Grace for Drowning

The situation was impossible. We couldn't be together, yet we wouldn't survive apart. I'd thought about tracking him down, of course, but I just didn't know what it would achieve. Even if I could find it in myself to forgive him, he didn't want to see me. He'd made his choice. And beyond that, how could I possibly trust him after this? How could I commit to a man who could cause me such pain?

On the other hand, I desperately wanted to understand why all of this had happened. I wanted to hear it from his mouth. It would hurt, but maybe that was reason enough.

Two Months Later

Chapter Twenty Six

Grace

The car pulled up in the drive.

"Are you sure about this?" Joy asked for the tenth time.

We were outside Charlie's cabin. I'd convinced Joy to drive me up here when I was finally well enough to make the trip. My body still ached, and I was walking with crutches, but according to the doctors, given what had happened to me, it was better progress than I had any right to expect. They said I'd eventually make a complete recovery. I'd been discharged a week ago into the care of my parents, who, true to their word, had stayed in town throughout the whole ordeal. It didn't quite make up for exiling me, but it was a start.

"It was your idea!" I replied.

"I know. I just...I'm nervous for you, I guess."

"Well that makes two of us." I let out a long breath. "You were right though. I need to do this."

She grimaced, but then nodded slowly. "Do you have a plan?"

"I don't think there is a plan for what's going to happen in there."

"You're probably right." She looked like she was searching for another reason to keep me in the car but, after a few seconds, she said, "Well, good luck. And remember — I'll be here if you need me."

I managed a tiny smile. "I know. Thanks."

The cabin was in a lovely area — lush woodland, birdsong on the air, a small lake in the distance, gleaming in the sunlight. It was a refreshing change from the barren beauty of the Vegas landscape. If the circumstances had been different, the idea of spending an afternoon there with L

ogan would have been wonderful, but as it was, all I could focus on was the churning in my stomach. I couldn't believe I was actually going to see him. It had been three months since the accident, and I'd spent a good amount of that time trying to talk myself out of coming at all. It was going to hurt, and it probably wouldn't achieve anything, but I couldn't let it end this way. I needed closure, one way or another.

I hesitated at the door, my hand poised on the knob. Last chance, Grace. I closed my eyes, letting all of the happy memories from our time together play through my head. Focus on the good, Logan had once told me. I prayed that would get me through this.

I steeled myself and stepped inside.

The room was dim, with only the snatches of sun sneaking under the curtains for light. It smelled musty; mildew and sweat and the stale smoke of old scotch. It was fairly basic looking inside — lots of rough wood, gnarled furniture, an open fire place against the far wall. It felt rustic, like a cabin should, although the vibe was somewhat ruined by the liquor bottles that littered the floor.

Logan was lying on the sofa, an open bottle of Jack Daniels precariously propped up against his chest. Even without the obvious clues, I'd have known straight away that he was drinking again. The transformation was incredible. He looked hollow, shrunken, like a wilting flower that had been cut at the stem. It had been over three months since I'd seen him, and that time had wreaked havoc. I almost couldn't reconcile the broken wreck before me with the man I used to know.

At first, all I could do was stare. I felt tears rising behind my eyes, and I had no idea if they were for him, or for me, or for the things he'd done. I wasn't the only one who'd been destroyed by this. I couldn't understand how we'd reached this point, how we'd caused each other so much pain.

Initially, I thought he was asleep but, as I took a step forward, his eyes flicked open. He blinked rapidly for a few seconds, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing, then he started to laugh. There was no mirth in it. It was a horrible sound, the laugh of a man who feels like the universe is playing one last giant joke on him.

"Why are you here?" he asked, making no effort to get up. His voice was coarse. I suspected he hadn't spoken in a while.

No hello. No apology. He seemed almost angry that I'd come. "I needed to see you."

He spread his arms. "Well, here I am." Somehow he even managed to make that sound bitter, like it was an affront that he was still alive at all. Thankfully, he didn't seem too deep into it yet. That's why I'd arrived early in the day — hoping I could catch him relatively sober.

I moved closer and sat on a nearby stool while he continued to watch me with glassy eyes. I'd rehearsed this moment in my head a million times, while lying in that damn bed, but now that it had come, my tongue was frozen. The things he'd made me feel were so raw, so intense, that I had no idea how to even begin putting them into words.

"You fell off the wagon," I said eventually.

He laughed again. "I didn't fall. I jumped." His eyes danced across discarded bottles. "May have set the fucking thing on fire on my way down, too."

"Why?"