The relief is not as all-pervading as I would wish. Not as complete.
I find Logan’s room. He is typing in his phone once again when I walk in. “Isabel! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just bumped my head, that’s all.”
“You scared the shit out of me, Is. You just... fainted.”
I perch on the edge of his bed. “There is a lot going on.”
“Isabel.” He touches my chin. “Don’t hold out on me.”
I sigh. “I remembered something. From before.”
He lights up. “You did? What?”
“I knew Jakob. Or... Caleb. Whatever. I knew him. Before. I was in love with him, I think. I don’t know how we met, just that I skipped school to go see him at a café somewhere. I wanted us to be together, but he—he turned me down, because I was only sixteen.”
A long silence. “Holy shit.”
“Yes. The implications are worrisome.”
“I can see why you passed out.” He tangles out fingers together. “He’s been lying to you all this time, then.”
“Yes. For a very long time, it would seem. He... he let me believe—he let me—” I can’t finish it. I shake my head. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t think about it. I’ll have a panic attack.”
He pulls me against his chest. His heart thumps reassuringly under my ear. “Don’t. We can talk it through later. Dr. Kalawat said I can go home tomorrow. Just give it some time, okay? It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Will it, though?
You are still out there. You haven’t let me go. I don’t think youcan. And until you tell me the truth, I do not know if I can let you go either. If I am capable of just walking away without knowing the truth.
But will you ever tell me the truth? Can you? Are you capable of the truth?
I remember the look you gave me, when I said your name—when I said “Caleb” instead of “Jakob.” If I had said the other name, what might have happened? What would you have said? Would you have stayed? Held me? Kissed me? Made love to me again?
Would I have wanted that? Would it have... changed things, somehow? I don’t know. I don’t know.
I feel sick all over again, because I know I have to tell Logan what happened. Or some of it, at least.
But not yet.
Not while he’s still healing.
I cannot drive. Logan calls a car service when he is discharged, five days after the surgery. Walk beside his wheelchair as the nurse wheels him out. Hold his hand as he stands up. Lean into him, duck under his arm and press my cheek to his chest. Walk with him to the black sedan. He reaches for the roof, for balance. Misses.
“My depth perception is completely fucked,” he grumbles under his breath. “Gonna take some adjusting.” I slide my hand underneath his, guide his palm to the roof of the car, but he jerks his hand away. “Don’t need fucking help.”
I drop my hand and step back, stung by his outburst. “I’m sorry, Logan. I didn’t mean—”
He leans against the door frame of the car, scrubs his hands through his hair, groaning. “No, Isabel, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I’m just—” He shakes his head, shrugs. “It’s a lot to deal with.”
“I get it,” I say. “It’s fine.”
He shakes his head. “It’s not fine. It’s not fair for me to lash out at you. I’m just not used to needing help.”
“And I’ll be here to help you. Whatever you need.” I offer him a smile, lean into him, wrap my arms around him.
He palms my back, plants a brief kiss to my lips, and then swings himself into the car gingerly, slowly. Slides across so I can get in. It is hard to look at him. Hard to see him thus, the pressure bandage wrapped around his head. Wounded. Vulnerable. Unsteady on his feet. Reaching for something and missing. Logan has always been so capable, so unflappable. But now he needs me, and I’ll be there for him, as he has for me.
