Ten minutes passed. I flipped my pillow to the other side.
Thirty minutes passed. I was still awake, staring at the ceiling.
An hour later, I checked the time on my phone and groaned. I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, I thought of Tim. I fantasized about following him to Mexico just to slap him in the face. I imagined breaking down in front of him, asking why he couldn’t care about me, even after I tried so hard to be the perfect girlfriend.
I just wanted someone to appreciate me. I wanted someone to tell me I was good. That I was pretty and special and clever. I wanted someone to say they were proud of me.
Had I asked too much of Tim?
WasIthe problem?
I shook my head, trying to dissolve all those thoughts. Ruminating wouldn’t help me. I needed to sleep.
Suddenly, I thought of Logan. His grin. His hands. Him standing in front of me, wearing nothing except that towel. The way he’d made me feel so safe, so seen —
No. No. Stop it, Willow. You need to sleep.
But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, I was still awake, wired like I’d downed a cup of espresso just before bed.
I checked the time on my phone. 2:07 AM.
Before I could really think about it, I was out of bed and walking barefoot down the hallway and down the stairs. I found the master bedroom and knocked on the door.
No response.
I pushed the door open. “Logan?” I whispered.
There was a movement, and then he flicked the lamp on, filling the room with a dim golden glow. He sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“Willow? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Um.” I shuffled my feet. Now that I was here, I felt stupid. “I couldn’t sleep. Sorry. I shouldn’t have woken you.”
“No, no, I’m glad you did. Do you need anything? A cup of tea?”
I shook my head. “I just feel really awful.”
“Oh, sweetheart. Come here.”
Part of me was surprised at the pet name, but he was probably still half asleep. I walked over to his side of the bed and perched on the edge of the mattress.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said. “There’s nothing to say. And the whole thing is awkward because Tim’s your son, so I can’t exactly call him a massive asshole, even though he totally is.”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “You can call him an asshole if you like. I won’t tell.” He mimed zipping his lips and it was so unexpected and childish that it shocked a laugh from me.
“You’re holding up really well, all things considered,” he said. “You’re doing the best you can.”
“Thanks,” I managed. “Can… can I have a hug?” The words escaped me before I could think twice. But I was a hugging type of person, and if my best friends were here, I’d be hugging them while crying into their shoulders.
As soon as I blurted it out, I expected him to say no. Instead he said, “of course.”
I leaned into his arms. His chest was warm with sleep and his neck smelled like soap. My whole body relaxed, like it had been wound up tight and I hadn’t even noticed. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured into my hair.
“Th-thank you,” I said after I had pulled away. I sniffed. I wouldnotallow myself to cry.
He gave me an uncertain smile. “Are you feeling better?”
