about a hundred times last night,” Sloane sats. “I saw her name on your phone then, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t cheating on me.”
That gets me to turn toward her completely. “Have you lost your mind?”
She only lifts her chin.
“I would never do that to you, or anyone else.” I laugh bitterly, not even bothering to keep my voice down. “Wow, it’s so great to know your real opinion of me, Sloane.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Well, then by all means,” I say with plenty of sarcasm. “Explain it to me.” I glare at her, but she’s got a Ph.D. in glaring, so I get it right back.
“I will not be my mother,” she says through clenched teeth, a glance to the row in front of us telling me to cool it.
But I don’t want to. “That’s so great,” I say. “Because I’m nothing like your father, Sloane. Or Leon for that matter. Or any of the other men in your life who’ve let you down. But that doesn’t matter. You’ve already decided that all men, inevitably, at some point, won’t be good enough for you.”
“That is not true.”
“Which is why you’ve let the excuse of being left at the altar guide your life for the past five years. It’s why you haven’t dated. It’s why you didn’t see me standing in front of you all this time, begging for some shred of attention from the mighty Queen Sanders.”
The man in front of me turns around, but I don’t care.
“Stop it,” Sloane says. “I’m not the queen.”
I’d worship her like one, though. In fact, I have been for over two years now. I clamp my mouth shut, because I’ve already said some hurtful things, and I don’t want to do any more damage.
Still, if she can’t see how her reaction and her words have hurt me too, then she really is one of the dumbest smart women I know.
We continue toward the trailhead without a sound in the van. Bit by bit, my anger fades, leaving behind only a chasm of hurt feelings, regret, and guilt too.
Why did Alicia have to call back? Why did Sloane have to answer?
Everything in my body feels too tight. My skin is stitched onto my muscles too tightly. My cells are tense from the nucleus out. Even my hair feels like it’s getting pulled right out of my scalp.
The van comes to a stop, and the couple in front of us practically lunge for the door. Sloane slides to the edge of her seat to follow them, but I put my hand on her elbow and murmur, “Sloane,” the way I do when I hold her in bed at night.
She turns her head toward me without facing me. “I’m sorry,” I say. There are a lot of things to be sorry for, and I’m not exactly sure which one I’m apologizing for. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to go on this stupid hike with my best friend mad at me. I can’t bear it.
“Can you please shelve your anger with me until we’re back to the beach?”
She nods and gets out of the van, turning back to me. She offers me her hand and I take it when I reach the end of the bench seat. I don’t need her help getting out, but I know what this is.
A temporary peace offering.
“I’m sorry too,” she says. “I don’t think you’re like my father.”
“You kind of do, though.” I get out and stand next to her. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have said that.” Even if it is true.
Not everything that’s true needs to be said. In fact, most of the loudest voices out there aren’t speaking the truth at all. They’re just talking to hear themselves talk. They’re loud, and relentless, and hardly ever right.
“Let’s just get through the next one-point-three miles,” she says, hitching her backpack up on her shoulders like she’s facing an army of demons singlehandedly.
I know she doesn’t like hiking, but I did choose the easiest, shortest hike—and one that ends with the best view. So I say nothing as we follow the guide. He speaks to us about the foliage and the wildlife here, how the jungles are used and preserved here in Belize, and dozens of other random facts I’d probably be interested in any other time.
Right now, thoughts of the things I should’ve told Sloane on our balcony flood through my mind. In my books, the hero always knows the right thing to say, and he possesses the bravery to say it. Of course, the heroine gives him the page time to say it, and I can cut her off any time I want in order for him to be the hero.
I feel very unheroic as we return to the resort and then enter our room. “All right,” I say with a sigh. I didn’t exactly break a sweat out there, and I flop onto the bed. “Are we going to the beach right away?”
Sloane doesn’t answer, and the bathroom door clicks closed in the next moment. I exhale, and my first thought is to simply slip out while she’s in there. We have phones, and of course, I have to sleep here for the next two evenings.
Instead, I stay right where I am. I’m tired of running from hard conversations, the idea of hurting her feelings—or mine—and her.
I’m not going to run from her anymore.
When she comes out of the bathroom, I sit up and meet her eye. “Sloane.”
She seems surprised that I’m still there, and that doesn’t comfort me. My past track record shrieks through me—I’ve always run from her. I’ve let her dictate everything between us, and me staying here when she clearly wanted me to leave isn’t in our paradigm of normal.
“What’s the first thing you’d ask someone if they told you they were an author?” I ask.
She gives me a wary glance as she passes. She goes all the way to the end of the dresser and then perches on it. The air around her radiates tension, and it pulls around her eyes too.
“Listen,” I say. “We’re not sixteen years old. We’re adults, and we can have this conversation.”
Her lips purse slightly, and then she presses them together, almost like she has something to say and is holding it back. I give her a moment, but she remains silent. I sigh, because this isn’t the woman I know. “You don’t have anything to say?”
Irritation fires across her face, making her nostrils flare slightly. She won’t look away from me now, and I find myself as equally drawn to her. Her mouth opens, and she says, “I thought you told me everything, Logan. It hurts to know that that was only one-sided.”
“It wasn’t,” I say. “You’re the only person I’ve shared my life with in the past five years.”
She shakes her head. “Then I should’ve known this.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You should’ve, and some of that is on you. I had plans to tell you, and when Alicia called to tell me I’ve just sold two more books, I thought that was the perfect opening. I’d tell you about Heartfelt buying the books, and we’d celebrate today in a big way.”
That’s all ruined now, and I wish I was in my sad house in Superior, alone. I’d get Titan a frozen marrow bone, and I’d order the deep dish pizza I like. Among ham, pepperoni, mushrooms, and green peppers, I’d toast myself for a job well done.
It’s a pathetic picture, and unfortunately, one I’ve lived already.
“You write beachy romances,” she says. “Are our trips research for you?”
No point in lying about it. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “Every day is research for me. You think I can come up with the things in my books from pure imagination?” I shake my head. “Fiction is born from real life. It has to feel authentic to resonate with people. With readers.”
She tilts her head and considers me, a measure of confusion riding in her gaze. She’s looked at me like this before. The first time was when I stepped next to her at the ticketing agent’s desk and said I needed a ticket to Mexico. One of her honeymoon tickets.
“What did you like about Love at Sunset?” I ask.
She blinks a couple of times. “Belinda was so…”
“Real,” I say. “She had problems, and for a few chapters there, you aren’t sure if you like her. Right?”
Sloane doesn’t confirm, but she doesn’t need to. I know Belinda’s story—it’s every woman’s story. “Readers do wonder about her,” I say. “But in the end, they adore her, and they start to cheer for her. Not only that, but the only person in the world who can make her happy—who completes her in a way she didn’t know she needed to be completed—is Rocko.”
Her hero.
She nods. “I got teary when they got back together at the end.”
“That makes me so happy,” I murmur. “That’s the exact reaction I want readers to have.”
“Have you taken things from me and put them in your books?” She wears an expression halfway between hope and horror, and I’m not sure how to answer. Complete honesty might have me back in the lobby, begging for a different room.
But I can’t lie to her.
“Yes,” I say, my throat already raw. “Since I met you, Sloane, every single book I’ve written has had part of you in it.”
Her eyes widen, but she says nothing.
I can stop there, but for some reason, I don’t. “There’s the story you told me about how you met Leon in a book called Waterfall’s Edge. I know you don’t want to be reminded of it, but it was pretty romantic.” I give her a small smile she doesn’t return.
My chest feels like a cave, with sharp objects growing from the top and bottom of it. Somehow, the air makes it past all the jagged pieces and into my lungs. Then out. “I wrote a whole book about a real estate agent once. I had one of my couples take a trip to South Carolina after we went.”
“You loved the beaches there,” she murmurs.
“My career was nothing when I met you,” I say. “I had just started in romance, and I wasn’t sure if I was any good at it. Then I met you, and I…came alive. I put the funny things you text me in one book, and all your favorite foods in another. I wrote a book about a woman who wanted a dog so badly but could never get one because of you.”
I should stop talking, but I can’t seem to make the tide of words stop. “I know you want perfection, but Sloane, no one’s perfect. I’m never going to be that man. I can’t guarantee that our lives won’t be messy. I think life is supposed to be messy. It’s supposed to be a maze, and all we can hope for is that we find someone who’s willing to lock arms with us and never let go.”
She looks away, but the thick, red curtains are still closed from this morning.
“I’d try to make your dreams come true,” I whisper. “I really would, but it’s exhausting knowing that I’m going to fail. That I’ll never be good enough for you.”
“Logan, you’re good enough for me.” She doesn’t sound terribly convincing, though when Sloane speaks in that quiet voice, her head down, I generally believe her.
I lay back on the bed and close my eyes. “I’m so tired. This trip was supposed to be relaxing, and it’s been the opposite of that.”
“Has it?”
“Yes.”
“Why? Because of this?”
“Because,” I say. “I’ve been carrying heavy things for a long time, all by myself. I finally told you how I feel about you, and that was a huge weight off my shoulders. But then, I had to balance that with sleeping in the same bed as you and not taking things too far. Because I don’t want to lose you before I’ve even had you, and I know you’re not ready. And yes, this. I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you, and it just hadn’t come forward yet.”
She remains quiet, which pushes a pin of annoyance into my heart. She can at least acknowledge that my feelings are valid, and that this trip has been unique in the fact that we’ve been crammed together in the same room for almost ten days. The same bed. And we’ve been kissing.
In all, this trip is wholly unlike our others.
“I’ve been looking at apartments and long-term vacation rentals in Pittsburgh for six months,” I say. “I have a tab open on my laptop right now, because I was looking at them this morning when Alicia called.”
I keep my eyes closed, because it’s so much easier to talk this way. Sloane was right on the first night here. It’s easier to share things with the lights off, when there’s no one watching, and no facial cues to read, and no body language to interpret.
“I can’t guarantee you perfection,” I say. “But I would never cheat on you, and I’d vacuum your SUV, and I believe we’d find a way to make things work when they got messy, because we love each other.”
“Murph.”
“But I can’t be expected to be perfect.” I sit up and look at her. She seems one breath away from either going postal or breaking down. At this point, I’m not sure which I prefer. There’s not much left in my gas tank to comfort her, but I also can’t dodge any of her attacks either.
“I think it’s really unfair of you to expect me to be perfect.”
She frowns. “I never said I did.”
“You did, though.”
She gathers her honeyed hair into a ponytail and secures it with a band. She doesn’t go back on her dream of perfection, and she doesn’t apologize for it either. I don’t really expect her to, because this is Sloane, and I know exactly who she is.
She’s unwavering in what she wants, and she will work herself to the bone to achieve it. In this case, however, she can’t have the impossible dream without another human being, and she can’t control them. She can’t simply work more hours or get another certification, and then presto! she’s got an unwavering, perfect husband.
Life doesn’t work that way, not even in romance novels.
I’m so tired, and my stomach is growling. I have to get out of this room, and I fully expect Sloane to simply let me leave. After getting to my feet and checking for my keycard, I say, “I’m gonna go.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know. I just need to think for a bit.”
She doesn’t protest, and I step over to the door. I turn back to her, finding her exquisitely beautiful, the way I always have. She seems childlike right now, almost smaller than she normally is, her spirit held very close to her as she works through something difficult for her.
“Sometimes Sloane, love has to be enough to bridge the gaps between what you want and what someone else can give. Love is what makes impossible things possible.”
Then I open the door and leave. I haven’t exactly told her I love her, but I also definitely told her I love her.
