I’m off work, no pay, two weeks.

Suspended.

Grounded.

Therapy three times a week.

And all I can think is at least I still have Mary.

* * *

It’s ten in the morning by the time I wake up. My hand is throbbing. My head is worse. The house is quiet; no one’s home. I throw the covers off of me, don’t bother getting dressed, and part the curtains. Sunlight bleeds into my vision and I blink hard, fight against it. Thick and cool, I let fresh air fill my lungs when I slide my window up.

Mary calls to me from the pocket of my jeans.

I smile back at her.

Soon, baby.

The front door opens and closes, and my eyes narrow, confused. I kick my jeans under my bed, just in case. A knock sounds. Lucy. “Come in.” But it’s not Lucy; it’s scarlet upon scarlet upon scarlet. I blow out a breath. “Stalk much?”

“Apparently.” She shrugs. “I wanted to check in on you. I tried calling.”

“I know.” I’ve never had a girl in my room before—house rules—and the fact that it’s a girl who wants nothing to do with me pisses me off.

She says, “Your dad gave me the code for the gate, told me where the spare key was.”

I cross my arms, lean against the window while she stands in the doorway. “I have one question, Red.”

She nods.

“You think about Lachlan in your choice to leave?”

Her features harden. “Lachlan will do just fine. He has all of you.” She jerks her head toward my hand. “How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine.”

“Can I see it?” she asks, and there’s a desperation in her voice that cracks my facade, my need to hate her for leaving.

I lift my hand between us. “It’s just bruised knuckles, small fracture, that’s it.”

She moves toward me, slowly, carefully, as if I’ll pounce if she gets too close. Her hands are warm, soft when they meet mine. She lifts it higher, her eyes sad, her words sadder. “Does it hurt?” she asks, her thumb stroking over the stitches.

I shrug, pull my hand away. I don’t want her touching me, because I don’t want to miss it when she’s gone. “Mary helps with the pain.”

Her body goes still. Solid. And she makes a sound from deep in her throat. “Okay,” she whispers. “Well, I’ll let you get back to whatever…” She’s crying, and she has no right.

“You can’t do that, Red,” I tell her, slumping down on my bed.

She’s at the doorway again, slowly turning to me. “Do what?”

“You can’t get mad because you think…” I sigh. “Mary’s marijuana.”

“Like that Rick James song?”

“Yes.” My mouth wants to smile. My emotions don’t allow it. I shut my eyes tight, let out a frustrated moan. “Aubrey… I thought we were… I don’t know… working toward something—you and me. I figured you just needed time, so I was giving you that, and then you tell me you’re leaving. Where the hell are you going to go?”

“Home.” She leans against the door frame, facing me. “The other night, when you drove me there, I talked to my mom about everything, about how I was feeling here. I thought she’d be disappointed in me, but she was really supportive. She wants me to—”

My bitter laugh interrupts her. I say, shaking my head, “I drove you there to get closer to you, and all it did was drive you away...”

“Logan.”

I lie down, eyes on the ceiling, because looking at her hurts too much. “So, what happens now? You go home, you forget about this life, you forget about Lachy, about me?”

“If… if I stay here…”

“You think I’m going to treat you the same way as your ex—that I’m going to cheat and drive you out of town or something?”

“No,” she says, her voice breaking. “But that’s not to say I’m not terrified... And it’s not even about the cheating, Logan.”

“Then what is it?” I’m angry and frustrated and confused and hopeful all at the same time. I sit up again. “Explain it to me, because I’m having a really hard time understanding it.”

“It’s…” She pauses, regains her composure. “It’s about giving my all to someone who can’t do the same.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I’m practically shouting now. “I’ve given you more than I’ve given anyone, ever, and that might be hard to believe, but it’s true!”

“Why won’t you hold hands, Logan?”

My insides turn to stone, and my jaw clenches. “Fuck off with this shit, Aubrey.” I shake my head, rub my eyes. “No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

I tap at my pockets, pockets that aren’t there. Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

She adds, “Why do you smoke so much? It’s not recreational, is it?”

“Stop, Aubrey,” I grind out. “I mean it.”

She pushes me further. “What are you trying to forget, Logan?”

I can’t stop shaking my head, can’t stop the thoughts flying through my mind. I am nine years old…

“See? You ask me anything, and I’m an open book. You can’t even look at me when I ask—”

“What do you want me to say?!”

And then she pushes me over the edge. “The truth!”

I’m on my feet, in her face. “You want to hear the truth? I don’t hold hands because the last person I fucking held hands with was my mom! I was nine years old, and I couldn’t get to sleep one night. One random fucking night of all the nights! And I went to her room and climbed into her fucking hospital bed with her. She opened her eyes, smiled at me, pulled a fucking penny from behind my ear and told me she loved me.” I ignore the heat behind my eyes, my nose, my words. “And I held her hand while my dad slept on the couch in there, and I rested my head on her chest, and listened to her heart beat. I listened to her breathing! And then she stopped. Her breaths. Her pulse. It all fucking stopped! I knew she was dead, and I didn’t say shit. I didn’t wake my dad to tell him! I just lay there, holding a dead woman’s hand because I couldn’t let go! Because letting go meant that I would never be able to do it again! So, you want the fucking truth, Aubrey? There it is!”

She’s crying, loud and uncontrollable, and she tries to reach for me—this girl that pushes and pushes and takes and takes.

I slap her hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Logan, please,” she cries. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“No!” I tug at my hair, swallow the ache in my throat from screaming too loud. I drown beneath the surface, my thoughts bubbles of air, rising, higher, higher… until they burst. I point my finger at her, let my anger control me. “You fucking come in here and you demand shit from me! You have all these fucking expectations, and then you make me feel guilty for not exceeding them! You don’t even give me a chance! You never have! You just want want want, and you want it all right fucking now, and I’ve never once…” I take a breath. “Aubrey… I’ve never once wanted or needed anything from you. I’ve only ever wanted you!”

“God, Logan. I can’t… I don’t…” She wipes at her eyes, her nose, all signs of her pity.

“Get out, Aubrey! Just fucking leave!”

The front door slams behind me and I fall to my knees, my face in my hands. Sob after sob consumes me. My shoulders shake. And I can’t quiet my cries. I can’t forgive myself for what I’ve done. For what I’ve made him…

I can’t take any of it back.

I’m clingy.

I’m needy.

I’m so fucking pathetic it makes me sick.

I brought a man to his knees.

I pushed and I pushed and I pushed until there was nowhere for him to go but down.

From his room, I hear the sound of bass pumping, music blasting—“These Arms of Mine” by Otis Redding—and I cry harder, louder. And then I smell it, weed. His Mary. The one who helps with his pain.

Why couldn’t I be Mary?

Why couldn’t I…

I get to my feet, rush through the front door and up the stairs. His bedroom door’s closed, and I don’t bother knocking. He won’t hear it. His back is turned, the top half of his body outside the window. Dank smoke fills the air, fills my nostrils. “Logan,” I cry out, and he shakes his head, refuses to face me.

“Close the fucking door!”

I close the fucking door. “Logan! I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry!” I scream over the music.

He turns, only halfway. “Why the fuck does it matter, Red?” he shouts. He brings the joint to his lips, inhales, exhales a ribbon of smoke.

“It matters!” I yell, my back to the door.

He shakes his head again, flicks the butt of his joint to the grass beneath him. Then he slides the window down, letting the glass rattle against the vibrations of the music. “It doesn’t matter, because soon you’ll be gone, and I’ll be nothing but the guy you once fucked in a town you once hated in a life you once wanted!”

“That’s not true!”

“Bullshit! When are you leaving?”

“Ask me to stay!”

“Don’t you dare put that on me, Red.” The music stops. Starts again. Same song. Repeat.

“Ask me!”

He shakes his head.

My eyes drift shut, my entire body weighted by the moments that brought us here. Every instant. Every memory. Every single word we’ve spoken, every touch, every bit of joy, of laughter. Tears fill my closed lids, and I hold back another sob. “Okay,” I whisper, even though he won’t hear it. “Okay.” I turn around, reach for his doorknob.

Turn.

Pull.

It takes three steps to cross the room, slam my forearm against the door, and trap her body in with mine.

His breaths are as broken as we are, and each one of them lands on my neck, my shoulder, heated and fierce. Seconds pass, and we stay that way, his chest pressed to my back. He’s keeping me here but hasn’t yet said the word: stay. If he asked me to, I would. In a heartbeat. The music plays on, and I listen to the lyrics, let them control me. My tears don’t stop. Won’t stop. And my heart… my heart hurts in ways I never thought possible.

Logan’s hand lands on my hip, begging with the gesture for me to turn to him. To look at him. But I can’t, because I’m too afraid of what he’ll see there: that I’m lost either way. “Aubrey,” he whispers, and I don’t know what he wants. I don’t even know what I want. I turn to him, to tell him just that, but his blue-blue eyes are watching me. Waiting. And all words, all thoughts flee when he rests his forehead against mine. And then his lips… his lips press to me, so softly my breath catches. Logan likes to play, likes to tease, likes to go slow, but even during those moments, he’s never soft. Never gentle. His hands cup my face, and every touch, every kiss, every swipe of his tongue along my lips is a plea. He guides me to his bed, lowers me slowly with his hand on my back.

“Aubrey,” he says again, his hands sliding up my sides, taking my sweater with them. Then my shirt. Then my pants. Until I’m laid out in front of him in nothing but my bra and panties, and he’s over me, kissing me, touching me, breathing me in. He lowers himself until he’s on the floor, on his knees, his eyes on mine. A moment passes, my heart hammering… What do you want, Logan Preston?

His hard exhale warms my thighs, and then he’s groaning, his head tilting back. “Why does this have to be so hard?” he murmurs. “I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want you. I just want to be with you, and I want that to be enough.”

I struggle to breathe through the pain etched in his words.

“I feel like you’re trying to make me into someone I’m not.”

I sit up, cross my arms over my stomach. “God, Logan. No,” I whisper, reaching out to settle my hands on his shoulders. I wait for his eyes to meet mine before adding, “I don’t want you to be anyone but you. I’ve wanted the same version of you that you’ve always been, and I wanted that before you even saw me like this, and you know that.”

His throat rolls with his swallow, and he exhales again, this time into the palm of my hand.

I say, risking it all, “But I do want more of you. We hang out, and we make out a lot, and we have incredible sex, but I feel like I need to know that I’m more than just that to you… because you’ve become so much more than that to me, Lo. And I’m scared—”

“Because of your past?” he cuts in.

Nodding slowly, I answer, “And I know that’s not fair to you, and I’m so sorry that I’ve pushed you this far.”

Otis Redding croons while Logan sighs. “I hate…”

I look away, ashamed. “…Me?”

“No. Jesus, Aubrey. I’m fucking crazy about you.”

My eyes snap to his. “You are?”

“You know I am. At least you should…” He licks his lips, tugs at his hair. “I hate that we keep ending up like this. Why can’t it just be easy?”

“Because nothing good comes easily,” I mumble, placing my hand over his when it settles on my leg.

“But we’re not just good, Red,” he says. “We’re so much better, so much more than just good.”

I nod, because it’s true.

“Red?” he says, and the plea in his voice has my stomach twisting. “I don’t know where we go from here.”

“Me neither.”

With a moan, he stands, then flops down on the bed next to me, his eyes on the ceiling, his hand behind his head. “Red?”

“Yeah?”

His hand circles my wrist. “Come here.” And then he’s pulling me down, down, down until I’m lying on top of him, my forearms resting on his bare chest. He cups my face in his rough, calloused hands, strokes my stray tears with his thumb.

His smile breaks through my walls, my defenses. He moves the hair away from my eyes, tucks it behind my ear, then his thumb moves across my cheek, to my lips, strokes once. Twice. On the third time, I kiss it. Bite down on it. And then his mouth is on mine, soft and gentle. I let him set the pace, expecting him to go further, but he doesn’t. He kisses me with passion, with purpose. Every movement is slow, his lips, his tongue, his hands gliding up my sides, my back, through my hair. He’s all over me, around me, inside me, and not just physically. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers.

“Me too.”

We get under the covers, on our sides, face-to-face. We’re still dressed in our underwear, just like the first night, but the way his eyes bore into mine, the way his hand settles on my hip, the way he continues to kiss me… I’ve never felt more naked in my life, more exposed. He pulls away, just his lips, but brings the rest of me closer. “You give good cuggles.”

I throw a leg over his, press my face to his chest. “Cuggles?”

“It’s how Lachy used to say cuddles. We all use it. Sometimes I forget that’s not the real word.”

“I used to call a vagina a jawatna.”

He laughs, full force, rolling to his back and covering his eyes with his arm.

I move with him, lean up on my elbow to look down at him. “So… yesterday was intense.”

He removes his arm so he can see me and mumbles, “Understatement.”

“But Lucy”—I’m smiling—“telling people to go home and finger their buttholes…” And now I’m laughing.

Logan shakes his head against the blue of his pillow. “Lucy’s… she’s so inappropriate sometimes, and I used to think it was because she lived in a house full of boys, but now I think we got a lot of our traits from her.” He curls his arm around my neck, pulls me down until my head’s on his chest.

“Are we going to get in trouble… me being in your bed and all?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I mean, Dad gave you the code, the key… he has to assume something’s going to happen. Which is weird, because it’s a house rule, no girls go up those stairs. Definitely not in the bedrooms.”

I lie on my back, look around his room. “Your room’s so different to what I expected.”

“Yeah?” he asks. “What did you expect?”

I take another look around. The walls are bare. There’s a desk. A computer. A bunch of parts that look like they once belonged in stereos, and his bed. A few clothes on the floor, on his desk chair. “I don’t know. I guess I expected posters of girls in thongs and bikinis, bongs everywhere, cum stains on the wall.”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, no doubt there are cum stains on the wall. Probably the ceiling, too. Shit. I jerked-off so much when I was a teenager.”

I giggle into his chest.

He adds, “I even taught myself to be ambidextrous because I kept getting hand cramps.”

I’m practically howling now.

“I’m serious, Red. You get one of those white lights in here, it’ll be just like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

“Oh, my God.” I press my face into his arm. “Is it weird that I like how gross you are?”

“Ah, fudge nugget,” he says, and I laugh harder. He covers his eyes with his forearm. “Now I’m picturing you naked on my bed, getting yourself off.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?” he asks, his disappointment clear.

“What if someone comes home and sees that? Me, spreadeagle on your bed, fingers deep in my pussy.”

“Jesus shit, Red. You keep talking like that, I’m going to add another stain to the ceiling.”

“Sorry.”

He sighs. “Besides, no one’s going to come home. Kids are at school. Everyone else is at work. Dad might, just to check in on me, make sure I haven’t left the house. But you’d hear him come up those stairs.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He nods. “When we were kids, before the twins were born, Mom would let us know when Dad was going to be home, and all five of us would hide somewhere up here. Most of the time we’d just get under the covers in their bedroom. I was, like, three at the time, so I think I was still under the impression that if I couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see me, you know?”

I nod, settle my head on his chest again.

Stroking my hair, he adds, “I remember all of us giggling, and Lucy telling me to be quiet, and the front door would open, and then Dad would be on the stairs, stomping his way up, and Mom would say…”

I look up at him when he stops, but he’s too focused on the ceiling, on the memory, his smile lazy and carefree.

“She’d always whisper, ‘Fee-fi-fo-fum,’ like Dad was a giant, you know? And it always made me laugh. Always. And Dad—he’d pretend not to be able to find us. He’d go through all the rooms, and open all the doors. Sometimes, he’d even come into the room and get so close, and Luke—he’d have to cover my mouth with his hand to keep me silent. And then Dad would say, ‘Welp. Can’t find them. I must be too tired. I’m going to sleep.’ And then he’d—” Logan laughs once. “He’d get under the covers and act all surprised that we were there.” His breathing slows. “God, it was so stupid. I don’t know how I remember that.”

“It’s good that you do, though. Those memories will last forever, and those are things that you’ll probably pass down to your kids because you know how happy it made you feel.” I swallow the pain, the realization that I don’t have those types of memories.

He taps my leg. “The other day, I was thinking about what you said, about your dad and not having any memories of him. I don’t think it’s because you didn’t pay enough attention when he was around. I just think… I mean, here, we’re lucky. Luce was fifteen, and she was the closest to Mom, so she’s always telling us stories. Saying things like, ‘Remember when Mom…’ and that would spark the memory. It’s not the same with you. It’s not your fault.”

I lean up so I can look down at him, feeling the burn behind my eyes, my nose. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I really needed to hear that.”

“Of course,” he says, fingering a strand of my hair. “You have so much hair.”

“I know.”

“I like when you wear it up.”

“Because it’s less hobo?”

“Because it doesn’t cover so much of your face. And your face is beautiful, Red. You shouldn’t hide it.”

I try to contain my smile when I take the hair tie from my wrist, wrap my hair in a high bun. “Better?” I ask, and he grins, runs the backs of his fingers along my jaw.

“Much.” He leans up, kisses my mouth, my cheek, my jaw, then blows a raspberry on my neck.

“Ew!” I laugh out, wiping away his spit.

He chuckles, his smile unconstrained. “I think I like these moments with you the most.”

“What moments?”

“Just this… existing with you. It’s good.”

“It’s better than good,” I retort, and he nods.

And then he’s moving, his body shifting beneath the covers. His arm reappears, boxers in his hand. He throws them across the room. And because he’s Logan, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, I laugh when he says, “Enough with this shit, Red. Hurry up and fuck my dick off.”

I bite down on Aubrey’s hip bone, smiling when she squirms beneath me.

“Quit it,” she whispers, her hands in my hair. “It tickles.”

I move up her body, my tongue running along the slight bump of her belly, higher again, and kiss between her breasts, the tip of each nipple. She sighs. Content. I’ve gotten off twice already; she says she’s lost count. We’re both spent, but I can’t seem to get enough of her. Her fingertips trail up and down my back, while I kiss the spot between her neck and shoulder, making her squirm again. “I said quit it,” she giggles, but there’s no fight in her words.

The same song’s been playing on repeat, the soundtrack to our frustrations. I’d played it all night, fell asleep to it. Because the second she told me she was leaving yesterday, all I wanted to do was hold her, make her stay. But I pushed her away. Again.

I lean up on my forearms, look down at her. The sunlight beats through the window, reflecting off her hair, reminding me of Mary when I set her ablaze. Her eyes are half closed, her lips red from my assault. She’s so perfectly imperfect, and perfect for me.

“What?” she whispers.

“You’re so beautiful.”

She shakes her head. “Shut up.”

“You are.”

Her hands are in my hair again. “You make me feel beautiful.”

I lower my body, cover her completely. I nuzzle her neck. Sniff her hair. “You smell like fall,” I mumble.

“You smell like man.”

I chuckle. “Like sweat and body odor?”

“No,” she says, “like strength and”—she sniffs the air—“semen.”

My shoulders shake with my silent laugh. “That so not hot.”

“It’s incredibly hot.”

I lift her leg, wrap it around my hip, ready for a third round, and that’s when the front door opens. “Shit!”

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” she says, and she’s out from beneath me, bare-ass naked in the middle of the room, spinning around trying to find her clothes. I find my boxers, slide them on. Then a pair of sweats.

Fee-fi-fo-fum.

“Get dressed,” I whisper, find her clothes at the foot of the bed and throw them at her head. I open the door just enough to step out and find Dad on the top step. I shut the door behind me, keep my hand on the knob. “Hey,” I say, but it comes out hoarse. I clear my throat, try again. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

His gaze shifts from mine, to my door, over and over. “I know she’s here, Logan. Her bike’s still on the porch. Don’t hide a girl like that. It’ll make her feel as if you’re ashamed of her. Are you ashamed of her?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why are you hiding her?” he grumbles.

“The rules,” I say stupidly.

Dad shakes his head. “You’re nineteen years old, and you’re grounded because you clearly can’t follow the rules of society. The laws, Logan.” He takes a moment to sniff the air. I’m sure he can smell the weed in my room, on me. He adds, “The rules of this house mean nothing to you. Now, get Aubrey and meet me downstairs. I need to have a word with both of you.”

* * *

Aubrey sits on the couch next to me, her hands clasped on her lap, her knees bouncing, her cheeks flushed. Dad sits on the coffee table opposite, glaring at the both of us. “This is the last time this happens,” Dad says. He focuses on Aubrey. “I let you come over to check in on him because I knew you were worried.” Then to me: “Now, I hope you discussed whatever you needed to and got whatever out of your systems, because grounded is grounded, Logan. That means no visitors. No phone. No Internet.”

“Are you serious?” I huff out.

“As a heart attack,” he answers, hand out waiting.

I murmur, “My phone’s upstairs.”

“Well, go get it.”

I do as he says, hand it to him.

“When the twins get home, they’re changing all the Internet and computer passwords. I’m boarding up your bedroom window. You will not smoke that shit in the house. And I’m changing the code on the house alarm. You will not leave the house while I’m not home.”

“Savage,” I mumble.

“Believe me, boy. You haven’t seen savage, yet. And I can make it three weeks if you keep it up.”

I look down at my lap. “Two weeks is good.”

Dad clears his throat. “Are we all on the same page?”

“Yes, sir,” Aubrey and I say in unison, as if he’s the principal and we’re in fucking elementary school. I say, “Can I… can I at least have five minutes with Aubrey, in private? We need to talk about—”

“No.”

“Dad!”

“Rules are rules, Logan, and what is it that you kids are always saying? You play stupid games…?”

“You win stupid prizes,” I finish for him.

“May I please speak, Mr. Preston?” Aubrey says, her voice meek. I shake my head, annoyed that Dad’s put this level of fear in her.

Dad nods.

“I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday, for helping to board up my window. You didn’t have to do any of it, and I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Preston. And please say thank you to Lucas, too, for doing what he did.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean?” I face Dad. “What did Luke do?”

“Logan,” Dad warns. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” He’s talking to Aubrey, but his words are meant for me.

“What did he do?” I press. “Don’t tell me he fucking apologized to that motherfu—”

“Logan,” says Aubrey.

“No. I’m so sick of him treating me like this, like I’m his responsibility. Like I need a babysitter. I smoke weed. I’m not out there selling my body for crack.”

“Logan.” Aubrey again.

Dad yells, his anger and frustration aimed right at me, “The last thing this family needs is another court case. Another chance of one of you boys spending time in goddamn prison for assault!” When he’s really angry, a vein appears on his forehead. When we were kids, we’d all snicker about it, waiting for it to pop. It never did. It might now. After a few calming breaths, he adds, “Your brother fixed your screw-up, Logan. You should be thanking him.”

My jaw tenses, and I refrain from saying anything more. I don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Definitely not with Aubrey right fucking here.

He says, “I’ll give you a ride home, Aubrey.”

“My bike…”

“Your rear tire is busted. Logan can fix it tonight when I get home from work. It’ll be outside your shop tomorrow morning.”

“Oh… okay, sir. Thank you.”

Dad stands, says to me, “Lucas is coming home to take you to your appointment.”

I stand with a groan, wait for Aubrey to do the same. Then I kiss her on the forehead.

“Appointment? As in therapy?” she asks.

Rolling my eyes, I say, “It’s part of my punishment.” I tug on a strand of her hair. “I’ll miss ya, Red.”

Dad asks Aubrey, “You know about his therapy?”

“Yes, sir.”

I say, “Aubrey knows more about me than almost anyone.”

Dad’s smile is slight, hidden beneath his beard. “Good, good,” he says, then leads Aubrey to the front door with his hand on her back.

She looks over her shoulder at me. “I’m sorry,” she mouths.

I mouth back, “Me, too.”

And then she’s gone, taking our unanswered questions with her.

* * *

At therapy, I write down one word, and one word only:

Hopeful.