Page 122 of Logan

Iarrive at the charming cabin I rented, nestled in a secluded grove of towering pines. The rustic exterior and quaint gabled roof promise a cozy retreat, a place to lick my wounds and piece together the shattered remnants of my life.

But as I step over the threshold with my duffel bag clutched tight to my chest like a shield, I realize with sinking certainty that no amount of rustic scenery can dispel the suffocating feeling of dejection that has settled in my heart, heavy and immovable as a boulder.

My career is gone, shattered like cheap glass under the heel of my reckless choices. And if this video goes public, I won’t be able to show my face anywhere.

I drop my bag by the door, not bothering to unpack and wander into the living room. My gaze catches on a framedcross-stitch sampler above the fireplace, a saccharine platitude about the healing power of nature stitched in prim thread.

I snort.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat as a sudden thought hits me. How much does facial reconstruction surgery cost? Maybe I should look into it.

I shake my head at my gallows humor. Seems like the only career I’ll be able to have now is that of a porn star since everyone has already gotten a good long look at my tits.

Might as well lean into it and embrace my new identity as the office slut. I glance down at my breasts. At least they’re nice, perky and symmetrical. Porn star grade.

I wander into the bedroom. The bed looms before me, wide and inviting, a plush down comforter in soothing earth tones begging me to crawl beneath it and shut out the world.

I stand with my back to the bed, and I let myself fall backward, surrendering to gravity and despair. I bounce as I hit the mattress, the ancient springs creaking in protest.

The whole point of this little getaway into the wilderness was to clear my head, gain some needed perspective, and come to grips with my new reality. But I can’t muster up the willpower to even lace up my hiking boots, to plaster on a carefree smile for the unsuspecting strangers I might encounter on the trails. I can barely stand the company of my own thoughts.

Thoughts that stray to the catalyst of my downfall, the man who lit the match and set my life ablaze with the barest brush of his fingertips.

Logan.

Even now, even with the acrid taste of betrayal coating my tongue, the mere thought of him sends a traitorous shiverskittering down my spine. I want to hate him. Want to curse his name and banish him from my thoughts like an exorcised demon. But I can’t.

I knew the risks, knew I was dancing on the edge of a cliff every time I let him put his hands on me, every time I fell into the stormy blue of his eyes and drowned there. I dove headfirst into the flames with a smile on my face, giddy at the rush of playing with fire.

I have no one to blame but myself for getting burned.

God, how could I have been so naïve? So stupid?

I need to swear off men. Resign myself to a life of celibacy and cats and pints of ice cream consumed in a bathrobe on a Saturday night. Cut out the middleman and fast forward to spinsterhood.

I scrabble for my phone and hold it over my face, the glowing screen searing my gritty, aching eyes.

A barrage of notifications assault my vision, missed calls and concerned texts and emails clamoring for attention.

I swipe away the notifications, ignoring the twinge of curiosity, the niggling urge to scroll through my messages just in case.

Instead, I pull up my thread with Emery, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I debate what to say. How to make her believe I haven’t lost it, that I’m not one stiff breeze away from shattering into a million jagged pieces?

In the end, I settle for a half-truth, a travel brochure snapshot of a carefree woodland retreat.

Hey, I arrived safely. The cabin is gorgeous. I’m already enjoying a hike in nature, and I’ve met nice people. Don’t worry.

I stare at the words until they blur. The pixels bleeding together. I promised Emery I’d let her know I was okay. I never promised complete honesty.

I hit send before I can second guess myself—before the suffocating despair claws its way back up my throat and renders me mute.

Emery’s response is almost immediate.

Emery

Glad to hear. I hope you’re alright, waiting for an update from you.

I stare at the message. I hate deceiving her, the one best friend I have left in this world. But I can’t bear the thought of her pity, her gentle concern, her attempts to just fix everything with platitudes and reassurances that I’m better off without the toxic influence of Logan Valeur in my life.