“That’s because I’m an idiot.”

“No, it’s because you are far more determined than most of us have the patience and strength to be.”

We sit in silence, holding hands for a long time. I want to take her out of this place, but she needs time. My cell phone suddenly rings, and I realize we’ve been sitting here for so long church is now over, and my parents are ready for answers. Rowan watches me, and I know she’s not up for my family this night. I answer the phone, thinking quickly of what to say. I lie to them, saying she’s in bed with a bad headache. She looks at me, appreciation showing in her eyes. I then lie again and say I’m tired and think I’ll go home for the night. My parents are not happy to hear this, but I’m adamant. Missing Christmas Eve dinner with my family is wrong, but I won’t leave her alone tonight. Her father is no doubt out drinking his sorrow away, and she certainly won’t be staying anywhere except with me. As we leave the house, I blow out the candles in the dining room, leaving the house pitch black. When he’s sober tomorrow morning, let him see what she did for him. If guilt is an emotion he is capable of, I hope he has a good serving of it tomorrow.

When we get to my apartment, Rowan says good night and excuses herself to her bedroom. I hate that she is so depressed and miss her usual perky self. I finally go to bed, too, at nine o’clock. I’m not tired, but being here when she’s sad like this has put me in a depressed mood. I fall asleep miserable and helpless. But I wake in the middle of the night as she crawls into my bed.

It’s been so long since I’ve gotten to be this close to her. I love it when she’s in bed with me. There is no doubt my feelings for her tend to lean to the sexual, even erotic, but they also run quite intensely to the compassionate and caring. I love comforting her and holding her as much as I enjoy imagining fucking her. She nestles in next to me and wraps her arms around me. I stroke her hair and rub her back as I feel her breath on my neck. And when my hand that has been caressing its way down her back finally reaches her waist, I can’t help but run my hand under her shirt to feel the skin of her lower back. It is smooth, and my hand glides over the contour of her shape. My hand travels to her waist and feeling my touch there makes her breath hitch. I can tell she is aroused and nervous. From my hold on her waist, I ease her hips toward mine, and the second it is done, I know I’ve made a mistake.

My brain is screaming at me to stop, but the rest of me is refusing to listen to reason. She mindlessly shifts her top leg over mine and allows herself to get closer to me. I can feel the warmth between her legs against my rigid cock, separated only by a couple of thin layers of material. She pushes her hips toward me, trying to make the material disappear. I push forward, wanting her to feel my hard arousal. She does, and her body shudders when I press against the spot where I know her most sensitive bud lies hidden. I imagine we are unclothed and continue to slowly thrust against her. I can feel the cleft of her lips through the fabric, and my cock finds its place there. We move together, our arousal mounting. Her breathing is ragged and quick, and I’ve never enjoyed having my clothes on so much with a woman before.

I want to make her come; hell, I want to come with her. But my brain is still screaming, chastising me and full out berating me for my stupidity. And at long last, after giving in for far too long, my brain finally get’s my body’s attention, and I’m stopped by a mere thread of impropriety. This is wrong. I know this is wrong, and I have to stop before we go too far. With agonizing willpower, I slow our movements. I sense her confusion and can offer her little explanation without hurting her.

“Why did you stop?” It’s a whisper.

There is no way of softening the blow. “You know we can’t.”

She rolls away from me, sitting up to leave. I wrap my arms around her waist, pulling myself up to straddle her from behind—my brain still screaming at me to stop touching her. I whisper into her ear. “Don’t go. I don’t want you to leave.”

“I’m embarrassed. Please, just let me go.” And making one of the few right decisions since her first touch, I do, and I’m suddenly left alone with my guilt in the darkness of my room. I want desperately to reassure her of how much I want her, to take away the rejection she feels right now, but admitting it to her would serve no purpose except to further complicate and confuse our relationship. The last thing I want is for her to confuse my compassion for her with the sexual intimacy I’ve allowed to happen. I’m too old for her, and she doesn’t need a lover or even the idea of a lover. She needs me to be her friend. She needs to be able to trust me, and I’m destroying that trust every time I touch her. I am ashamed of the way I’ve allowed my desire to cloud my judgment, and I have to make this right. She’s been hurt so much already today. The last thing I want is to hurt her more, but I know, before even saying the words, I will. But they’re words she needs to hear.

I enter her bedroom and can see her silhouette in the bed. She is facing away from the door and me. I sit down. “Row, I’ve made a mistake. We can’t… It’s not right for me to be so close to you. I’ve been inappropriate with you, and I can’t do it anymore.” I pause, expecting her to respond. She is silent. “I love spending time with you, and I love talking with you, and I know I’m hurting you right now, and I’m sorry. But I don’t want to make any mistakes with you. I care too much for you to violate our friendship. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” I sit for a moment longer, hoping for a response. I get none and silently stand and leave the room. I hate myself. I’ve hurt her, and all I want to do is run back in there and hold her.

As I lie alone in my dark room, I start to understand how different things will be tomorrow, and I’m depressed just thinking about how our relationship will change. The idea of being with her and not being close to her or being able to touch her is almost painful. But it is the right thing to do, and I renew the vow I should have kept long ago.

* * *

I’m humiliated. I’m heartbroken. I’m pissed as hell. I really thought that he wanted me. I wanted him so much. I would have done anything at that moment. I would have given myself to him in a heartbeat. What was all that bullshit about caring about me, violating our relationship? I just needed to be with him so much. I want to be in his arms, and according to him, that’s wrong and won’t happen ever again. He rejected me, and it hurts. He didn’t want me, or he didn’t want me enough. If he had, he wouldn’t have pushed me away and made excuses. I can’t stand feeling this way, and the tightness in my chest is painful. It screams at me to run, flee as far from him as possible as though the grip on my heart won’t release until I’ve put a safe distance between us. I have to get away from him.

I wait for some time to pass until getting up quietly and dressing in the dark. I sneak out to the living room, tip toeing by his bedroom door but not quietly enough. I make it only halfway across the living room before he emerges from the hall and snaps on the light. I freeze and lower my head. Busted. I turn slowly to look at him but can hardly meet his eyes.

He speaks, or rather, he seethes. He knows my intention, and he’s angry. “Where are you going?” His words are snarled in his fury.

“I want to go home.”

“That’s not the deal.”

I’m angry, too. “Fuck your deal!”

I turn on my heel and head out the door with him trailing behind me. He catches up to me in the small vestibule, and as I pull the door open, he reaches around me and slams it shut. He leans down and between gritted teeth commands, “Get upstairs … now.”

I try pulling the door handle again, but his hand is still holding the door shut. It’s no use. I spin toward him, push past him, and go back upstairs. He is right behind me, and he is fuming. He immediately lays into me once the door is shut. “What the fuck were you thinking, going out in the middle of night in the dead of winter? Does hypothermia sound like a good idea to you? You want to be pissed at me, fine. I’ll deal with that, but don’t ever think of breaking our agreement, because I don’t care what I’ve done to piss you off; if the agreement is broken, your little secret will be anything but.”

The whole time he’s talking, I’m standing, facing him but unable to look at him—my own fury building to critical mass. And when I hit my limit, I finally explode. “Fuck you! I can’t stand this. I’m not some little pet project. I don’t need you treating me like some incompetent child. And right now, I’d rather be at home with him than you in a second. I’ve been taking care of myself for some time now and doing just fine.”

“Really! I seem to recall a bloody lip not so far in your past. Is that your idea of doing fine? Please. You don’t know what fine is. You may be good at getting by, but you don’t know the first fucking thing about having a real life. You leech off the life of my family because you don’t have one of your own. But unlike family and far more like an immature child, you run away the first time you don’t get your way. It doesn’t work that way. You want to take care of yourself, then learn to deal with this!”

Hurt is an understatement. I can barely breathe after hearing his comments, and I do the only thing I can do. I push past him and into my bedroom, slamming the door before breaking down in tears on the bed. Is it not enough that I think of myself as a leech already? Did he have to remind me of exactly how I’m seen by him and his family? I lie there most of the night, replaying the evening and not sleeping at all. I’m supposed to join his family for Christmas in the morning, and the thought of having to endure his company, let alone the company of his family, is gut-wrenching. I can’t do it. I won’t do it.

I’m determined to give escape one more try, and at five o’clock, I rise again. I sneak from the apartment and am greeted by the cold, blustering, Michigan wind. I know that it is stupid to walk home in this weather, but I have a good coat and would rather freeze than deal with seeing him this morning. It takes me an excruciating forty-five minutes to walk home, and that is jogging most of the way. I know he’ll be furious with me; hell, I know there’s a good chance he’ll decide to follow through and call the cops, but at this moment I don’t care. My pride has gotten the better of me, and I refuse to let him call the shots. When I arrive home, it is barely starting to get light out, and when I enter the house, the dining room table is as I left it, and my father is passed out on the couch. Good. I’m tired from not sleeping and want nothing more than to crawl into bed for the rest of the day. Merry Christmas to me.

I know my phone will be ringing, and I’m prepared to tell Sara I’m sick again today. They will be leaving at first light tomorrow morning to catch an early flight out of Grand Rapids toward Denver. The Harringtons will be staying at their condo in Frisco, skiing for the next week, and won’t return until the day before New Year’s Eve. In years past, I’ve gone on family trips with them, but this year I decided to work during the holiday to make extra money. I want Logan as far from me as possible, and I am thankful I declined their offer to join them this year.

Like clockwork, my phone rings at ten o’clock, and I make my excuses. She says nothing of Logan, and I take that as a good sign he’s keeping his mouth shut. I hibernate in my room for the entire day, only coming out for food and the bathroom. That night as I lie in bed, I’m depressed. I’m so angry at Logan but also heartbroken I haven’t heard from him today. Tomorrow he’ll be gone, and I won’t see him for at least five days. I miss him already, but it’s likely for the best.

Chapter 8

The next few days pass like a fog. I work a lot and make really good money with the holiday crowd in town. I need the money for a car, not to mention when Sara and I move to Ann Arbor next fall, and I am again thankful I decided to stay home. I try not to think about Logan, but that is a near impossibility. I want to see him, but my anger is intense and unrelenting. I want to hurt him the way he’s hurt me. He’s probably not even thinking of me at all.

The first I hear from Sara is on the thirtieth when she calls me to say they’ve arrived back in town. She asks me to come over for dinner, but fortunately I have to work that night. I don’t want to lie to her, but there is no way I’m going to go over there and risk seeing Logan. I don’t ever want to see him, except, of course, that’s a lie; I want to see him so much I’m miserable from it. We make plans to go out the next night for New Year's. I don’t know what Sara has in store for us, but she’s made me promise not to back out. Sara’s a socialite, and I often find myself in places I would never dream of going on my own. I’m shy in a crowd even if she’s the center of attention. I’m sure she has some party lined up, and I’ll probably end up getting drunk just to keep my cool.