I lick my dry lips and try to see what Logan suggested is there. At first, all I see is dark—blackness, but with a few blinks and a track of a movement to my right, I see an ear then another then two more. My heart pounds and excitement tickles my bloodstream. Bunnies. The yard in front of the barn is filled with bunnies. They’re brown and furry and the urge is to rush out, grab one, and squish it to my face.
“It’s Timothy hay,” he whispers, referring to the bales behind us. “It’s sweet to them. I wonder how long they’ve been stalking us.”
While the guys were taking the bales off the trailer, loose pieces of hay fell to the ground and now lots of the joyous critters are partaking in a free meal. Just when I couldn’t love bunnies more, I do—they also appreciate being a scavenger. Beautiful little scavengers.
Logan locks his arms around me and I wrap my arms around his, enjoying this hug, enjoying his hold. He turns his head, nuzzling his nose into my hair. “Abby?”
I close my eyes and breathe in to calm the thundering in my soul. “Yes?”
“You know I care for you, too.”
I squeeze his arms and Logan places a slow kiss against the side of my head.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For what I said...” For pushing him away.
“I can’t lose you. You returning to selling, I’m not okay with it. Do anything else you want. Lion taming. Sniper. Detonation expert. Juggling fire. High school guidance counselor.”
The right side of my mouth tips up. “That’s safer?”
“At least then you’ll have backup. You’ll have people you can trust.”
My happy moment fades and a bunny raises his head and seems to look at me. He knows a possible predator is near. He knows he’s in danger and yet he stays perfectly still. Acting as if when he freezes he becomes invisible, but all he’s done is made himself an easier target.
It’s the same thing I’ll be doing if I return to selling on the streets.
“I’ll tell you something else nobody knows,” he whispers.
“Other than you can play guitar,” I tease.
I feel his chest rumbling with his laugh and I like the sensation.
“Tell me.”
Logan pauses and the weight of what he’s about to tell me settles onto my body. Whatever it is, he’s drowning in it. “My father accused me of having no idea who I am. He says that I just ride whatever wave is in front of me to the shore.”
His statement is one of those that means thinking before responding. Above us a bird flaps its wings as it moves from one rafter to the next. I snuggle in tighter to Logan and watch as two bunnies sniff each other’s noses. Wish making friends in the real world was that easy.
Who is Logan? A baseball player, brilliant, a daredevil, a drag racer, a tree climber, a great kisser, a friend. Loyal and larger than life. Sexy and strong. Quiet but his presence is loud. Overbearing yet kind. Persistent and patient.
In the end, it doesn’t matter who I think he is, it doesn’t matter who Logan’s father thinks Logan is, the only opinion that matters on this subject is Logan’s.
“What do you think of what he said?” I ask.
“I’m scared he’s right.”
If my grandmother was of sound mind, what would she think of me? Would she be firm that I had a good grasp of who I am? I lower my head. There’s no point in pretending to guess for an answer. I already know. She’d be ashamed of my choices...she’d state the obvious just like Logan’s father...
“I’m scared he’d be right on me, too,” I say. “I’m not sure I know who I am, either.”
“You’re a girl who likes bunnies.”
I smile at that and let the back of my head rest on his chest. “Not a bad start.”
“No, it’s not.”
I pull back from Logan and my fingers trace along his bicep where he had given himself a shot at lunch then along his stomach where I had seen him give himself a shot before dinner.
How cruel is fate to bring me and Logan together? A girl whose lifestyle will kill her and a boy who can’t exchange the health hand he’s been dealt. “Does it hurt? The shots I mean?”
“I’m used to it.”
Not really an answer, yet it is at the same time. “I have a ton of questions. Besides movies and TV, I don’t understand diabetes at all. Like what’s the difference between type 1 and type 2? Why do I see you eat sweets—like are you cheating? Which I’m okay with unless chocolate cake can kill you then we’ve got a problem. And how do you know how to test and give yourself shots? And are you going to be okay?”
“Do you mind breathing between those questions? It might help me keep up.”
I scowl and Logan attempts to smother a smile.
“Movies and TV often get it wrong. With type 1, my body no longer produces insulin. With type 2, the body doesn’t use the insulin it produces properly. I’m allowed to eat sugar, I just got to watch how much. I can explain testing and my shots as I go. As long as I take care of myself, I’ll be fine.” Logan links our fingers together. “And we’ve got time for me to answer all of the questions running through your head.”
I search his eyes. Never once did Logan look away. His body didn’t twitch. His movements weren’t off. He means all that he says and more importantly, he truly believes he’ll be fine. Good because I can’t stand the idea of losing him.