Logan Reynolds
I blink. “What?”
“Out. Walk it off. Think about what you’re doing. Or not doing.”
“Bon…”
She stares straight ahead, lips pressed tight. “I’m disgusted, Logan. I can’t even look at you.”
I step out slowly, the wind slicing through my jacket. She peels off into the night without another word.
I stand there in the dark, on some back road near the outskirts of the city, the buzz of streetlights overhead, and all I can feel is the weight of her words.
They echo like a curse.
“You’re standing there with a knife behind your back.”
I walk.
I don’t try to call a cab. I don’t order a car. I don’t text anyone.
I walk five miles through neighborhoods where no one knows me, past 24-hour convenience stores and shuttered windows and neon signs that glow cold blue against cracked pavement.
Each step feels like penance.
I deserve this. The ache in my legs. The blister forming on my heel. I deserve it all.
By the time I reach the bar where I left my car, I’m soaked in sweat and shame.
I
