Текст книги "She: Part 2"
Автор книги: Annabel Fanning
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
“Maybe,” I say, though I’m doubtful. Then, something on my hand catches my eye under the water, and I tell her, “I’m going to hang up, send you a photo, and then call you back, OK?”
“You don’t have to hang up to send a photo, Gem,” Amber informs me.
“I do,” I say pointedly.
She laughs, “Oh, yes, I forgot – your technology capabilities are limited.”
“Exactly,” I laugh too. I hang up and snap a quick photo of my engagement ring, momentarily marvelling once more in its beauty, before double checking and then triple checking that there are no naked body parts in the image, no reflections from the water or from any mirrored surfaces around the bathroom. Once the photo has the all clear, I message it to Amber, then I wait for twenty seconds before speed dialling her back.
When she picks up I can hear her sniffing, and I grin into my phone.
“It’s beautiful,” she cries. “Oh, I’m so happy for you, Gem.”
“Likewise,” I tell her. “That video of your ultrasound had me in tears,” I confess.
We chat for a further ten minutes about the many beautiful and blessed things that both of us have going on in our lives right now. Then, after agreeing to catch up later in the week, I say goodbye, hangup, drop my phone onto the pile of clothes next to the bathtub, and sink back under the water, relishing its warmth. Logan’s arms close around my middle.
Peering around at him once more, I murmur, “Sorry for waking you.”
“That’s OK,” he says sleepily. “I like hearing you talk to Amber,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Is code-red your period?”
“Yes,” I giggle, totally unabashed that he knows what it stands for; it’s not exactly a subtle nickname. “I should have it by the end of week,” I tell him, and he nods drowsily. Tired or not, Jerry would never react so nonchalantly about my period. He used to imply that I was unsanitary during this time of my womanhood. Immature prick!
“Is it painful?” Logan checks, his eyelids heavy, his hands caressing me just below my bellybutton, as if preparing to massage it better.
Despite enjoying his touch, I say, “No, baby, not usually.” But I can’t help grinning, “Though if you’re offering this type of massage, then I’m happy to pretend.”
He chuckles, burying his face into my neck, and breathing me in. “Anything to make you feel good,” he murmurs, before sleep claims him again.
This time I follow his lead, lolling back against him. He won’t be here when I wake up tomorrow, I tell myself as I drift off to sleep; we’ll be apart all day until bedtime. I’m sure I’ll manage to survive, I muse with dozy sarcasm. It’s only one day apart, after all, and how bad could that possibly be?
12. Jungle
I feel unnervingly alone when I wake up on Monday morning, and instinctively I reach for Logan. It’s only after swatting my hand up and down his side of the bed that I remember that he’s not here. I can vaguely recall him whispering goodbye several hours ago, but sleep had me in such a tight grip that it could’ve been a dream as much as it could’ve been reality.
Drowsily, I check my phone and find two text messages from him, one telling me that his plane is about to leave, and the second informing me that it’s landed safely in Marseille. I type back a good morning greeting and then resign myself to conquer the almost unavoidable Monday morning blues.
The continual flow of messages between Logan and I as I get ready for work undoubtedly keeps my mood bright, and yet I can’t shake the feeling of something being off. There’s an eeriness that follows me around the house, which gets so bad that I begin to chide myself for behaving so childishly just because Logan isn’t here. It must be his absence that’s got me feeling off-kilter, I think, yet that’s no reason to stop functioning like a proper human being. Jeez, get a grip, Gem, I order myself, downing my morning coffee before sending Logan my last message of the morning:
*About to leave for work. Will call at lunchtime. Love you, Leary x*
I step out of my little cottage and almost laugh at the weather – it’s dark and foggy and so perfectly in keeping with my odd mood that it’s comical. I walk along the little pathway to the elevator that takes me down to the underground garage, and it’s only once the elevator doors have shut, when I’m rummaging around in my handbag for my lip balm, that I realise that I’ve left my phone on the kitchen counter.
I can’t possibly endure an entire day without it, I’m not too proud to admit that, and I have every intention of going back to get it until the elevator doors start opening at garage level and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Fuck, I think, as chills take over my body.
I don’t know why it happens, but it does – I go back in time, twenty-three years to be exact, and I’m sitting in the back of my father’s car, minutes before he took his last breath. It’s the same feeling, the same coldness, and the same sense that something wrong is about to happen. I feel the terror that coursed through my younger-self and yet I have no idea why this memory is occurring now.
I look up and see my neighbour, the male half of the couple who lives opposite from me, standing outside of the elevator doors, waiting to get in. His head is down and as my eyes scan his body, I see him tucking something under his shirt into the belt of his trousers, hiding it from my line of sight.
You have to get out of this elevator, Gem, a voice in my head tells me, and I remember that I’ve heard that voice before. You have to stay in the car, it told me twenty-three years ago. I did as it said back then, too young to have any other choice, but I can’t leave now, he’s blocking my exit. Him, and the firearm that I’m almost certain that he’s carrying.
My breath catches in my chest. Double fuck!
I hate knowing this feeling; it’s like I’ve travelled into the middle of a memory. The air down here is deathly cold. It’s not right, it’s not natural. I can barely breathe it.
My neighbour looks up, his eyes pierce mine, and I know I’ve stepped back in time. Oh my god! My heart lurches uncomfortably and it takes everything in me not to gasp. I’ve seen eyes like that only once before, mere moments before my father was killed. They’re hallow, soulless, utterly empty eyes, and I abruptly realise that the eeriness following me around this morning wasn’t about Logan’s absence at all. It was pure foreboding, but my mind couldn’t explain it, so it fabricated an explanation instead. A reasonable response, I think, considering that I never, ever thought I’d feel like this again.
Short, shallow breaths are all that I can manage. Get out of the elevator, I hear once more.
This can’t possibly be happening, I tell myself. My adult-self kicks in and I instantly reject all of the signs, all of the warnings, and all of the feelings of deja vu; it’s just not possible, I try to convince myself. He’s not carrying a gun, Gem. I’m going to get my phone, I think stubbornly.
Yet as my neighbour steps towards me, so too do I step towards him. We move around each other, our bodies centimetres apart, swapping positions until he’s inside the elevator and I’m outside of it, even though I don’t feel like it’s me that’s making my body move. I’m being pulling and pushed and moved by something else. Intuition perhaps, or a primal survival instinct, or something altogether more inexplicable?
“Passez une bonne journée,” he says behind me as I walk away. Have a good day.
Immediately, annoyance and confusion courses through me. Would a gun-wielding man say that, Gem? No, I think, and yet after I hear the elevator doors shut, I can’t stop myself from breaking into a run and hurrying over to my stationary car, my hands fumbling so badly that I drop my car keys twice on route. These mixed messages are doing my head in! I can’t explain this shuddering, shivering feeling of terror, I can’t explain why I feel like I’m simultaneously four and twenty-seven, and I don’t want to try right now. All I want to do is get away from here, from him. Far away.
Composing and calming myself, I get into my car, pull the door shut and lock myself inside. Bullets go through glass, a very unhelpful thought flits across my mind. I turn on the ignition, about to have a serious talk with myself about my tendency for extreme overreacting, when I hear a deafening gunshot issue somewhere above me.
No way! No. Fucking. Way!
I gasp loudly and catch sight of my terror-strewn face in the rear view mirror. I’m taken back once more to the last time that I heard that noise, in my father’s car, petrified. Somehow I knew what had happened, yet I had no ability to run, to remove myself from the situation. I had no choice but to sit and wait and hope that I wasn’t next.
I have a choice now. Fuck what’s realistic, fuck giving someone the benefit of the doubt, my instincts were right, and I have to get myself out of this garage! Drive, Gemima, I order, and I cease doubting and questioning myself. I put the car into gear and flatten the accelerator to the floor.
I’m out of the confined underground space in record time, swerving onto the road, narrowly avoiding a collision. I check my rearview mirror – my neighbour is nowhere in sight. I check the faces of the people walking on the street. Concern is prevalent – they all heard the gunshot too, and most of them are on their phones, no doubt to the police.
I need to do that, I think, except I don’t have my phone! I could pull over; anyone of the numerous shops that I’m hurtling past will have a telephone for me to use, and yet I’m too filled with fear to stop moving. Perhaps I’d feel safe enough to stop if I were outside a police station, but I can’t remember where the nearest one is. Dammit! I know there’s one somewhere near my house, I’ve seen it so often, but my brain can’t compute correctly right now, it just can’t. All I’m good for is driving. I don’t even know where I’m driving to. My movements are entirely auto-piloted, the adrenalin kicking in and taking over.
I’m in pure survival mode, feeling as insecure as though that bullet were meant for me. But even in my heightened state of fear, I know it wasn’t. What was it then? A warning shot…or the real thing? Intended for him…or her?
I see an image of my neighbour’s wife (or girlfriend) in my mind’s eye. They’ve been fighting recently, I remind myself. I’ve heard their raised voices, and I’ve told myself to keep my nose out of it when I thought about intervening. I’ve seen his threatening grip on her body, and I’ve watched her defend herself. But how do you defend yourself against a gun? Is that really what just happened?
My breath catches in my chest once more and I instantly feel like I could throw up. Anyone in my shoes would be worked up right now, but my bone-chilling history makes a bad situation feel much, much worse. I had no idea how vividly my four-year-old self documented every detail of that fateful day. No idea that I could still feel her fear and her coldness and her sense of foreboding. And no clue as to what, or whom, put one foot in front of the other to remove me from the confines of the elevator. Where the hell did that feeling of being pushed and pulled come from? How is that even possible?
Needless to say there are a torrent of questions circling in my head as I continue to drive, and I find myself only slowing to a stop, mentally and physically, once I am outside of Pierson House. So this is where my auto-pilot leads me? To work? I would roll my eyes at myself if I didn’t feel so incredibly nauseous. My legs feel like jelly, and not the good post-sex jelly, but the I-don’t-know-how-much-longer-I-can-stay-standing jelly. I manage to get myself through the front door and make a beeline for the bathroom. Layla isn’t at reception, which is just as well, because I wouldn’t trust myself to say a word without first vomiting.
It’s worse than my post-roller coaster vomit yesterday. I’m retching long after my stomach is empty, my body’s desperate attempt to get rid of something that I just can’t shake – the eeriness, the coldness, the unparalleled fear. Another memory shows me my father talking to me and smiling at me while he filled up the gas tank. He was happy that morning, I recall the look of calm and contentment on his face. Then I see him leaving the car and walking into the petrol station, never to exit it. I watched him standing in line to pay, until the doll in my hands became more interesting to me. Just as well, I think, given what happened next. These are all scenes that I’ve never remembered before now, and they serve as inspiration for yet another retch.
A few draining minutes later I leave my stall to wash my mouth out at the sink. While I’m bent double over the faucet the stall door shuts with a loud bang and I practically jump out of my skin. Shit! The debilitating fear crumbles until I’m just plain scared. My eyes start watering as I look at myself in the mirror. I hate feeling so unsafe, I hate not knowing what happened, I hate the memories that keep infiltrating my psyche, I hate, hate, hate this morning! Yet I don’t have the luxury to indulge in my hatred, I have to call the police. Am I going to be a witness in a murder trial?
I stop myself getting carried away as best as I can as I exit the bathroom and walk towards the doors that separate reception from the work cubicles beyond.
“She’s coming,” I very distinctly hear Layla whisper, only realising right then that she’s still not manning her usual post.
I don’t have a thought to spare to wonder what’s going on. I push the doors open and find most of my work colleagues, including Layla and Amélie, huddled around my desk a few metres in front of me.
“Congratulations!” they all cry when I spot them, taking me completely by surprise.
I gasp in a mixture of shock and confusion, internally deliberating how I should handle this (whatever the fuck this is) before my body decides for me. My legs buckle under me and I fall to the ground, bursting into tears. It’s all just too much for me!
Margaret hurries forward, sinking to the ground next to me, pulling me into a hug.
Somewhere above us, I hear Layla whisper, “Pensez-vous leur relation est déjà terminée?” Do you think their relationship is over already?
Ah-ha, the non-emotional part of my brain registers her words and realises that they are congratulating me on mine and Logan’s engagement. Amélie must’ve heard on Saturday night and spread the news, I think. That would also explain the huge bouquet of flowers on my desk.
“Gemima, what’s wrong?” Margaret whispers, her voice laced with authentic concern.
“I have to call the police,” I snob.
There’s an audible collective intake of breath which would be humorous if it weren’t at the expense of someones life.
“I heard a gunshot near my house and I sort of know the gunman,” I tell them all. My body starts shaking and I can’t get it to stop; adrenalin is doing weird things to me.
“Logan?” Layla assumes, and I glare up at her.
“No,” I snap. “Logan’s not in Paris today,” I say, lamenting the truth of my words. He’s the only one that I want right now, and I quickly add him to my must-call list. Just the sound of his voice will calm me, I know it will. “My neighbour,” I mutter, “I think he shot his partner…or himself…I don’t know, but I should—”
“Come with me,” Amélie says, stepping forward and offering her hand to help me up. “We’ll call from a meeting room. Layla, set one up,” she orders.
Layla jumps to life, putting down the party-popper in her hand, and disappearing into the nearest meeting room.
Taking Amélie’s outstretched hand, I feel a strange combination of ridiculousness, embarrassment, and gratitude as I get to my feet. “Thank you for the congratulations,” I say to my colleagues, wiping my tears away before indicating the abundant flowers. “It’s so lovely of you,” I gush. I just wish it had occurred on any other morning besides this one!
“Votre bague est belle,” Margaret says, catching sight of my ring. Your ring is beautiful. She holds my hand out to better examine it, and several curious pairs of eyes look over it, voices muttering their agreement.
“Thank you,” I say again.
“You weren’t wearing that on Saturday,” Amélie notes, looking at it too. “He’s got good taste, doesn’t he?” she says, giving me a small, kind smile. “Come on, dear, let’s get this mess sorted,” she takes charge, pulling me behind her into the meeting room.
At the head of the table Layla is already nattering away to a police officer. When she sees us walking towards her she taps the loudspeaker button.
“Où le coup de feu a-t-il eu lieu?” a serious voice asks. Where did the gunshot take place?
Taking a seat in the chair that Layla pulls out for me, I lean over the phone and tell the female officer everything that I can recall. Fifteen minutes later, and only after I’ve divulged all of the information that I have, she tells me that several other people have called in the shooting as well, just as I’d suspected, including two of my other neighbours who were still in their homes at the time.
That would be worse, being trapped inside. At least I got to escape the vicinity, I think gratefully.
“Did anyone die?” I ask in English.
“Oui, Mademoiselle, une femme.” Yes, Miss, a woman. “Elle était, tuée par balles, à extérieur de la maison qu’elle a partagée avec le bandit armé. Il a été trouvé, par mes collègues cinq minutes après l’incident, à l’intérieur de la maison, où il a tout admis,” she tells me. She was shot dead outside of the home she shared with the gunman. He was found inside of the house by my colleagues five minutes after the incident, where he confessed everything. “Il est maintenant sous notre garde, ainsi soyez assurée, mademoiselle, que vous n’avez rien à craindre à retourner dans votre maison.” He’s now in our custody, so please be assured, Miss, that you have nothing to fear in returning to your home.
“I don’t have to come in to see you? I don’t have to identify him, or be a witness?” I wonder out loud.
“Non, nous avons son entière confession,” she says once more. No. We have his full confession. “Nous vous appellerons si nous avons besoin de plus amples renseignements auprès de vous.” We’ll call you if we need any further information from you.
“OK,” I mutter. “So, what do I do now?” I ask, feeling wholly stupid. What do I do now?
“Je sais que c’est très bouleversant. Veuillez agréer mes condoléances les plus sincères,” she says kindly. I know this is very upsetting. Please accept my deepest condolences. “De mon expérience, j’ai constaté que coller à votre routine est la meilleure façon d’avancer,” she adds, knowledgeably. From my experience, I’ve found that sticking to your usual routine is the best way forward.
It’s Monday morning – usually I’d be getting stuck into this weeks work quota. That shouldn’t be too difficult given that I’m already here.
I give the officer my assurance that I’ll try my best, before thanking her and hanging up.
I sigh deeply. The clock on the phone tells me that it’s half past nine, and yet I feel utterly exhausted. Despite this, I pick up the receiver, tuck it between my ear and shoulder and place my fingers over the buttons, all set to dial Logan’s number before I realise…I don’t know what it is! Further than the first two digits, I haven’t got the faintest idea! Every time I call him I press his name on my touchscreen without ever reading the small numbers underneath of it. How fucking useless is that? I don’t even know my fiancé’s number off by heart!
His number is on the Leary Constructions project file that I have, I note. It’s on my desk, I can call him imminently, and after I’ve done, then I can embark on my new to-do-list: learning Logan’s number. Don’t sweat it, Gem, I tell myself quickly before I get too worked up over it.
Somewhat defeatedly I put the receiver back down with another sigh, both Layla and Amélie watching me carefully.
“Routine,” Amélie repeats the instructions. “Do you think you can work today?” she asks gently. This is probably the calmest, most maternal that I’ve ever seen her.
I nod, but a few seconds later fresh tears start falling from my eyes and I bury my face in my hands. I so can’t work right now. While it’s enough of a shock that a familiar face has died mere metres from my front door, it’s the overwhelming memories that this morning has stirred up, memories of a much more significant event in my personal life, that have me feeling positively useless in a work capacity. The eerie coldness and the creeping fear as felt by my four-year-old self lingers around me still.
For the next half an hour I sit and cry in the meeting room, fighting the persistent nausea I feel, while half explaining to Layla and Amélie why I’m so affected by today’s events. I’m not entirely sure what they know about my father by the time that Layla leaves to make me a cup of tea, and Amélie retreats to the doorway where Rosita meets her as though summoned by some invisible microchip. She hands our boss a sticky note with a number on it and Amélie whips out her mobile phone to call whoever’s number it is. I’m hopeful that it’s Logan’s, but the formality in her tone tells me that it’s probably not.
I really want to hear his voice, I think. I’ll call him after my cup of tea, I decide, though I should probably hold off until lunchtime. He’s not expecting my call before then and he’s probably rushed off his feet down in Marseille. Despite his busyness though, I know he would want me to call him, especially given the way that I’m feeling. Soon, I think again. I just want to sit here a little longer…
I give Layla a small smile when she appears in the doorway with my tea a moment later. I have the distinct impression that she’s in her element this morning. She likes to be needed, likes to feel important and part of the action, and definitely loves being the centre of Amélie’s attention. Observing her frequent glances at Mrs. Clémence and noticing the way that she lights up when she’s praised is actually a nice distraction. I suspect that she could distract me even further if I were to ask for her version of how the double date went, but when Amélie follows her back into the room, I decide against it.
“Thank you, Layla,” I say, accepting the mug and taking a long, hot swig. Was it the British who said that tea could solve any problem? They may have been onto something; it’s exactly the soothing comfort that I need right now, second only maybe to Logan’s secure embrace.
I don’t know if it’s the physical properties of the tea or just my mental perception of what it will do for me, but either way it calms me, so much so that I am able to convince Amélie that I can return to work. I have every intention of doing so, right after a much needed visit to the bathroom to wash my mascara-covered face.
Jeez, I look a mess, I think, surveying my reflection in the mirror. Of all the possible ways for my week to begin, wiping mascara off of my cheeks before noon wasn’t what I expected, I muse sardonically. I keep cleaning my face until I am entirely makeup free, and then I leave my station at the sinks, and settle at last behind desk.
I move the bouquet of flowers to one side, giving me more space to riffle through my project folders until I come to the Leary Constructions one. I open it with haste, finding the contact page easily and I reach my hand out to pick up the phone when it starts ringing against my palm.
“Gemima Samuels, how may I help you?” I answer automatically.
“Gem?” my mom’s panicked voice issues down the line.
“Mom, I’m OK,” I tell her quickly, as she’s evidently in the know about what’s happened, though I can’t work out how. Is it already in the news, I wonder.
Putting an end to my wondering, my mom says, “Your boss left a message for me at the salon. What happened?” she shrieks.
I lounge back in my chair, close my eyes and spend five minutes talking her through my morning, after which we spend the best part of the next hour recounting the day my father died. I tell her about the new memories from that day, and the distinct feeling of something forcing me out of the elevator earlier, and we toy with the affectionate idea that it could be him, looking out for me, even now. I somehow don’t mind the lunacy of the thought; it’s comforting and serves as an explanation for what I felt, albeit a farfetched one.
By the time we hang up it’s just shy of lunchtime, which means that I’ve unintentionally waited until the opportune moment to call Logan. Or so I assume. I finally dial his number, reiterating my mental note to memorise it as soon as humanly possible.
It rings for a long time, before the voice I’ve been craving to hear all morning, says to me, “It’s a bit late to call me now.”
That’s a weird thing to say, I think immediately. I’m quick to recheck the time – it’s not late at all – and I’m about to say something when I realise that the phone is still ringing. What the hell is going on? I stare at the receiver, bemused. Then I look up from my desk and feel like every ounce of my being lights up when I see Logan standing in the doorway of reception.
He’s here? My mouth drops open; he’s not supposed to be here, he’s supposed to be four hundred miles away!
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly, the sight of him putting me at ease for possibly the first time since he left my bed this morning.
He doesn’t say anything to me, his eyes simply scan my face conveying a strange mixture of emotion as they do so. He looks relieved and angry, I realise. Why? What the hell is going on, I wonder once more.
“Where the fuck have you been all morning? Where’s your phone?” he asks me tersely.
Uh… I stare from Logan’s mobile which is vibrating in his hand, back to the receiver before I finally put it down. “I’ve been here,” I tell him, puzzled by his words. “My phone’s at home. I forgot it this morning and couldn’t go back for it. Logan today has been a nightmare,” I say, getting to my feet and joining him on the other side of my desk. I’m about to hug him, but his next words stop me in my tracks.
“For you and me both,” he says, unable to hide his anger.
I stare at him in confusion. He then strides forward, takes me by the hand and pulls me into the nearby meeting room. It would remind me of last Monday if his mood weren’t so sour. I highly doubt that he’s come here now to seduce me.
Once we’re in the privacy of the room, he tries to release my hand but I hold onto it.
“What do you mean – you and me both? What are you doing here?” I ask again.
He stares down at me with serious eyes before they abruptly soften. He unexpectedly pulls me into a tight embrace, his arms firm and safe, his face buried into my hair, as he breathes me in. Confused as I am, I take a deep breath too and melt into his arms, and for a moment, just one brief moment, everything feels perfect.
And then Logan murmurs, “I’m so fucking mad right now.” Immediately his body changes, hardens, becomes less Logan-like.
“Yeah, I got that,” I mutter against his chest. I then push myself away from him. “Why?” I want to know. “I thought you were in Marseille all day?”
“Oh, I was in Marseille, until I thought you were dead…” he says dramatically.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. Did he come all of this way to play some strange trick on me?
“What?” I exclaim. Why on earth would he think that?
“Why the fuck didn’t you call me, Gemima?” Logan asks heatedly.
“I…I was just about to,” I mumble, quite possibly feeling more confused than at any other single point in my life before this.
“It’s too late now,” he says, his voice loud.
I narrow my eyes at him, my irritation growing exponentially. This is not the Logan that I’ve spent the morning longing to speak to. “Yes, you already said that,” I remind him, an edge to my voice. “What you haven’t explained is why.”
“Why?” he asks in disbelief, as though I’m purposefully acting clueless.
“Yes, why? Why are you here? Why would you think that I was dead? And why are you speaking to me like this?”
“Because you should have damn called me, Gemima!” Logan shouts.
“Why? Why should I have called you?” I shout back. Surely, that’s not such a hard fucking question to answer? “I told you that I would call you at lunchtime and I was just about to, so what is the fucking problem?”
Now Logan looks at me as though I’ve just slapped him across the face. “You’re being obtuse, and I don’t know why,” he says slowly.
I gape at him. “Excuse me?”
“No,” he growls angrily, “I won’t excuse you.”
What in the name of fuck is going on right now, I ask myself. Why’s he being like this? If he’s not going to tell me then maybe I can work it out for myself, my inner-sleuth thinks. He was in Marseille…but now he’s here…he’s angry that I didn’t call him…and he thought that I was dead?
I just can’t believe he’s being serious – that makes no sense! The only death today has been…
“You heard about the shooting,” I finally realise. Did he think I died? Why the fuck would he think that?
Logan rolls his eyes at me as though him hearing about the shooting was entirely obvious.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t speak petulance,” I shout at him. “You can either explain what you’re doing here, or you can get out,” I give him his options.
“I heard about the shooting,” he finally admits.
“OK, so?” I need more of an explanation than that, but unable to help myself, I tell him, “It obviously wasn’t me who got shot.” I hold my arms wide, showing him my bullet-free body.
“Don’t be so facetious,” he says, as though I’ve said something truly distasteful.
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Big word, Logan.
“Are you fucking kidding me, Gemima?” he yells.
I put my face in my hands in an attempt to hold onto my sanity. I have no idea why he’s so mad. What am I missing? My patience for figuring out whatever it is, is waning fast.
Logan pulls my hands down so that I have to look at him, and says, “You really have no idea why I came back, do you?” he asks, somehow looking as bewildered as I feel. How have we managed to confound each other so completely? Why can’t he just answer my questions?
