The Promises We Keep (Made for Love Book 1) (64 page)

Who am I kidding? They
’
re only threats against myself
—
against her; against this whole situation. If I rebel instead of walking in obedience, it doesn
’
t hurt God. It hurts me.

I don
’
t need to look at the menu, as I have it memorized by now, so I look over at Logan and Roman instead. Almost immediately, I wish I had found a better distraction. They
’
re far enough away that I can
’
t hear what they are saying, but by the looks of it, it
’
s not good.
And
it
’
s about me. I notice Logan signal back in my direction, her attention still trained on Roman, and his eyes flicker my way. Since I
’
m looking right at him, he offers me a nod and a smile, but the smile disappears the moment his gaze falls back on Logan. His brow darkens as he scowls and shakes his head at her. She only shrugs her shoulders before she makes her way back to me.

“
What was that about?
”
I ask.

“
Oh, nothing. Just Roman being Roman. So, do you know what you're going to get?
”

I
’
m weary of what she
’
s keeping from me, but I forget about it the moment Marla comes over to take our order. She
’
s sweet, like always, and I
’
m doubly grateful that she
’
s not Addie or Sarah.

“
Alright, spill,
”
demands Logan, patting her hands in her lap.

“
What do you mean?
”

“
Mysterious
, I want the goods. Tell me about this bitch.
”

I assume she means my
non
-girlfriend and, despite the fact that Logan doesn
’
t know she
’
s just called Addie a name she doesn't deserve to be called
—
ever, I really don't appreciate it and I
’
m offended on Addie's behalf.
“
Um
—
first of all, she isn
’
t.
”

When Logan laughs, the sound full and melodious, I don
’
t hide my confusion.
“
I wasn
’
t talking about the
girl
, I meant the
situation
. Tell me about this
complicated
you mentioned earlier,
”
she clarifies, air quoting the word
complicated
.

“
Oh,
”
I mutter, shaking my head as I try and discard my annoyance. It doesn
’
t work.
“
I don
’
t really want to talk about it.
”

“
That
’
s cool,
”
she assures me, lightheartedly.
“
At least tell me this much: are you the screw-
er
or the screw-
ee
?
”

“
What?
”
I
’
m starting to question my decision to come out with this woman. Talking to her is giving me a headache.

“
Okay. Let me spell it out for you. This is how
I
know the bitch otherwise known as
complicated
.
”
She clears her throat and sits up straighter before she begins.

“
About four years ago, when I started at CSU, I met this guy.
Total
dreamboat.
Total
douche bag. Love is blind and I was stupid and naive and I thought I was happy. We were together for six months, which was the longest relationship I had ever been in, and when he told me he loved me, I believed him. Even after I found him drunk and making out with another girl at a party.

“
Oh, stupid me.

“
He begged for my forgiveness and I couldn
’
t refuse him. Like, literally
couldn
’
t
. He had these eyes
…
Anyway, a month later, I found my dreamboat, douche bag, boyfriend
drunk
in the
same girl's
bed.
That
I wouldn
’
t tolerate. Couldn
’
t.
Whoops, I slipped my tongue in someone else
’
s mouth
is not the same as,
whoops, I slipped my penis in someone else
’
s vagina.
So we broke up.
”
She stops with a casual shrug and then takes a sip of her drink.

For a moment, I
’
m confused. First, because her story seems pretty straight forward to me; second, because she seems completely over it, judging by the tone of her voice
—
and I wonder why she felt the need to tell me something so personal about herself.
“
That actually doesn
’
t sound complicated. He cheated. You left. Good for you.
”

She hums a laugh and shakes her head at me.
“
That
’
s not where the story ends. You see, three months later
—
a few weeks before the end of spring semester
—
that girl came and found me.
”

“
Found
you
? Why?
”

“
Because she couldn
’
t find
him
and she thought I might be able to help.
”

My head is starting to hurt again.
“
Why would she want to find him?
”

“
Because he left her with a parting gift she was sure he hadn
’
t left on purpose and she wanted him to know, in case he wanted it back.
”

“
Okay. You
’
ve lost me,
”
I tell her, admitting defeat.

“
He left a bun in her oven.
”

“
Wait, what? She was pregnant?
”
I ask, flabbergasted.

“
Ding, ding, ding! Problem was
—
well, aside from the unexpected baby
—
he had dropped out.
”
She rolls her eyes and scoffs, seemingly at herself.
“
I picked a winner, right? And when I tried to get ahold of him, he wouldn't answer.
I love you, my ass.
He, dear Beckham, was the screw-
er;
and I the screw-
ee.
But poor preggers! I felt so bad for the girl
—
she had to carry that spawn
’
s baby. Which she did. Full term. He may have broken my heart, but he broke her
vag.
”

“
How do you know?
”

“
Because she became my best friend. How do you like
that
bitch?
”

“
Wait, isn
’
t Daph
—”
I don
’
t even have to finish my sentence; the look she gives me as she sips at her drink is answer enough.
Now it feels like my brain is completely empty.
I have no words. I
’
m literally speechless for a least a minute.

“
You okay there?
”
she asks, reaching over to squeeze my shoulder.

I
’
m jerked out of my wordless trance at her touch. Slowly, answers to questions I
’
ve asked myself in regards to the friendship between Logan and Daphne begin to fall into place. Just as quickly as old questions are answered, new questions take their place. The unlikely pair were drawn to each other in very unique and unusual circumstances. What happened to the baby? And how did they kindle a friendship out of that mess instead of ending up in a cat fight? When I look at Logan, I begin to understand that she
’
s more than what she seems.

“
So
mysterious,
”
she whispers, lightly tracing her fingers across my forehead.
“
What
’
s going on up there? I swear, you think more than any guy I
’
ve ever met.
”

It isn
’
t until she speaks that I realize I still haven
’
t. I shake my head and she pulls her hand away.
“
Daphne
—
she has a kid?
”

“
No. She gave him up. That
’
s where my story ends, so enough about me. Now back to
you
. Are you the screw-
er
or the screw-
ee?
”

It takes me another second to shake off her story; but when I do, I find her question no easier to answer.
“
I don
’
t know,
”
I reply honestly.
“
Sometimes, I feel like both.
”

“
Well, shit,
”
she says with a laugh.
“
I
’
ll be sure to buy you some dessert, later, too.
”

I can
’
t breathe.
I can
’
t breathe!
Literally, every time I try and breathe in, all I can swallow is a cap full of air and that
’
s not nearly enough. While I know if I just took a second to collect myself, I
’
d probably be alright, my brain is too busy trying to define the emotion that
’
s currently invading my chest and clogging my airway.

As I watch them talk to one another, his gaze focused intently on her, I replay the scene I just walked in on.
Beckham and Logan. Together. Alone. Her fingers grazing his face. His face!
A small part of me
—
the smallest
—
is begging me to think logically, but I can
’
t. She had her fingers on his face.
That
speaks of intimacy. What is more personal than a person
’
s face?
Aside from the obvious
…

I try and shake the thought away, but I can
’
t take my eyes off of them.