Brother's Keeper (22 page)

When the phone rings, it is an unwelcome interruption in more ways than one. As I make my way out to the kitchen for a glass of water, I can see Logan on the phone and can tell he’s speaking with someone from Brighton. They’re confirming his flight arrangements for the following Thursday when he will be travelling to Denver. Logan is cordial, but the look on his face is anything but. I return to the bedroom, not wanting to hear anything more. Minutes later, he crawls in next to me and pulls my body in to his.

Wanting to fall asleep and forget the last in a long line of reminders that Logan will be leaving soon does nothing to actually help me get to sleep. I lie awake for what feels like hours, unable to shut the feeling of loss out of my mind. He’s not gone, yet I miss him already. I know how painful it is going to be. Far more than I ever imagined it would or could.

And as he rolls toward me, he whispers in my ear. “I hate this. Being away from you…” He trails off as he shakes his head.

He must be fighting his own demons. But his comment is bittersweet. I want him to miss me—I really and desperately do. I want him to miss me as much as I will miss him, but in the same breath, I don’t want him to hurt as I do. I can’t stand the idea of him feeling this pain. This is his future. He’s wanted this for so long. And my future has been equally sought after.

I was ecstatic when I found out about my scholarship. It’s hard to land great ones, especially in the arts. This particular program only gives out one per year, and it was given to me. It was more than I ever hoped for. I still remember the day I received the letter. Sara was with me when I opened it, and we both sobbed. It was the best moment of my life. It was the very thing I needed to help me understand life would move on from my shitty old trailer and my asshole of a father. Imagining life after my mother passed away was impossible. It was hard to look forward to the next week, let alone a happy future. This scholarship symbolized all of that. It put to rest my long-held fears that I would end up alone in Grand Rapids, never escaping my father and doomed to slave away a meager living for the rest of my life. It was truly the first time I was happy since my mother had passed away. And it seems to symbolize nothing but loss.

I finally drift off to sleep dreaming about her—my mother. These dreams are always sad, and I always wake missing her as if she was only taken away from me yesterday. This night is no exception, and when I wake us both crying out for her like a child, I start sobbing pathetically as Logan pulls me in to his arms, hushing me and stroking my hair.

The next morning as I get ready for the day, Logan watches me closely. I’m numb and emotionally drained from my dreams. And as he approaches me from behind as I stand at the bathroom sink staring at myself, he wraps his arms gently around me and nuzzles my neck with his mouth.

His lips find my ear, and he whispers, “Do you want to talk about it?” I shake my head, and he exhales a deep, concerned breath.

As he looks down in to my eyes before leaving for the day, my emotions get the better of me again, and I start to furiously blink away the unwanted tears that suddenly hit me. He exhales another deep breath, and I can see how helpless he feels. He wants to fix my pain, but he can’t, and he hates it. I kiss him swiftly and move away from him before my tears can destroy his mood more than they already have. And when the door finally closes behind him, I start to numbly move through my day, carrying the haze of my sadness with me.

Chapter 20

The week moves faster than I want, just like all the others, and by Wednesday night Logan is packing, and we’re spending the last of our intimate time together. It is erotic and intense as always but also tinged with dread because of another long weekend apart and the knowledge that every day takes us closer to our final moments together. We don’t speak a word to each other as our bodies move together, and his hands and mouth explore every secret part of my body. He touches me with possession, and I give it willingly, craving to be captured and owned by him.

His flight is early the next morning, and he must leave long before I need to get up, but when he rises in the pre-dawn hour leaving for the bathroom to shower, I’m wide awake, not wanting to miss a moment of him. I curl up to his pillow, waiting for him to return. It smells of him, his scent, and I miss it already. When he reemerges, he is freshly showered and naked. I watch in pleasure as he moves around the room, packing last-minute items and laying his clothes out. He’s in no hurry to dress, and I’m thankful to have this quiet time to study him. When he catches me watching him, he smiles a warm and wonderful Logan smile. And as he approaches me on the bed, my body shivers with desire that will have to wait until the long weekend is done. He looks down at me with the same longing, and with a frustrated shake of his head he lets out a long sigh. He kisses me and tastes my mouth before finally breaking away and standing to dress.

I offer a weak attempt at early morning humor. “Did you remember your underwear?”

“You know you’re completely responsible for that.”

Once dressed and ready to leave, he returns to my mouth and tortures us both for a while longer before begrudgingly breaking away to leave. It’s going to be a lonely weekend. But Sunday does eventually arrive, and when it does, so, too, does my excitement.

When I hear the door open, I practically scream in excitement to see him. He comes in carrying his bags, and I bounce off the couch ready to attack him. He sees the look in my eyes, and sensing my animalistic prowess he drops his bags just as I reach him and pounce into his arms. His eyes look tired, but as he carries me to the bedroom straddling his hips, I can already feel his hard erection pushing into my groin. He lays me down, and as I gaze up at him I notice again just how weary and exhausted he looks. I feel guilty for a moment at pushing his buttons the second he walked through the door until I see his own ferocious, animalistic gaze searing down at me. As he climbs above me, mounting my body, he grinds his erection against my sex hard. I reach down, and fumbling with the zipper of his jeans I set him free.

*

Her eyes watch mine, hungry and beseeching. We’ve been apart for days, and the separation has been as difficult as it always is. And with this separation comes the intense need to be together in every possible way. And she asks the question I dread—her expectations always set to this one act. Making love. She wants it. And God, so do I. Every day with her, every touch, every look, every taste erodes my resolve just a bit more. But she sees the rejection in my eyes before I’ve even a chance to turn her down yet again. The weariness of her thoughts is clear in the depths of her eyes.

She turns to me and begs the question she needs an answer to. “Why won’t you make love to me? Please, just tell me.”

There is no answer to this question that will satisfy her, but she also deserves the truth. I’d rather she understand how her importance to me and my respect for her are at the heart of my decision rather than sending her away brokenhearted and dejected. So I open a page of my innermost heart and give her a glimpse of what it means to be completely and utterly obsessed with her. “You can’t imagine how hard it is going to be for me to let you go. I’ve become … attached to you … very attached,” I continue as I reach out and stroke the porcelain skin of her cheek.

“Then why not? Don’t you want to? Is it something about me or something I’ve done?”

“No! That’s not… I want to make love to you as much as I have ever wanted anything in my life. This isn’t about what I want. Hell, it’s not even about what you want. It’s about what is right.” The confusion in her eyes tells me I’m not making any sense, so I trudge on. “I can’t keep you. You don’t belong to me, and some day you will belong to someone else.” I can’t keep the pain of this thought from registering on my face. But still, I trudge on. “You deserve a man who will take you and keep you, not a man who will have you and leave you. I can’t be the man who does that to you.”

This evening, after so many away from each other, has just turned to hell. Tears sting her eyes as she struggles to maintain her composure. I’ve rejected her once again, and the reasons don’t soften the blow even a fraction. I wish she knew it was all about her. Every last decision I’ve made has been about her; whether they were right or wrong, her. She struggles against her tears and fights to find her voice. She finally gives up and, in tears, leaves the room. She leaves me, numb and in shock, sitting on my bed.

My gaze trails after her, and I want to call her back. I pray she’ll return to me so I can comfort her, touch her, fix her, fix us. But she doesn’t come back, and I know why—because there is nothing to say. God, I want to hit rewind and start this reunion over again. At my core, I want to keep her safe, content, and satisfied, and my heart screams at my head in protest. I can’t keep hurting her. All I want is to give in to her wishes. Show her how much she means to me. But my head knows what my heart doesn’t understand—she deserves better than that. She isn’t mine to take. Our paths are just simply too far gone from any common direction. The obstacles are insurmountable. And this weekend in Denver, meeting the partners and touring the area with a real estate agent, has confirmed this fact harshly again in my mind.

I sit on my bed for what feels an eternity, not wanting to smother her but wanting to know she is okay. Eventually, I move. I find her sleeping on her bed, and as I sit and she wakes, her puffy red eyes remind me of her hurt and remind me of my own agony as well. My heart lurches in my chest as the pain she feels hits me like a ton of bricks. I pull my body up next to hers, needing to comfort her.

“This is hard for me, too.” I want to share her heartache as I reach out and stroke the soft skin of her cheek.

The porcelain skin shudders under my light touch, and her eyes fill with tears, threatening to spill yet again. I lean to her mouth without hesitation and kiss her gently. I want to take away her hurt, and I take my time as I take her lips with my own. When her mouth becomes greedy, I know she’s stowed her pain for the time being in exchange for the passion we find so easily together. But the moment I think she’s set aside her sadness, the gears shift in her mind yet again.

And when she speaks, she breaks my heart. “I can’t do this anymore.” She is whispering with a strained look on her face. And my own agony clutches my heart and squeezes until I think I can’t stand it any longer. She continues. “I’m sorry. It just hurts too much. More than I ever imagined it could.”

I can’t move; I can barely breathe. I’m not ready to lose her. I can’t lose her. I don’t know how to lose her. But the light in her eyes has suddenly dimmed. Her beautiful face, now slack and defeated, just stares over my shoulder. She won’t look at me, and as the reality sinks in, it hurts—physically, emotionally, every last muscle of my body aches for her. She is gone from me. I stand up on shaky legs; my own tears sting my eyes at this sudden and unwelcome rejection and loss. She’s not angry at me. She’s just done. I’ve hurt her too much. I’ve taken too much of her and refused to give her what she needs. To her, making love is everything it should be; born of her young idealistic mind, it is love and nothing more. It is what she has been trying to give me for so long now. It is the emotion, the intimacy, the surrender of herself to me. And it is what I won’t give her. It translates loud and clear in her mind. I’ve withheld my love and emotion and every last bit of myself she needs by refusing her. And regardless of whether my intentions were valid and honorable, it has broken her heart for the last time.

When I return to my room I lie awake, staring at the ceiling for hours. I drift off to sleep in the early morning hours, and I dream of Grand Haven. I replay every moment of our time there and how much I enjoyed her that night. We were just a couple, like any other. It was real, and it was incredible. And when I wake, I’m content for half a moment until I remember just how far I am from that reality.

As I rise and make coffee, I discover she’s gone for school already. I have no way of knowing at this moment, but this will be our new co-existence for the next couple of months—Rowan conveniently side-stepping any interaction with me. Why should I think she’d be any less capable of evading me than she does her father? She’s well practiced in the art of avoidance, and the next long weeks promise to be agony.

Chapter 21

The days slip by like a grotesque ticking clock.
Tick tock tick tock
. The days slowly become weeks, and as much as I’m dreading the loss of Logan, it looms ever closer with each passing minute. The whole painful countdown is all the more agonizing because I’m angry, uncharacteristically and inappropriately angry, at Logan. I want him desperately in one breath and hate him in the other. I’ve used my hurt to punish him. He doesn’t deserve it, I know, but it is somehow easier to hate him than to hurt all of the time.

I’ve taken to spending nearly every night I can with Sara. I’m also working far more hours and evenings than I ever have before, and while I’m struggling to keep up with my last semester of school, I don’t care. It’s the very best way to avoid Logan. On the rare night I don’t have plans to stay with Sara, I show up late from work and retreat to my room without so much as acknowledging Logan’s existence. I feel his eyes watching me pass through his home—he watches, but he never speaks to me. I feel terrible for how I’m treating him, but he’s giving me my space. He’s giving me exactly what I’ve asked for. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? I’m sure he regrets ever meeting me, and sad as it may be to admit, I think that’s probably for the best. The odd time or two I’ve been forced to actually speak with him have been the most strained and uncomfortable conversations of my life.

Sara hits me up about moving into Logan’s apartment for the summer a couple of weeks after I broke it off with Logan. I’m hurting constantly and bouncing back and forth from resentful anger to absolute sadness. It’s almost laughable when she asks, given my current situation, were it not such a glaring reminder of just how dishonest I’ve been with her.