When Love Breaks (16 page)

“Look at all this beautiful art. The intricate shapes and colors are all so well defined and perfectly used in combination. I love every one of them,” I say, in awe of the spectacle laid out before me.

“I didn’t realize you were an art connoisseur,” he says, a little surprised.

“I’m not—not really,” I say, looking at him briefly then back at the artwork. “I just know what I like.”

“I know what you mean,” he says softly, and I smile, as I understand the meaning behind his words.

“G’day,” says the bleach blonde woman with the Australian accent. “The name’s Scarlett. How are you goin’?” She reaches out her hand for us to shake.

“Hello. We’re great. I’m Elora, and this is Logan. Are you the artist?” I ask, as I wave a hand toward the tables.

“Sure am. Do you like ‘em?”

“They’re fantastic. Great use of colors, I might add.”

“Thanks. You must be a collector.”

I shrug.

“Maybe, a little. I just love colorful art, and yours definitely stands out.”

“Yeah, I make what I see. Mostly wildlife and things from back home.”

“In Australia?” She nods. “You lived in paradise. What on earth made you move
here?
”

She shrugs.

“My boyfriend is an American who was traveling abroad when we met. He’s an artist too, so when an opportunity to come back to the states came along, he had to take it. I came along for the ride.”

“Wow! That’s going to be a great story to tell your kids someday.”

She smiles and nods in agreement.

“Well, if you want to give my sculptures a fair-go, I’d be happy to quote you a price. Just let me know if you have questions.”

I nod and browse the selections.

“These
are
really nice,” Logan says, admiring an abstract piece that resembles a brilliantly painted, seaside sunset.

“Oh, I like that one too. The spiral reminds me of a giant ocean wave that was plucked right out of the water. It’s soothing, yet vibrant, and evokes so many emotions all at once. I think it’s my favorite.”

“Should we buy it?”

I look at him, shocked.

“No. I have no idea where I’d put it. Besides, I’m sure it’s expensive.”

“Let’s ask,” he says, then lets go of my hand in pursuit of Scarlett.

What is he doing? He comes back a few moments later.

“Do you want it?”

“How much is it?” I ask, afraid to hear the price.

“I didn’t ask her, but if you want it, it’s yours.”

“Logan, no. I’m not going to let you buy it for me.”

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s just…too much.”

He frowns.

“But, you like it.”

“I like Hawaii too, but I don’t expect you to buy it for me,” I say, stunned at the mere thought. He shrugs, seemingly unaffected by my words.

“Suit yourself,” he says, then walks back over to her. I watch, mouth agape, as he hands her his credit card. She hands him a piece of paper, which I assume is a receipt, then he walks back over to me and smiles.

“Did you just buy that sculpture?” He nods. “For me?”

“No. I bought it for me.” He smirks, and his eyes glint as if he’s up to something. I narrow my eyes at him, and he grins.

“Where are you going to put it?” I say, as I cross my arms at my chest.

“I don’t know yet. I thought that you might like to help me decide. Besides, it may give you motivation to come by more often to visit me…I mean,
it.
”

I smirk.

“We can pick it up on our way out.” He grins broadly and shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s keep going.”

As we stroll leisurely along, taking in all the sights, our hands remain connected. Once in a while, I feel his tighten around mine, and he pulls me into him. I’ve come to the conclusion that he does this whenever we pass someone he deems an unsavory looking character. I’m not sure if it’s a conscious effort or instinctual. Either way, it makes me feel safe and protected.

It’s now early afternoon, and the crowds have migrated toward the concession stands. My stomach growls loudly as a friendly reminder that we passed the lunch hour. Embarrassed, I cover it with my hand as if that would quiet it down.

“Are you hungry?” I shrug, then nod. “Why don’t we stop for lunch? I saw an interesting little restaurant near where we parked,” he says.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. We can drop off your sculpture on the way there.”

After picking up Logan’s art, we make our way through the crowd and back to the car. While en route, I notice Logan stops frequently to adjust his right leg.

“Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. It’s just that the socket on this side seems to be a little loose.”

“Loose? Is that normal?”

“My therapist said that my residual legs will change shape, which will necessitate an adjustment or replacement of the prosthetics. I guess that’s what’s going on. It’s been bothering me for a few days now.”

“Why didn’t you say something? We could’ve stayed at your place. You could’ve taken them off, to give yourself a break, and just used your wheelchair.”

He shakes his head adamantly.

“No way. I don’t want to be wheelchair bound ever again,” he says. “I’m enjoying the lifestyle you encouraged me to live, and I’m not going backward.”

“Don’t think of it as going backward.”

“Let’s just talk about something else, okay?” he says, and if I’m not mistaken, he seems a bit irritated.

“Okay,” I reply quietly, and the subject is closed.

We enter the Sand-Witch Shop, and wait as the hostess gathers two menus. The décor is nautical, with a definite mermaid theme. She seats us at a booth by the window which faces the main road. From this angle, we can observe the quirky pedestrians as they walk past us.

“This place is cute,” I say.

He looks around.

“Yeah, it’s not bad. I hope the food is good. I’m starving.”

I nod in agreement. Then, the unbidden image of our second kiss and my nightmare come into focus. I need to talk to him about it.

“Logan?”

“Yeah?”

“I need to…ask you about something.”

I have his full attention now.

“You can ask me anything.”

“Well, you know when you kissed me at Ryan and Sydney’s wedding?”

He smiles broadly.

“I remember. What about it?”

“I noticed that…” I stop mid-sentence as he reaches down and winces a bit. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just a little sore from all the walking we did. Please, continue.” Nervously, I look at the table next to us. It’s quite close to ours. There’s a young couple eating their lunch, and I wonder if they’d be able to overhear our conversation. “Earth to Elora,” he says, and I look back at him. “Go on. What were you going to ask me about?”

“Um, maybe I should wait until we’re alone.” I glance back at the couple.

“You’re just going to leave me hanging?” I shrug. “Please continue. I’m dying to know what you’re thinking.”

He reaches across the table and caresses my hand.

I smile awkwardly.

You can do this.

“Well, it just seemed like—”

“Hi. My name is Tammy and I’ll be your waitress. Can I start you folks off with something to drink?” she interrupts.

“Uh, yeah,” Logan says. “I’ll have iced tea and she’ll have…” He looks to me for an answer.

“The same, please.”

She nods and writes in her notepad.

“I’ll bring them right over,” she says, then she walks away to fetch them.

Logan looks back at me.

“Now, where were we?”

I sigh, frustration lingering in the air.

“I’ll just wait, and we can talk at your house.”

His eyebrows lift, and he seems concerned as to what the topic of conversation might be.

“Is everything okay? You’re not upset about something, are you?”

“No. It’s nothing like that,” I say, even though it sort of is like that.

“Are you sure? Because your expression is worrisome.”

He gently squeezes my hand, and I try to fake a sincere smile, though I’m not sure I’m pulling it off.

“Please don’t be worried. It’s nothing. Really. Let’s just enjoy our lunch.”

He’s skeptical, I can tell, but he says nothing more about it.

The drive home takes about thirty minutes. We’re making small talk, and I’m trying to avoid the subject of our kiss. Most of the way there, he’s fidgeting with his leg.

“When we get you home, I want you to take that off, and let me have a look at it.”

He smiles mischievously.

“You want to play doctor with me?” He raises and lowers his eyebrows seductively.

“Yes,” I giggle. “Something like that.”

I pull into the driveway and put the car in park. As Logan exits the car, he winces.

“Agh!” he exclaims and grasps his leg. I rush to his side.

“Hey. Is it bothering you that much?” He shrugs, which is man speak for,
yes
. “Here,” I say, putting his arm over my shoulders. “Let me help you into the house.”

We hobble in together, and he sits on a kitchen chair. Slowly, he removes his right prosthetic leg then, the liner.

“Hm. It’s gotten bigger,” he says while wincing. I look down and spy a huge ulcer that has formed near the bottom.

“Logan! When did this happen?”

“I told you, it’s been hurting for a few days. It wasn’t this big yesterday.”

“And, you still walked around on it like this?” I’m upset with him for not telling me about it. “This needs to be cleaned out. I’m getting the first aid kit.” I turn toward the hallway, ignoring his pleas to not make a big deal of it, and fetch the supplies I need. When I come back, he’s removed the other leg as well. Upon further inspection, I determine that the wound is isolated to one leg. I place a large bowl underneath the chair and pour a sterile, saline solution on it while trying to dab it gently.

“Ow! That stings,” he says, gripping the seat of the chair tightly.

“Well, if you’d told me about this when it started to hurt, it might have been a lot less painful.” I shoot him a scolding look to let him know this was a bad decision.

“I know, I’m sorry. I just didn’t want to miss the wedding, and then when you showed up this morning…well, I couldn’t say no to you.”

“Seriously?” He shrugs apologetically. “Ugh! You’re impossible.” He grins, then winces again, as I dab his blister a little harder.

I finish tending to the wound, using a wet to dry dressing with an ace wrap over the whole thing. He then takes a hold of his prosthetic leg and liner.

“What are you doing?”

“Um, putting my leg back on.”

“No, you’re not. You won’t be able to wear it until that blister heals.

“Like hell!” he says. “I’m not going back in that chair. There’s no way!”

“Logan—”

“No. I’m not doing it.” He grabs his liner and begins to roll it on. I watch his face harden while it rubs against the wound.

“This is ridiculous. Who cares if you have to stay in your wheelchair for a few days? You did it for several months after your surgery.”

“I. Am not. Staying in that wheelchair.” He says each word slowly and clearly, and there’s a menacing finality to his tone. I cross my arms in front of my chest, my stubbornness erupting with his.

“Fine. Then, I’m not coming back over until your wound is completely healed. The longer you wait to give it a chance to rest, the longer it is before you can see me.”

I flash him a cocky smile. His responding expression is clearly irritation, as he’s just realized two can play this game. We stare at each other intently. It’s a showdown, and may the best man—er—woman, win.

“Really,” he says. I nod. “You’d stay away just to win this argument?”

“I hadn’t realized we were arguing, but it seems you’re willing to let me stay away to prove a point.” I purse my lips and raise one brow.

His mouth twists.

“Touché. I guess you win. But, for my concession, I’m throwing in a condition.” He too raises one eyebrow.

Why do I find that so sexy?

“What condition?”

“That you sit here and tell me whatever it is that you started to say at the restaurant, and you don’t stop until you’ve said it all.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, as I decide if this is the best time to talk about it.