A More Deserving Blackness (22 page)

             
I wanted you to like the dress.

             
Logan’s eyes flick from the screen, sliding over me appreciatively.  “Well, I did.”

             
When we reach our street Logan slows the car and looks over at me.  “Will you stay?”

             
His foot is hovering over the pedal, and I nod.  Where else would I go?

             
But when we get out of the car I see Logan surreptitiously scanning the street and I realize; I’d almost forgotten about the threats against him.  Though he doesn’t want me to know, he’s uneasy.  I can see it.  The house sits black and quiet, appearing undamaged, at least from the outside, and he takes my hand and unlocks the door, flicking the light on and clicking first the deadbolt and then the bar lock into place.

             
He squeezes my hand.  “Wait here a second,” he says, and then steps quietly away, moving through the house, opening doors and turning on lights before returning to me.  I’m holding out my phone, the words already typed out on the screen.

             
You’re worried.

             
“Not worried,” he corrects me, “just prepared.”

             
My eyes flick to the small table with its cold contents there by the door and Logan takes my hand, pulling me away until it’s hidden from my sight.  He keeps leading me, all the way to his bedroom.

             
Maybe you shouldn’t be home tonight.

             
“I can’t run away every time someone threatens me.”  He sits next to me on the bed, touching a length of hair that had fallen over my shoulder, the curls from earlier all but gone.  I can’t help but glance around him, down the hall, and Logan notices.  “It’s in the drawer, with the safety on, like always.”

             
But that’s not all I’m looking for.  I feel jittery, like I’m waiting for someone to spring out and attack him.

             
“Why does the gun make you so nervous?”

             
He’s waiting, playing with my hair, and I type slowly into the phone on my lap.  When I hold it up for him to see, he steadies it so he can read with his hands over mine.

             
They give people too much power.

             
“You don’t need a gun to kill someone.”

             
But that isn’t what I meant. 

             
I shake my head and kiss him lightly before standing to grab one of the t-shirts from his drawer.  I can feel his questions as I disappear into the bathroom and shut the door, shedding my boots and sweater and dress and piling them in the corner, slipping Logan’s soft shirt over my head.  It hangs almost to my knees and I reach back, pulling my hair from the collar and plucking out the barrette Trish had used to hold it back.  When I look in the mirror my face is pale but not ghostly so, my reddish-brown hair hanging almost straight again, with just the slightest, limp waves at the bottom.  I stare at my reflection and wonder how it is that I can look so normal.

             
Quickly I turn from the mirror and shoot Trish a brief text, letting her know where I am.

             
When I come back out Logan has changed into a pair of his usual drawstring cotton pants and is laying in bed reading, and when I lay next to him he gathers me against him and starts reading aloud.

             
And I wonder how much longer I can really have with him.

Chapter 13

Where are we going?
  I text Logan the next day, Sunday.

             
We’d only just left my house, as Trish had insisted we have lunch with her so we could tell her about our date.

             
“I need details or Mom’s never going to leave me alone,” Trish told us lightheartedly as she’d unpacked the brown paper bag of deli sandwiches onto the counter.  “So where’d you go?”

             
“I took her to a little Italian restaurant about thirty miles out,” Logan told her, selecting a sandwich and returning to sit next to me at the table.  Logan’s knee had bumped mine and I’d rested a hand on his leg automatically, neither of which Trish missed.  I could tell from the giddy smile she’d tried to hide behind a turkey Reuben on rye.  She’d watched contentedly as Logan shared his sandwich with me, falling into habit as he’d taken a hearty bite of the sandwich and then held it out to me as he’d chewed.

             
“And?” Trish prompted when she couldn’t stand it anymore, and I’d realized she wasn’t used to the silence like we were, wasn’t comfortable in it.

             
Logan swallowed his bite and licked his lips.  “Then I took her to the apple orchard, and ruthlessly fed her cider and donuts.”

             
Trish laughed cheerfully, like he’d meant her to, and took a seat at the table with us.  It didn’t take us long to finish our sandwich, Logan holding it out to me silently between bites, and after we were done he’d thrown the wrapper away and grabbed another for himself.

             
When he’d satisfied her with small talk, her eyes never missing the little ways we’d touched each other, almost never without some small form of contact, Logan had delicately excused us.

             
Just before we’d left I’d remembered to run back to my room for Logan’s coat, and when I’d slipped it over my usual grey t-shirt and jeans, Trish was hovering in the doorway.

             
“He’s good for you.”

             
I nodded.

             
“I’m happy for you, Hon.”

             
I’d just smiled and let her hug me, patting her awkwardly on the back.

             
“You should call Mom.  She’d love to hear this from you.  She’d be so excited-” but she’d dropped off, seeing the look on my face.  “Okay.  Maybe some other time.”

             
I hadn’t answered her at all and she’d tugged my braid playfully.  “Go have some fun.”

             
Now Logan is driving quietly beside me, and when his phone vibrates in the cup holder her grabs it and scans the screen.

             
“You need ice cream,” he answers simply, and I shoot him an exasperated look.  That half of a sandwich had been plenty for me, but Logan on the other hand never seems to be quite full.

             
He doesn’t say anything, he just laughs softly and squeezes my hand. 

             
The woman behind the counter at the ice cream shop gives us an odd look when I text Logan my preference and he orders for both of us, but pretty soon he’s carrying two heaping bowls to a booth in the corner, sliding in across from me.

             
As usual, Logan waits for me to take a bite before eating any of his own.  He stares across the table as I slip the white plastic spoon into my mouth, and because he’s watching I slowly lick my lips.  When his eyes finally lift from my mouth they’re no longer smiling.  He shovels a bite in and swallows, inclining his head at me.  My turn again.  I can’t help but grin at how eager he is as I scoop up another spoonful, taking my time, flipping the spoon over in my hand and meeting his gaze as I use my tongue to lick the cold cream from the end with long, slow drags.

             
When I’m done, Logan huffs a surprised laugh, glancing around the shop as he furtively reaches under the table and adjusts himself in his jeans.  He slouches down in the seat a little, spreading his knees slightly in the booth, and doesn’t even bother to take another bite before his dark eyes meet mine, hot and hungry.

             
“Do that again.”

              My stomach hurts a little when we get back in the car.  I’d eaten more than I should’ve, reveling in the game, in the way Logan’s eyes would widen a little, watching the languid movements of my mouth and tongue, how he’d blink and his lips would twitch with a smile as he shifted in his seat. 

             
And when I couldn’t eat another bite Logan had just shaken his head at me, as if in awe.  “God that was hot,” he’d said easily, and then he’d laughed.  “Give me a minute.”

             
Now he’s grinning to himself, holding my hand as he drives.  The sun is beginning to set, and I mourn the loss of the weekend, the loss of having him beside me so constantly.  I mourn the loss of our seclusion from the world that threatened him.

             
It’s because I’m thinking about school the next day, that mess of unpleasantness, that I don’t notice where we are until Logan turns off the car.

             
My stomach drops.

             
Out the front windshield I see a grassy field peppered with the orderly, shining bricks of parked cars, a parking lot stuffed full of vibrant booths beyond, and above that a huge, colorful ring of lights, blinking and spinning merrily.  A Ferris wheel.

             
I grip the door handle, rigid, sharply looking away from the sight of it flashing garishly through the glass.  I’m going to be sick.

             
But the lights are leaking into the spotless black interior of the car, dimly coloring the dashboard, the seat, my lap in watered-down hues.  The screaming starts in my head; harsh, jagged sounds in my voice, and I bite down hard, slamming the door, blocking it out.               

             
No. 
Not now.

             
I close my eyes and focus on breathing through my nose, in and out, slowly, focus on the feel of the air filling my lungs.

             
“Hey.”  Logan’s voice.  Beside me.  “You okay?”

             
Forcing open my eyes I slant my head so I can’t see the Ferris wheel out the front windshield and look at him, nodding.  I try for a smile but I know it comes out warped because the concern in his eyes only deepens.

             
“What’s wrong?”

             
I shrug and shake my head, motioning for us to get out of the car with a hand I try to hide is trembling.  When he doesn’t move, he just narrows his eyes, I reach blindly for the door handle and spill out onto the stiff, dried grass of the field-turned-parking lot.  The long grass crunches under my shoes at the same moment I see the whirling lights reflected in the glossy black paint of Logan’s car and my stomach dips sickeningly.  I grip the hood with one hand.

             
I can do this.

             
From the other side of the car I hear Logan shut his door and then somehow he’s right in front of me and I have to let go of the roof of the car, I have to take his hand and try not to fall apart.  He’s watching me as I reach for him and enfolds my hand in his, undoubtedly noticing the cold sweat prickling my skin.

             
“Bree?”

             
But I just pull at his hand, inclining my head toward the fair.  He walks beside me, studying me in the falling darkness, and I focus on taking one step at a time, one after another.  I try not to look at the cheerful glowing ring looming in front of us, try not to feel the rain on my face, try not to gag on the acidic clump of my own screams in my throat.

             
God. 

             
I close my eyes and I can feel the tears leaking into my hair.  I can feel the barrel of the gun at my jaw.  I can feel the tendons of my wrist jerk under the bite of my teeth.  I can hear the noises he’s making, short grunts from above me and God it hurts so fucking bad and I can’t make a sound and when will it be over please just let it be over . . .

             
“Damn it, Bree!  What the
hell
is going on?”

             
Logan.

             
I cling to the sound of his voice and in my head I hear him like I did that day;
It’s
okay.  Shh.  It’s okay.

             
Logan.

             
I open my eyes and he’s hunkered in front of me, trying to see my face.  I’m bent almost double, an arm around my waist, sucking air in loud, frantic gasps.  The other hand I have braced on an unfamiliar car, clutching the hood like I might collapse without it.  My lungs are burning, my chest wrought with spasms, revolting against the lack of oxygen, but no matter how much I gulp down it doesn’t matter.  I still can’t breathe.

             
“Shit,” Logan mutters.  He straightens abruptly, gathering me roughly in his arms.  “Breathe, Love.”  He’s holding my head in one of his hands, his other arm wrapped around me tightly enough that I can feel the motion of his chest with mine; exaggerated, deliberate.  “It’s okay.  Just breathe with me.  Come on.  It’s okay.”

             
He holds me like this, my eyes shut and my face against his shoulder, blocking out everything but him, the whole world becoming nothing more than his smell, the sound of his voice, and the feel of his body, warm and solid and surrounding me. 

             
When his arms loosen I open my eyes and inhale sharply at the sight of the Ferris wheel spinning, huge and inescapable, behind him.

             
“What?  What’s wrong?”

             
I dig in my back pocket, withdrawing my phone and typing, my hands shaky. 
I’m fine.

             
“No.  You’re not.  Tell me what’s going on.”

             
I let my gaze slide past his shoulders and up, watching as the wheel slows to a stop, letting someone off or on.  The brightly lit spokes burst outward from the center, large bulbs flashing in primary colors in the arrangement of a star, a sunburst, a star.  Just lights.  Fun, festive lights.  Not menacing or threatening or harmful in any way.

             
Logan glances behind him and then back at me, a million questions in his eyes.  “Do you want to go home?”

             
I shake my head. 

             
It’s just a Ferris wheel.  Just a fucking Ferris wheel.  That’s all.

             
“Are you sure?”

             
I nod and take his hand, but I have to pull to get him to walk beside me, and even though I’m not looking at the damn thing my hands are shaking and my heart is slamming in panic.

             
“Bree, wait.”

             
I don’t, I just keep marching resolutely forward, ignoring the intense need inside me to run or throw up or both.

             
“Damn it, Bree,
stop.
”  Logan yanks on my hand, halting me.  “You’re shaking.  What the hell are we doing?  Let’s just go.”

             
Please.  I need to do this.

             
“Do what?”

             
Go in there. 

             
“Why?”

             
But I can’t tell him that.  So instead I type,
I can’t do it without you.  Please.

             
Logan scrapes a hand over his face, exhaling hard, exasperated.  Then he steps closer, eclipsing the kitschy, grotesque display behind him until there is nothing but his face.  His hands cup either side of my jaw, holding my gaze.

             
“Okay.  You win.  But if you collapse like that again we’re leaving, even if I have to drag you out of here.  I mean it.”

             
I nod my agreement and Logan waits for another moment, measuring me carefully, before releasing my face and offering me his hand.  I smile up at him and slip my fingers through his, laying my head on his arm.  Though he looks down at me seriously when my other hand snakes around to brace against his forearm as we walk, he doesn’t comment and he doesn’t slow.

             
Logan leads us through the rows of cars and then through the metal barriers around the outside of the fair, glancing at me frequently to gauge how I’m doing.  The Ferris wheel circles overhead as he leads me past a booth filled with multicolor balloons, past a stand advertising ice cold lemonade and crushed ice, and though part of me still wants to run like the devil’s at my heels, I don’t stop.