I don't truly understand why, but the fact that I was almost raped didn't really ring true. Maybe I’d blocked it out, or maybe I was just so scared for Logan at the time that I didn't really understand what was happening until afterwards.

I remembered most of it so distinctly. I remembered him being held up, me saying his name, him finding the strength to break free, but then he fell to the floor. I’d wanted to reach him. I kept thinking that he'd find the strength again, but he couldn't get up, he just kept crawling toward me. It had all happened so fast, but his movements—they were so slow. I’d heard him say my name, right before he got kicked in the head. I’d screamed. It was so loud, it had echoed through the house. I’d screamed some more, and I’d thought for sure that if he could just hear me screaming, he would wake up. Surely, he would wake up. He had to.

I think my body shut down then, because I don't remember anything that happened after.

When I woke up in the hospital, the first thing I remember thinking was that maybe Logan and I were connected somehow, more than just a boy and a girl in love. Maybe our souls were entwined—if he hurt, I hurt. If he stopped breathing, I did, too. If he died, maybe I would die with him.

I was alive. I was awake. Which meant that he was, too. But I didn't see him; he never came for me.

He just left.

***

We decided to go home for the weekend to visit Mom. She'd started to date some guy, and she wanted us to meet him. I’d invited Tyson to come along, he assumed he already was.

My mom loved Tyson—always had. We took Ethan's car, as mine was too small, and Tyson didn't have one. Tyson wanted to drop by the store and get a bottle of wine and some flowers for Mom. Ethan left his phone charger back home, so went to the electronics store to buy a new one. I waited in the car for both of them.

A knock on the window caused me to jump out of my skin. I held my hand to my heart, and turned to see a familiar face.

He knocked again.

I should’ve expected to see him; we were parked out the front of his practice. I wound down the window.

"Hey, Amanda," he said. Then rubbed the scruff of his beard with the back of his fingers. "You got a minute? I’d like to have a quick word, if that’s okay?"

It could only be about one thing, and for a second, I hesitated. But I wouldn’t let this ruin what I’d spent months trying to build. "Sure." I smiled at him and got out of the car.

He motioned for me to sit on a bench a few feet away. The cool metal chilled the back of my thighs when I sat. "How have you been, Dr. Matthews?"

"You know to call me Alan, Amanda."

I giggled. "How have you been, Alan?"

He blew out a breath, his smile completely gone. "I’ve been better." He cleared his throat. "That’s actually why I wanted to speak to you."

My eyebrows drew in. "What do you mean?"

He took my hand in both of his. I let him. I swallowed down my emotions and blinked back the tears. I don’t know how he’d suddenly made me feel like this.

"I owe you an apology—"

I opened my mouth to interrupt, but he lifted his hand to stop me.  "Please, sweetheart," he said. "I need to apologize to you. Logan—"

My breath caught. My insides turned to cement. His name alone still had the power to ruin me.

"He was in a bad way after what happened to you. And even though it happened to him, too, he never saw it like that. All he ever saw was you. He blamed himself. He thought it was his fault that it happened. And he thought that if you hadn’t of met him . . . well . . ." He let out all the air in his lungs. Then he looked at me, right into my eyes.

Blinking, I let a tear drop.

"I thought I was helping him. It was my idea for him to leave and travel. I thought that maybe it would help him if he saw things differently . . . but hell, I never even thought about you."

I let the dam break; let it shatter into a pool of contained emotions.

"And I’m sorry," he continued. "I’m sorry that he’s gone."

"Please," I managed to say, trying to stop him from continuing. I wiped my face. "I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but you’re not the one that should be apologizing."

He nodded. "Do you want to know about him?"

"No," I said quickly. "I can’t."

"Okay."

He removed his hands from mine and leaned back on the bench, and I mimicked his position. We stared straight ahead.

"You know," he said, his tone a little lighter. "When he left for college, it started to get real lonely in that big old house, but he would come by and visit on weekends. Now, though—I miss him."

I swallowed the knot in my throat. "Yeah." I did, too. But I wasn’t going to admit that to anyone.

He laughed once. "I looked up Taco Casserole recipes on the internet."

I smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he replied. "Mine came out black, though."

I laughed, that awkward crying-type laugh.

"Just saying—if you ever feel the need to make it, and want to visit a lonely old man in a big empty house, the invitation is there."

I tuned my head to face him. "Maybe."

"There you are!" Tyson’s voice came from behind me, interrupting us.

I stood up, and so did Alan. I waited until he was next to me before I made the introductions. "Um, this is Tyson." I pointed my thumb at him. "Tyson, this is Dr. Matthews." I felt Tyson tense.