thinking that it’s just part of the decor.
Still trying to avoid awkwardness with Logan, I walk over and pick up the cardboard tube sitting atop it. “No note,” I muse. But whatever. I pop the top off the tube and start to shake it out, but as soon as I realize what’s inside I yank my fingers back like they’ve been burned.
It’s from the dugout back in Camden that Quinn took me to. The painting that messed me up so badly. My breathing is sharp and noisy and Logan is walking toward me, but I hold up a hand to stop him and force myself to calm down.
A little.
This canvas was in Benson’s backpack the night I found out what he was. Why does the Curatoria have it?
“What is it?” Logan asks tentatively.
“It’s just a painting,” I respond absentmindedly. I’m too caught up in the sight before me to attempt to act like less of a total weirdo.
“If it’s just a painting, then why did it make you jump out of your skin?”
He’s right. It did make me jump out of my skin. But that was nothing compared to what happened the last time I touched it.
I’ll never forget the sensation. It was like I was a radio set to the wrong frequency.
“Tavia?” Logan says.
I look up at him with what I’m sure is a nearly manic expression. If it was the wrong frequency for me, then there’s only one person who it could be right for.
And in a bright flash of light, I remember. I remember! Quinn and I knew our artifacts were too obvious. Him a jewelry maker, me an artist. Of course a necklace and a painting would be obvious creations, with obvious owners. So we reversed them. I created a replica of a necklace he made me; he created a copy of a painting of our home. That way someone looking to destroy all of Rebecca’s memories would miss one. Then we packed them away in the dugout.
That’s why the necklace worked on me and not him.
I didn’t paint this painting; Quinn created it.
My whole body trembles now as I realize what a treasure I’m holding in my hands. “Logan,” my voice is too quiet and too high-pitched all at the same time. “You should see this.”
His eyes are hooded, fearful, and I realize that in a world that has literally turned upside down on him in the last three days, anything might happen. Any paranoid fear might become a reality.
“It’s a good thing,” I say quickly, hating that expression of terror cast in my direction. “Just … here, take it.”
I hold out the painting and he obliges. The second his fingers come in contact with the canvas, everything changes.
His hands tighten around it, crushing the edge of the painting, and he takes two stumbling steps backward until his shoulders meet the door. His eyes widen and then focus on me.
“Tavia,” he murmurs. And it’s clear, he knows me.
He takes one step—not even a proper step, half a step—and his hand rises as though of its own accord. I’m still, stunned into paralysis even as my lungs force air in and out with a gasping, hissing sound, and adrenaline fills my veins in a rush that deafens me.
His fingertips brush my face so gently, as though I’ll break into a million pieces if he presses too hard. His eyes scan me, taking in every detail, until I feel like I’ve been stripped naked in front of him.
And I don’t mind.
Logan stands like a man transformed, even though his appearance hasn’t technically changed. His shoulders are straighter, his eyes more knowing. That face—suddenly it understands unspeakable wonders of the universe that normal humans simply can’t comprehend.
Then the world hits Play and his lips are on mine, his hands clutching, until I feel every part of him pressed against me. Hands, chest, hips, lips, teeth. With a growl he pushes my back against the wall and grabs at my hips, pulling me to him like he needs me closer now. “Becca,” he breathes in my ear, whispering my old name like a sacred memory before attacking my mouth again.
My brain is full of the chorus of women in my other lives singing with joy. Their strange music fills me, making every inch of my body tingle and glow. I know tomorrow I’ll have bruises from Logan’s rough, desperate handling, but I don’t care. I want it—all of it.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers between kisses that trail down my neck, over my shoulder. He lifts my fingers to his mouth and kisses every fingertip, then rubs his face against my palms. “For everything I said. The way I treated you. I didn’t know,” he says, his voice gravelly now as his hands grip the waistband of my jeans.
I groan as his hands can’t resist and slip under the back of my shirt, his fingers skimming bare skin. Everything I ever wanted with anyone explodes into this one moment. “It’s okay,” I manage, as I lean against him, his mouth back on my neck. He rolls his hips against me. It’s like an ocean wave we can’t stop, crashing into us, sweeping us away with it.
We walk unsteadily backward—in the direction I hazily remember the bed sitting—we’re grasping at each other as our worlds collide in the most blissful crash I could ever imagine.
Logan lifts me, wraps my legs around his waist, and carries me the last few feet. He tosses me on the bed and kneels over me, reaching for the buttons on my jeans. Impatient with his fruitless fumbling, he tears his T-shirt up and over his head, and my whole body shakes at the sight of the familiar yet brand-new bare skin of his chest. He reaches for the bottom of my blouse, and as I raise my arms it suddenly seems to me that everything, every terrible, awful thing that has happened in the last month, was worth it.
The next few minutes are a blur of desperation as we learn each other all over again. It has that brilliant excitement of newness wrapped in the comfort of the commonplace. We say nothing as our bodies speak their own language; and even though I feel like I should savor this moment—take time to renew our friendship, our love—I can’t.
I look up into his leaf-green eyes above me, my hand clenching at his shoulders, and for the first time since the plane wreck, I feel free. I let go of everything. Of every fear and doubt, of tension and pain.
And in that moment I let my entire body fill with pure, unadulterated joy.
I’m so wrapped up in Logan I scarcely notice when the lights flicker and then die, plunging us into total darkness.
For a moment there’s silence, and then we both start to laugh. “Did we do that?” I ask, finally getting some control.
“I didn’t do it. Did you do it?”
“Bad timing, I guess.”
“Or extremely good timing,” Logan says, his lips brushing my neck.
A
