Dissonance (37 page)

The tree that ran from floor to ceiling in my old bedroom was the same one that had been permanently inked into my back. “Yeah, it’s the same one.”

“Why that tree?” she asked.

“When we first moved here, I was still pretty young. That tree was in our old backyard. When I was little, I was terrified of the damn thing. It cast these terrible shadows in my room at night. My mom insisted that that tree was old, not scary, that its gnarled branches were because of the storms it grew in, the animals that crawled around on it, and the little kids like me that had climbed it. She told me that life always leaves marks, and that old tree was just full of stories,” I explained.

“After that, I kind of grew attached to it. I used to look at it and imagine all kinds of things about how each bend was made. When we moved, I hated that we were leaving that old tree behind. I’d begged my parents to bring it with us, but they told me we couldn’t. That tree was too old, its roots went to deep for us to try and pull it out. We’d kill it if we tried.

“I really wasn’t upset about moving into the new house, but every time I looked out of the window, I missed that tree. Then, one day, I came home from school and my mom was in here, sketching on the wall. It took me a minute to realize that the shape was my tree. Dad had driven out to the house and asked the new owners if he could take some pictures of it, and then Mom painted it there for me,” I smiled at the memory. “I don’t know when I got the idea to get it as a tattoo, but by the time I was old enough, I was certain I wanted it.”

She just stared at the painting. It seemed like she was looking for something; not a response, but something grander. It was like she was searching for truth in the brush strokes. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that look in her eyes. She had worn it when she had been staring up into the rain the first day I met her. I had no clue what was happening in her head, but I felt desperately compelled to pull her away from it.

I grabbed her around the waist from behind and said, “I feel like all my preteen fantasies are coming true. I’ve got a gorgeous woman in my bedroom.”

My tactic worked, they usually did when it came to distracting her. If only I could figure out how to get her talking instead of always helping her sweep things under the rug.

“Yeah, I’m sure this is a first,” she snorted.

“Hey, I have never had a girl in here,” I tried to sound affronted.

She turned to face me. “You,
Logan Westfield
, are claiming you weren’t sleeping with girls in high school? I doubt that.”

“I never claimed anything of the sort. I said I never had a girl in my bedroom,” I clarified.

Those pretty eyes rolled at my antics. “Don’t tell me you were one of those guys that went for the back of the car.”

“First you call me a liar, and now you accuse me of having no game? Damn, woman, what do you think of me?”

“Well, you’re the one saying that your
activities
didn’t happen here. Where were they happening, then?” God, I loved when she became a little spitfire like that. She was all sass if you got her in the right mood, and it always got me in a different mood. A mood we had no time for when both of our families were around.

“I was resourceful,” I quipped.

“I’m sure you were.”

“I can still be resourceful,” I answered, pressing her tightly to me so she could feel what she was doing to me.

And what did she do in return? She laughed. Nothing quite as emasculating as a sexy woman laughing at the feel of your erection. Not a big confidence booster. If it weren’t for the fact that I thought that laugh of hers as the fantastic sound in damn world, I probably would have been disappointed.

“Maybe save that for later,” she said in a voice that, while quite, still carried enough seduction to bring me to my knees.

“Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep, baby,” I whispered huskily, stepping away to return to everyone else.

Her reply was so quite that I was certain that she had no intention of me hearing it. “I try not to.”

What the hell did that mean?

Our return to the living room found us being ushered to the table by Katherine while Alex went to retrieve the men from their football. The spread was like something out of an issue of
Good Housekeeping
. I had never seen such a perfectly set Thanksgiving in real life. Even when Mom was still alive and made dinner, the three of us hardly constituted making a meal of the same caliber as the one before me. The place settings were accented with deep oranges and browns, and each dish matched. No miss-matched plates like we had always used growing up. And the smell… even with my nerves, the savory aroma had my stomach cramping with the desire to dig in.

“This all looks incredible, Katherine,” I commented.

“Please, dear, it’s Katie,” she told me, again. “And I can’t take credit for a lick of this. I always bring in a caterer for Thanksgiving. I might be able to make a few dishes, but I can’t manage all of this,” she chuckled.

Logan snorted next to me, burying his face in his hand to hide his laughter.

“Something you’d like to say, son?” Katherine - no, Katie - asked him in a saccharine voice.

He turned to me, but eyed his mother in amusement. “Mom tried to do a big fancy Thanksgiving herself the year we moved in here. My Grandma used to do it, but Mom insisted she wanted to do it herself in our new home. We sat down to two burnt casseroles, an empty bowl where the mashed potatoes she forgot to make should have been, and a turkey that was still frozen in the center. Mom’s gotten a caterer ever since. She thought she could fool grams into thinking she’d done it herself, but grams saw through it in an instant.”

“In hindsight,” James offered as he took a seat at one end of the table, “the roasted acorn squash and mushroom ragout might have been a bit much.”

Alex and Eli sat across from Logan and I, it was only then I noticed what was missing. Logan’s brother, Caleb had never shown up, and there was not place set for him. I thought Logan had reiterated earlier today that he would be at dinner.

“Where’s Caleb?” I asked him quietly, trying not to disturb the conversation going on around us.

“He’s decided not to come,” Logan replied darkly, a frown marring his perfect face. I wondered what was the matter, and Logan must have read the question in my eyes. “It’s a long story, I’ll explain later.”

It shouldn’t have bothered me that he did not say more. Logically, I knew that it should not have made my stomach tighten and my mood plummet back to where it had been before we escaped to his childhood bedroom, but it did. Somehow, I knew this was not something new he was dealing with, and that made the six inches separating us feel like a chasm.

Maybe that was what he felt like all the time dealing with me.

Shifting my attention back to the conversation around me, I tried not to let those thoughts plague me, but the cheer around me was not enough to get me out of my own head.

Our drive home from Logan’s parents’ house was quite. I wondered if he felt the strain, or if it was just in my head. Perhaps he was just stuffed full of dinner and desert, which there had been no shortage of, and was ready to get home. It was after eleven after all, and it had been a long day.

We were already inside the apartment, having said almost nothing since bidding everyone else goodnight, when he finally broke the silence.

“I wish you would just talk to me, Charlotte.”

Wait, what?

“What are you talking about?”

His voice was weary when he replied. “I thought you would get more comfortable today. When we were alone you didn’t say anything, so I thought maybe you were just adjusting. But then, I had to watch you withdraw during dinner.” His hand went to his face, rubbing it roughly. “I just want you to talk to me for once. Instead, I get the silent treatment.”

“What about you?” I shot back.

“What about
me
?”

“Yes, you. Obviously, there’s something going on with your brother that you aren’t talking to me about.”

“Really? You want to be pissed at me because I didn’t want to talk about it during dinner, when I knew it would upset my mom to have to think about it anymore? Fine.” He stalked across the living room, dropping onto the couch gracelessly and pulling at his shoes.

“My brother didn’t show up tonight because he’s on drugs,” Logan plowed forward with no preamble. “Dad’s been suspicious for a while. Caleb’s been disappearing for days at a time, not showing up to work, acting weird. Dad paid a private investigator to tail him, and guess what? Caleb’s gotten himself hooked on prescription medications. Dad laid down a ultimatum, get cleaned up, show up for the holiday, and he could keep his position in the company. Apparently, the pills have become more important than his own family.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, stunned that this was all happening while we’d been so close, and he had never said a thing.

“Why don’t you tell me why you have panic attacks? Why don’t you tell me why you have nightmares? Hell, why don’t you tell me that you have nightmares in the first place? I know more about your life before we met from asking Eli about it than I do from you!”

“You’ve been asking Eli about me?” I asked quietly, shocked that he would go behind my back.

“Does it even matter? You and I both know your brother knows no more than anyone else about you,” he answered bitterly.

“Yes, it matters!”

“Why? Because you’re so determined to keep everyone at arm’s length that the fact that I care enough to try and figure you out scares the hell out of you?”

I had no words. Fighting with him about this – hell, fighting with him at all – felt like a fist to the chest.

Logan pushed on. “I love you, dammit, and all I want is for you to trust me enough to fucking let me in, but you can’t even give me that. You’re too afraid.”

“I…” I what? I didn’t have an answer to that. I was terrified. Why wouldn’t I be? “I can’t.”

“WHY?” Logan roared, flying to his feet. “Why can’t you just fucking talk to me?”

“Because, I’m not ready for you to leave me!”

I wanted so desperately to pull those words back as soon as they’d left.

Logan was shocked by my admission. “Not ready? As in, you think you’re going to be ready at some point? Eventually, you’ll just be able to walk away like all of this meant fucking nothing?”

“No… I…” God, why were words so hard to grab onto?

“We’ve always been temporary to you, haven’t we?” he asked in a voice that had lost all of the fight, all of the passion and anger he’d had minutes ago. He sounded broken.

“No, I just…” I pulled in breaths as deep as I could, despite how tight my lungs felt. “I just… Why would you stay?” It was surprising he heard my whispered words.

“So, I’m supposed to be the one to walk away?” he asked in that terrible, weak voice. “I don’t know what I have to do, Charlotte. What the hell do I have to do to convince you how serious I am? I. Love. You. I’d rather die than walk away from you.”

He shook his head, staring at the floor, while I tried to control the revolt happening in my body. My throat was tight, my mind screaming at me to fix this, every part of me felt desperate and overwhelmed. Worst of all wasn’t the nerves that had me shaking, it was the way my eyes were aching like I might cry. But I couldn’t cry. I was too damaged to cry.