When Love Breaks (5 page)

LOGAN

“M
mm. Something smells good,” Michael says as he puts his jacket on the chair. “What delicious concoction did she make for us today?” He opens the oven door to discover some sort of casserole. It does smell good. “Dude, you should be having sex with this girl. Imagine what she’d cook for us then.”

“Fuck off, asshole! Don’t talk about her like that!” I spit. God, he’s such a pig.

Michael holds up his hands in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Relax. I was just being funny. But, really dude, if she’s as good in bed as she is in the kitchen…” His eyes widen.

“If you want to keep your
middle
leg, you’ll shut your mouth right now,” I warn.

He laughs loudly.

“Calm down. I’m not planning on banging your girl.”

“Michael, I’ve told you, she’s not
my
girl. She’s
a
girl who works for me. That’s all.” I wheel myself up to the table.

“So, she’s fair game then?” I shoot virtual daggers at him, and he backs off the subject.

Michael scoops two portions of Elora’s casserole onto our plates, and we dig in.

“When am I going to meet this girl whose virtue you’re protecting from me?” he asks as he chews.

“Hopefully never,” I mutter petulantly.

“Oh, come on. I’ll behave.”

I snort.

“When has
that
ever happened?”

“While it’s true it’s a rare occasion, I
can
be good when I want to be. Just ask Mom. By the way, she said she called here today, but no one answered.”

“I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I’ll call her back later.”

“You always say that, and never do.”

“I don’t want to hear a lecture from her,” I say. “I’ll call her another day.”

“She’s just worried about you, you know.”

I nod sadly.

“I know.”

The rest of dinner is eaten in relative silence. Afterward, I resign myself to the fact that I must call my mother, before she gets too concerned and pays me a visit. I go to my room and grab my cell phone. She answers on the second ring.

“Logan! How are you? I called you earlier today but got no answer. Were you in therapy?”

I sigh. Here we go.

“Hello, mother. I’m fine. How are you?” I recite the standard greeting and brace myself for the barrage of motherly advice.

“I’m fine, darling. How’s the recovery going?”

“It’s going fine.”

“Did you get to speak with someone in the prosthetics department?”

“Mom, you know I’m not ready to do that yet.” I say
yet
as though I’ll
ever
be ready for fake legs.

“Oh, sweetie, please reconsider. You’re so young. You have a whole lifetime ahead of you.”

I roll my eyes and think,
this is why I don’t call her more often
.

“Yes, I know.”

“So, Michael tells me he’s hired someone to come and help you during the day, when he’s at work.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“And?”

“And what? She’s very helpful. What more do you want me to tell you?”

“Well, there’s no need to be cross. I was just wondering. Does she help you with therapy too?”

“Mom…” I hate that every subject seems to turn back to therapy and artificial legs.

“Oh, all right, darling. I’ll stop bothering you, for now. But, I do hope you’ll think about getting back on your feet, both literally and figuratively.”

I agree to think about it, and she goes on to talk about my stepfather, and how he bought a new yacht. She babbles on for who knows how long as my mind drifts to what happened earlier today, with Elora. I made her cry. I was an asshole, and I actually made her cry. Even still, she said she’d see me tomorrow. Who does that? I should ask the agency for someone else. I should relieve her of her obligation to me and let her find another client to take care of—one who deserves her. She’s kind, caring, and determined to help me, and I just keep fighting her. What if I gave in? What if I said I’d try therapy? Would it make her smile? I’m guessing it would. I’d love to be the reason she smiles. I sigh into the phone. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Logan. She might not come back.

“So, darling, that’s where the name of the yacht came from.”

“That’s nice, mother,” I say, not having a clue what she’s talking about.

“Nice? Were you listening to me at all?”

“Hey, I’ve got to go. I have another call coming in that I have to take. We’ll talk again soon?”

“Um, okay. Give Michael a hug for me,” she says. We say our goodbyes, and I promise to take good care of myself.

She said she’d be back today, but a little voice in my head tells me she’s through trying to help me get better. It taunts me and tells me she’s not coming. I give that voice a virtual punch in the throat, when I see her apprehensive face walk through my front door. She’s shocked to see me already in the kitchen but smiles politely.

“Good morning,” I say before she has the chance to.

“Good morning,” she repeats. “You sure are bright eyed and bushy tailed today.”

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“The usual?” she asks, and starts to pull out the pan.

“No,” I say, and she stops. “How about if I try cooking with you today?”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and her head tilts to the side, making sure she heard me correctly.

“Oh. Okay. What do you want to make?” She tries, but she can’t hide her small smile from me.

“How about pancakes?”

“That sounds good. How should we do this?”

“Well, if you get the ingredients down from the cabinets, along with a mixing bowl, I’ll measure everything out and stir it. I’ll let you pour it onto the griddle and do the flipping.”

She smiles again and gathers everything. Holding the bowl in my lap, I add the water into the mix. Stirring vigorously, she sits and watches me. Her amused expression is way different than yesterday. Before handing it over, she adds just a touch of cinnamon and a bit of vanilla. Puzzled, I look up at her.

“It just makes it taste better,” she says, then takes the bowl.

The batter sizzles slightly, as she pours it onto the hot surface. Then, within a few minutes, she flips the first batch.

“How do you know when to flip them?” I ask, completely clueless as to how to cook anything.

“You’ll see bubbles form on the surface of the pancake. You can also do a test lift with the spatula. Next time, I’ll put the griddle on the table, so you can see what I mean.”

I nod and continue to watch her. Before too long, there’s a stack of pancakes, buttered and ready for consumption.

“Are you eating with me again?” I say, hopeful.

“Do you want me to?” she replies.

“Yes.”

“Then, I will.”

I smile at her, and she back at me, and suddenly, it feels like a new day.

“These are really good,” I say, because they are. “Everything you cook is good. I’m sorry I never gave you enough compliments.”

“Thank you. I try to add my own touches to everything I cook. Sometimes it works out and sometimes, it’s a disaster. But, I learn what I like and don’t like that way.”

I finish my bite and clear my throat.

“I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“I deserved it,” she says. “I pushed too hard. I’m sorry about that.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I need to be pushed. I’ve been feeling really sorry for myself, and I need someone to call me out on my shit. It’s fine. You’re doing the right thing by saying those things.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I have a habit of going too far. Clearly, you’re still reeling from the amputation. That’s something I’ll never be able to understand. I should be respecting your boundaries. Instead, I’m expecting you to just snap out of it. I’ll be more considerate from now on.”

Then, without thinking, I place my hand on her forearm. Her warm skin makes my hand tingle, but I don’t pull it away.

“Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. I’ll adjust,” I say softly.

Our breaths are shallow as we stare into each other’s eyes. I feel my face heat, and an internal energy spreads throughout my body. Her cheeks flush and, for a split second, I think she may be feeling the same way. But, as soon as I think it, the growling voice, in the back of my head, shoots me down, asking,
what on earth would she want with you?
I retract my hand and sit back, trying to recover my wits. My heartbeat continues to race, even after we separate, and I nonchalantly blow out a slow, steady breath, trying to return it to a normal rhythm.

Our last day of the week together is almost done. Michael doesn’t work on the weekends, so there’s no need to have Elora here. The thought is depressing. She’s putting the finishing touches on the dinner she’s prepared when I come out from my daily workout.

“I’m almost done. Make sure your brother takes the foil off and lets it brown for another five to ten minutes, when he gets home.” I nod. She stands stationary in front of me. “Well, it’s been an interesting week, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, it sure has,” I agree. “Are you brave enough to come back again on Monday?”

She rubs her chin. Her expression is blank, and that concerns me. Suddenly, she grins widely.

“I’ll see you on Monday.”

Relief washes over me. She was teasing me, so I give her a wry smile.

“Good. I’ll see you then.”

She shuts the door behind her, and I instantly feel lonely, but content, at the same time. The week started out badly, but what we’ve gone through has given us an understanding, and I know this will work.

It has to.

4

ELORA

I
throw myself onto the couch and fling my feet onto the coffee table in front of me, sighing and sagging into my relaxed position as I do.

“Rough week?” Daniel asks as he enters the living room.

“Definitely a rollercoaster ride,” I reply.

“Then, I guess you don’t feel like going out tonight, do you?”

My lip curls up. “Seriously? I’m exhausted. The only thing I want to do is crawl into a hot bath, then crawl into my nice, warm bed.” I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the couch.

“You can do that later. I want to go out and drink, and I’ll look like a pathetic drunk if I do it alone. Come with me.”

“Why don’t you just call John, or Luke? They’re usually all too willing to go out partying with you.”

“Well,” he says, “John is helping his sister move this weekend, and Luke has some girl on the line. His latest flavor of the month is quickly becoming a habit. You’re all I’ve got, so suck it up, princess. You’re coming with me.”

I groan, in hopes that it makes me seem more incapable of moving from this spot, but he knows all my tricks and keeps bothering me, until I agree to go.

The bar is crowded. Daniel acts as an icebreaker, as I follow him through the dense crowd. Somehow, we find two seats at the bar, and he gives the bartender our order. Within minutes, I have a beer in front of me.

“Is that kind okay?” he shouts over the pounding beat coming from the speakers.

I nod. “It’ll do,” I shout back and take a long drink. It’s more bitter than I’m used to, but I down it very quickly. After the week I’ve had, I need to relax.

“To a great night out with my favorite sister!” Daniel toasts. “And, here’s hoping at least one of us gets laid—hopefully me.” He grins widely from ear to ear, and I laugh.

“I’m your
only
sister, and yes, I can guarantee it’ll be you.”

We snicker as we enjoy the show that walks past us every few minutes. Some people should really look in a mirror. Suddenly, Daniel jumps up from the stool.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, and leaves me alone at the bar.

Great.

I sneer at Daniel’s retreating back and take another sip of my beer, not noticing the bitterness anymore. As I sit, my mind begins to wander. I wonder if Logan drinks beer.

Where did that come from?

I’m supposed to be out having a good time, and
he
pops into my mind? How odd. Still, I wonder. Does he get out much? I suspect not. He doesn’t seem like much of a people person. I begin to daydream about a different Logan Turner. One who likes to go out. One who’s the life of the party. A guy who has any number of women hanging on his every word because let’s face it, he’s hot.

Did I just…

I shake my head to clear it. Where did that thought come from? He’s my client. I can’t think of him that way.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot the first wave, and what I’m guessing won’t be the last, of men scoping out their hopeful conquest for the night. A man winks at me, which makes me want to audibly gag. I roll my eyes and turn my head, in an attempt to discourage him. It doesn’t work, and I find my view of the dance floor, blocked by the tall man, dressed almost entirely in denim.

Really? Who on earth wears all denim?

“Hi, there,” he says with every tooth on display. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I smile politely at him and shake my head, holding my nearly empty, beer bottle up for him to see.

“I’ve already got one, but thanks,” I say, then turn my head away again, hoping he’ll take a hint.

“Okay, can I buy you the next one?”

I shake my head again. “I have a one drink limit, sorry,” I say eager to get rid of him.

“Well, how about a dance then?”

Ugh. Why won’t this guy go away?

“No, thank you.”

“Are you from around here?” He’s really trying. I’ll give him that, but I’m just not in the mood to be hit on.

“I’ve got to go to the little girl’s room,” I say, and I set my beer down, making a beeline for anywhere but here. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow. While in the restroom, I stare at my reflection. I look tired, if I’m honest, and I wish I could just go back home. I wonder what Logan’s doing right now. I know he said he reads a lot, but is that since the surgery, or was he like that before? Did he frequent bars, like most men his age, or was he always a homebody? I splash some cold water on my face, trying to rid my mind of these strange, wayward thoughts, then exit the bathroom. I look over at my spot. The denim clad man is gone, so I assume it’s safe to return to my seat.

“Did you see who’s here?” Daniel asks as he approaches. I shake my head. “It’s Ashley.”

“Who’s Ashley?”

“You know…” He winks at me, hoping I’ll remember.

“You mean the Ashley you went on and on about six months ago? The one whose acrobatic skills in the bedroom are second to none?” I roll my eyes.

“Shh! Shut up! Yes,
that
Ashley. Do you want her to hear you?”

I shrug.

“I don’t care if she hears me.”

“Well, I do,” he whisper-shouts. “I’m trying to get back with her, and I don’t want her thinking I went around telling everybody our business.”

“But, you
did
tell everybody your business.”

“I know, but she doesn’t need to know that,” he says.

“You’re a pig, you know that?”

He smiles triumphantly. “I know, but I want to get laid, so mum’s the word.” He holds up a finger to his lips to silence me, and I roll my eyes again.

Three hours later, I find myself leaving the bar with Daniel. I pour him into the cab and step inside after him.

“Pearl Road apartments, please,” I tell the driver, and we speed off into the night. Daniel, who is drunk, and now depressed about the prospect of not getting Ashley back, is leaning on me and groaning.

“Ashley, oh, Ashley, wherefore aren’t you with me right now, Ashley?”

Oh, brother.

His half-assed attempt at Shakespeare, on her behalf, makes me feel a bit agitated.

“Daniel, she’s a whore. Just let her go.”

He lifts his head and looks at me, affronted.

“Don’t you think I know she’s a whore? But, she was
my
whore.” He lays his head, back on my shoulder, as we continue our ride.

I pay the driver the fair, and put Daniel’s arm over my shoulders. He’s quite a bit taller than me, but I manage to get both of us up the flight of stairs to our place. I open the door and shove him onto the couch.

“You’re the best sister ever. You know that, right?” he says, cocked sideways in an awkward sitting position.

“Yep, I’m the best,” I say in a monotone voice and begin taking off his shoes.

“You save me from very flexible whores. You let me stay at your place to save up money. You cook and…clean…and…”

And, he’s out. The limp body of my very drunk, very sad brother is finally unconscious and now, I can go to bed. After tipping him over, so he’s lying across the seats, I pick his legs up onto the couch and throw a blanket over him. After the lights are out, I head toward my bedroom and fall into bed.

Morning arrives, and I wake with a pounding headache. I carefully pry my eyelids open to see the bright sunlight streaming in through my window. I didn’t have that much to drink last night, but there’s little doubt where my pain is stemming from: cheap beer. Gingerly, I sit up, covering my eyes as virtual daggers jab into them. I swing my legs out of bed and stand.

“Agh!” I exclaim, as my left ankle rolls to the side and buckles under my weight. I sit back down on the bed quickly. “Damn it,” I say, while taking my sock off and rubbing my ankle gently, trying to ease the pain. After a few minutes, I limp toward the bathroom in search of a bandage to wrap around it.

After wrapping it up, I hobble toward the kitchen and spy the, still sleeping, figure of my brother huddled under the blanket. He stirs as I begin making breakfast.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I say only to hear him moan in protest. “How’s your head?”

“I hate you,” he replies, and I laugh.

“Why do you hate me?”

“Because you didn’t get as shit-faced as I did, and you’re able to be upright.”

I laugh again.

“I’m not exactly upright,” I say, lifting my pant leg to reveal the bandage that’s tightly wrapped around my ankle.

“How’d you do that?”

“I stepped down on it and twisted it this morning. It’s really sore.”

“Well, I hope it’s broken.”

“Nice, Daniel. Really nice.”

“Only because you cost me Ashley,” he goes on to say.

“What are you talking about?”

“If you were any kind of
good
sister, you would’ve encouraged me to keep pursuing her.”

“Yeah, if I wanted you to catch something.” I snicker at my statement.

“Whatever. If you liked your amputee, I’d encourage
you
.”

“Daniel, he’s my client! That’s all. I can’t like him like that, even if I wanted to. And, I don’t.” I say the words, then sigh. I’m not sure why the thought of that barrier makes me sad. It’s not like anything would ever come of me and Logan Turner anyway.

I grab the two plates of food I just made and walk slowly toward the kitchen table.

“Breakfast ready?” he asks.

“Yes, and come get it while it’s hot.”

I’m almost to the table, when my ankle rolls once again. I cry out and stumble, spilling the food onto the floor.

“Are you okay?” he asks, shaking his head and chuckling quietly.

“Damn it. I just twisted it again. I’m okay,” I say, irritated with myself.

“Are you sure?” He walks over and pulls out the chair nearest to me, so I sit.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” We both look down at my carefully cooked meal now strewn all over the floor. “I guess I’ll have to start over again.”

“I didn’t feel like eating eggs anyway,” he says with a shrug.

I sit down on the floor to clean up my mess, and Daniel joins me there. We pick up what we can, then the small carpet scrubber does the rest. When we’re just about done, I look up at the chair beside me.

“Huh.”

Daniel looks at me curiously.

“What?”

“I wonder how hard it is to get up in that chair from this position on the floor.” Without using my legs to propel me, I grasp the edges and begin to pull up. Almost immediately, the chair tilts forward, halting me. I try again, this time grabbing the table too. I manage to get halfway up, before the chair decides to tip. “How can I do this?” I try one more time but ultimately, I’m forced to use my feet to push me upward. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to put myself in Logan’s shoes, so to speak.”

“Nice pun.”

“Not intended.” I smirk.

“Here, let’s try this,” Daniel says, and he opens up his laptop. He searches the internet for,
ways to transfer into a chair from the floor
. Dozens of videos pop onto the screen, so we watch some of them.

“Let’s search some more transfers,” I say, excited and teeming with new ideas.

We spend hours typing phrases into the search engine, and experimenting with them. It’s a bit harder to try them out, with our legs in the way, and our brains, telling us to use them.