Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88709 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“I need your phone number,” he rasped, his voice low and demanding.
“You can have it,” I assured him.
“Why did you and your parents argue?”
“They didn’t like my attitude.”
He sat back, folding one leg under the other and facing me. “What attitude?”
“I was angry they came to check on me. Not as my father, but as my boss.”
“Why do you work somewhere you hate, Lottie? Why do you do this?”
I looked down at our entwined fingers, marveling at the difference. Logan’s hands were large. Dark from the sun, calloused from the guitar and hard work. He had a scar that went from side to side, the line slightly paler than the rest of his skin. His fingers were long and thick. Strong. But capable of such tenderness. My hand looked minuscule in his, pale and fragile. My fingers barely reached his knuckles, while his enclosed the back of my hand with ease. I took in a long breath and told him about Josh. How much I loved him and how he made me laugh. The way he took care of me.
“He was a great big brother. Protective and overbearing at times, but always caring. Funny too—he teased me all the time and called me Squirt. We would watch movies, and he would make me popcorn if our parents went out. He’d let me stay up past my bedtime. We’d take long walks in the woods behind our parents’ house, and he’d teach me about birds and the different trees. He was four years older than me, but he never treated me like a kid.”
Logan hummed but didn’t interrupt.
“He knew how much I loved the winter. We’d make snowmen and forts and have snowball fights. Even though he was older than me, he was my best friend.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Then he became ill.”
“Leukemia?” he asked.
“Yes. A very aggressive type. They tried everything.” I was quiet for a moment, remembering the dark days that followed Josh’s diagnosis.
“He died just before his seventeenth birthday. I was their last hope, Logan,” I whispered. “I was a match.”
“But it didn’t work,” he stated.
“No.”
“But you tried. You went through the procedure, and you tried to save your brother.”
“Yes.”
“So how on earth can you feel anything close to guilt? You didn’t fail, Lottie. Your body didn’t fail. Your brother was too sick, and it didn’t work. It wasn’t your fault.” He stared at me, aghast. “Did your parents tell you it was your fault?”
“Not in so many words. But all their hopes were pinned on me.”
“They were pinned on the results, Lottie. Not you. You didn’t fail. You gave of yourself unselfishly, trying to help him.”
“He died.”
“Again, not your fault. Blame the disease, not yourself.”
“Maybe if I’d been stronger, older…”
He looked furious. “Again, none of your doing. You were a kid. Just a kid. There is no blame here on your part.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking vexed. “Is that why you work for your father? To make up for your brother’s death?”
I blinked. He saw it right away. He knew exactly what I was trying to do. I cleared my throat. “I wanted to try to help my father. To be what he lost the day Josh died.”
“You can’t do that, Lottie. Trade your life for his.” He wrapped his hands around my biceps, shaking me a little. “You are killing yourself for nothing. It won’t bring him back.” His voice softened. “It won’t make them better.”
“I just want them to love me.”
The words hung in the air.
“Oh, baby,” he murmured. “You can never make someone love you. Giving them your life on a platter isn’t right.” He frowned. “I think the day your brother died, your parents lost themselves to grief—and somehow never found their way out of it. But I don’t think it means they don’t love you—they’ve just forgotten how to show it.”
“For the first while after he died, they smothered me, yet still ignored me. They hired people to look after me. Report every cough or scrape of my knee. Fussed too much, but still kept away. But as I got older, the caregivers went away, and they became even colder and more removed. It was as if they resented me yet feared losing me. I was lost and confused so much of the time. The closest I got to a real, honest exchange was the day I showed my father I was taking the same courses Josh planned to take before he got sick,” I explained, feeling wistful. “He actually looked pleased and said he could hardly wait until I joined the firm. I was sure if I followed through and became everything he wanted for Josh, he would love me again.”
“I’m sure he never stopped. Either of them. They just don’t know how to get you back.”