"Babe." I tried to get her attention.

Her head lifted. "Huh?" she said, but her mind was elsewhere.

"You're staying, right?"

She nodded and got off the chair, placing the picture carefully on the table. I walked to the sofa to convert it to the bed, but she pulled on my hand to stop me. "What's up?" I asked, turning to face her.

She looked uneasy. "Um. Maybe you—or we—maybe we could try the bedroom. I mean you don't have to . . . but I just thought—if it doesn't work we can just come out here, right? Or not. We don't have to." Her words came out shaky. She was nervous. "I don't want to push you, Logan. I just . . ." She shrugged. "I want to help you."

My eyes shut tight. I wanted to rewind time and unhear her words. It was the last thing I wanted.

Maybe because it came from her. Maybe it was just my damn pride. I opened my eyes and stared her down. "You think I need help?" I yanked my hand out of her hold. "I don't fucking need help." I turned and started adjusting the sofa.

"Stop it!" she almost yelled. "I knew you'd get like this." She moved so she was in my way. I tried to ignore her, and the aching in my chest. "Logan!"

I straightened to full height. "What? What the fuck do you want from me? You think I need saving? Fine. You can save me from the comfort and safety of your own damn bed."

She pushed hard against my chest. "Quit it," she bit out. "Don't fucking talk to me like that. I don't fucking deserve it, and you know that. You want to treat me like shit? Go ahead. It's not like I expected anything more from you anyway!" She was crying. Fuck. She pushed me again to get me to move out of her way. The aching in my chest got worse. My heart pounded against my ribs. I was expecting it to explode out of there at any second.

"Move!" she yelled it so loudly, I swear the neighbors could hear.

I gripped her wrists and pulled her closer, then wrapped my arms around her. "I'm so fucking sorry, Amanda. Please," I said. "I'm fucking up, again. I can't lose you. Please." And then it hit me. "You're right," I told her. "I need you. I need your help. I'm sorry. Just please, please be patient. Please." I was begging, but it was all truth.

I felt her shake her head against my chest. "I know things are hard for you, and I shouldn't push it, but I'm not your enemy."

"I know. You didn't push anything. You didn't do anything. I'm just an asshole."

I walked us over to the front door, hand in hand, while I triple-checked the locks. She wiped her face on my arm; I felt the wetness from her tears. Sighing, I faced her. "I really am sorry, baby. I don't ever want to be like that with you. Swear it. I don't . . . I don't even know how to explain what just happened, but I hate that it did."

"I know. I forgive you."

"You shouldn't."

"I do."

"I got you something."

"A present?" Her eyes lit up and any sign that she was upset only minutes ago had disappeared.

"Yup."

"Gimme."

I laughed, and led her to the bathroom. Opening the cupboard under the counter, I handed her a toothbrush. She laughed the instant she saw it. "Hello Kitty?"

"Yup." I kissed her on the forehead. "Just for you."

"Aww," she cooed, holding the toothbrush to her chest and faking dreaminess in her voice. "You're the bestest boyfriend ever."

She left the bedroom and came back seconds later with the journal. She set it on her nightstand, walked to my dresser and started opening and closing all the drawers until she found what she was after. I watched her remove her jeans, then her shirt. I tried not to jump her when she stood in nothing but her bra and panties. She pulled out an old baseball jersey, and shrugged it on. I walked over to her, wanting to touch her, just a little. "I missed seeing you in this." I curled my arm around her waist and brought her as close as she could get.

"Not as much as I missed wearing it."

I grinned from ear to ear. "I love you."

Her eyes drifted shut. "Stop it. You're not supposed to say it until I do."

I shrugged. "Too bad. You deserved that one."

She pulled back and walked to the bed, undoing her bra at the same time.

I gazed at her, then at the bedroom door. Panic set in. She must've noticed because she said, "I always sleep with the door open. If that's okay with you?"

I turned off the lights and got into bed. She pressed her body against mine. Our limbs were a tangled mess. "Good night, pretty girl."

Amanda

He fell asleep almost instantly. I freed myself from his hold, turned on my night-light, picked up his journal and flipped to the first page.

Five weeks post Amanda.

There are no dates here. Only time passing with each moment.

Dear Diary—says the twelve-year-old girl in me.

Manny, one of the guys in the field with me, told me I was depressed . . .

Logan

It took me a while to work out what the sound was; she was sniffing, sobbing quietly. I'd fallen into such a deep sleep that it took longer than I'd hoped to get even one eye open, but when I finally did, I kind of wished I hadn't.

She was sitting up in bed with her knees to her chest, and my journal resting on them. Her hand covered her mouth while tears streamed down her face. I wasn't sure what part she was up to, so I did what I thought was best: I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep through it. I wanted her to have this moment—the time to read what she wanted, learn what she needed, and accept what had been done. Still, it took everything in me to not reach over and comfort her somehow.