It’s like he’s reminding me….
Don’t get ahead of yourself. This is still about the job.
Maybe he feels bad about oversharing, where I only want more, every piece of him, just as I want him to take every piece ofme.
CHAPTERTEN
Logan
“Are you sure you don’t mind giving me a ride?” she says from the passenger seat.
I glance at her, my emotions trembling as much as my body, every part of me taut, ready to snap when I see the genuine sympathy in her eyes, the shyness, the sassiness, the goddamn Lucy-ness.
I didn’t mean to share so much with her in the restaurant, all that stuff about Anna and Rachael.
Crazily, I wanted to tell her everything right then, especially about Rachael and me, so she would know the truth and wouldn’t have to wonder if she’d be competing with anybody.
Nobodycan compete with Lucy, ever.
“Less chance of being recognized,” I say with a smirk. “So, which is it you want to be, Lucy, a therapist or a counselor?”
“I was training to be a therapist, but after what happened to Dad, I don’t know. I mean, one thing is…well, college is expensive. I’ve got so many loans as it is. So I think maybe, if I can return and finish a few key modules, then start work as a counselor, and if I get enough experience with Never Alone too….”
“You will,” I tell her certainly.
That’s the least I can offer her.
But I want to give her more, to give her everything I’m capable of offering.
As we come to a stop at a red light, I tighten my hands around the steering wheel, thinking of her expression when she talked about Maxine Waterson.
What does Lucy think is happening here? Does she think I meet with every would-be counselor for Never Alone?
“It was Dad,” Lucy says softly.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy.”
She waves a hand, looking out the window. Her eyes are getting glassy again, the same way they did in the restaurant, as though she’s on the verge of tears.
I want to comfort her, but I’m still far too aware that, to her, this is casual. We’re getting close, perhaps, sharing a few things with each other. But she has no clue who I really am. She doesn’t know the truth.
She’d run if I told her how badly I wanted her.
For life.
“We’d go to parks when I was a kid,” she goes on as the lights change and I guide the car forward. “And we’d talk about the people we saw. It started as a fun game, but then I got really interested, just crazy about…people, all people. Then, in junior high, I discovered there was an entire job where your purpose was to help them improve, get better, and be who they want to be. I’ve never doubted it since.”
“You must be incredibly empathetic,” I say, thinking of children, of laughing faces turned up toward their mother, then she’ll sweep them into her arms and hold them warmly.
“I don’t know. I guess so. But sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m thinking, let alone other people.”
“Has it always been that way?” I ask.
“It depends,” she says quietly. “Before Dad…I think I was better. But it’s difficult, with his memory so fresh.”
“What about your mom, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She died in childbirth.”