Hypothetical Heart (Farewell Fairwood #2)

Chapter 2

2

FEbrUARY

O nly Logan Callaghan would send a girl he’s not dating flowers on Valentine’s Day.

It’s nearly seven in the morning, and the dozen pink and white roses that were delivered freshly to my house just a few minutes ago are now staring me down from where they sit in the vase on my dresser.

My dad was the one who answered the door to the delivery and the one who read the card out to me as he stood in the doorway of my bedroom.

Valentine’s Day has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember, and for nearly just as long, Logan has never failed to make me feel important.

I reread the card, trying not to think about how my dad—who already has suspicions of Logan and my relationship being something more than it is—already read the note this morning, most likely while standing on our front porch.

Of course, Logan’s gift prompted my dad to ask, “Is there anything going on between the two of you?” Not anymore.

And just like every other year, I give my standard reply of: “No, Dad, we’re just friends.”

Not that he would care, especially after all the years of Wren (Logan’s mom) and my mom conspiring for us to get together, and even more of it from Wren after my mom died. She would be ecstatic if we got together. Everyone would be.

It has become an ongoing tradition, ever since 8th grade, when he declared I would be his permanent valentine, that Logan would give me some type of gift.

I find it funny if I’m being honest. I’ve always adored Logan, and him doing these types of things just to make me feel special has always made me feel a little mushy inside. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. This is the ultimate dream: getting Valentine’s Day gifts from the boy I’ve had a crush on my entire life.

I throw my covers to one side of my bed with a smile on my face as I step into the slippers on the floor of my bedside, getting up to examine the flowers myself.

And yet, as I hold the vase, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of uncertainty.

I’m well aware of what everyone thinks about Logan and me, how they think we’re dating, or that we are both oblivious to the fact that we are both in love with one another.

But I’m always highly aware of my feelings toward Logan and his for me, even though we both choose to deny them for the sake of our friendship.

I would be lying if I said being friends with Logan hasn’t always felt like I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

As if the two of us are in some type of silent competition to see who can go longer without doing something about our feelings for the other.

But this is how it has always been. Logan and I work around the fact that we have both been obsessed with each other since we could comprehend the feeling, and everyone else seems to be waiting for us to realize.

However, we both know the truth. We already tried once, and it didn’t work out. We admitted it to each other once, and it blew up in flames. I’m not ready for that to happen again and destroy us.

I move around my room as I get ready, my eyes always landing back on the flowers when there’s nothing else for me to look at.

There’s something so hard about seeing the physical display of affection, knowing it’s going to die because the real thing I want is something I won’t allow myself to have.

The real thing I want is the boy who gave me the flowers.

“God, get over yourself,” I mutter under my breath, tearing my eyes off the vase yet again.

I do the daily tasks of making my bed and brushing my teeth before making myself comfortable in my bedroom’s window seat. The book I’m currently reading is the type that makes me want to go to bed late and then get up early just so I can read a few chapters before school.

I know the implications of reading the types of books I read, which is why I read them in the comfort of my home.

Romance books are tacky to some, or pose unrealistic expectations to others. Either way, people love trying to find a way to make things women enjoy seem more pointless than they are.

I open my blinds, seeing the light snowfall that is likely going to be gone by dinnertime. Then I see a flash of movement in a window next door.

I peer out the corner of my eye to see Logan shirtless with his back to the window, and I force myself to look back down at my book.

My eyes scan the page, desperately trying to find something more interesting within the pages than the person across the yard. And when I can’t help it any longer, I glance up, covering as much of my face with my book as I can.

You’re trying to be inconspicuous, Winnie.

Nothing else would match my luck except making direct eye contact with the piercing brown eyes that belong to none other than Logan Callaghan.

He waves, and I have no option but to wave back, setting my book down as I do.

He’s still shirtless, with gray sweatpants hanging low on his waist. I would be lying if I said his physique didn’t flood my brain every time I read one of my romance books.

“Good morning,” he mouths.

“Hi,” I mouth back, silently cursing myself for the reply.

He mouths something else that my brain isn’t able to comprehend, and I stare blankly back at him.

When he gives me a questioning look, I shrug. “I don’t know what you said,” I say out loud, even though he can’t hear me.

His smirk reflects the fact that I probably look like a drooling dog, and I wave goodbye before ripping my blinds closed.

My back hits the wall beside the window, and the overwhelming feeling returns. The one where my chest gets tight because I’m thinking too much.

I can’t explain it. All I know is that it happens, and right now, it’s happening because of the boy next door.

“ D id you get my gift?” Logan asks as he comes up behind me and puts a large hand on my shoulder, making Genevieve and Eloise both laugh as I hang my bags in my locker.

“We know you watched it get delivered from your bedroom window, you obsessive weirdo,” Eloise jokes.

Logan doesn’t even look offended: he just laughs along.

“Yes, I got the flowers,” I answer his original question.

“I haven’t gotten mine yet,” Genevieve butts in. “You might want to get on that.”

Logan makes a hmm sound. “The delivery must be delayed.”

“Find your own friend to buy you flowers,” I joke, which makes Genevieve’s face instantly downturn. Logan, Eloise, and I all realize why at the same time. “Sorry…” I backpedal quickly.

“Don’t be sorry.” She quickly discards my apology. “You’re allowed to make jokes, Winnie.”

Still, Logan, Eloise, and I all look uneasy.

“But I shouldn’t when it feels like they’re at the expense of my best friend,” I reply.

“Are you okay, Gen?” Eloise asks.

Jameson, the foreign exchange student that Genevieve was competing with for valedictorian, left to go back to London two days ago, and ever since, Genevieve has been noticeably out of sorts.

It was only a few days ago that she had to leave school early because of his departure, something she’d almost never done before.

And with her birthday only four days from now and a party on the horizon, we would hate for her spirits to be in the dumps because of Jameson’s decision to leave.

“Yeah,” she answers, but her voice sounds vacant. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

For a long time, we all thought Jameson and Genevieve hated each other, and I think they did too. It wasn’t until recently that we all started noticing the changes between their dynamic.

Then Jameson left, and our friend group realized just how much his absence affected Genevieve.

She loves him. We all know it.

“It’s not a big deal, Winnie.” I hate the way she’s trying to reassure me, all because she knows I’m beating myself up over a poorly-timed joke. “I’m going to have to move on, eventually.”

The warning bell rings through the speakers above, signaling that the first class starts in five minutes. The sound of Mary Janes clacking against the tile floors gets louder as everyone begins walking every which way to get to class.

“I’ll see you guys later,” Genevieve says before she turns to walk away, Eloise following closely behind her.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to class,” Logan says, grabbing my backpack from my locker, sticking by my side as we make our way through the halls, his hand falling on my lower back when it gets crowded.

“Do you think Genevieve is really okay?” I ask him once we make it to the staircase.

“No.” His answer is simple. “I think she will be in time, but Jameson was the first guy she ever really loved, and that’s not just going to go away.”

I can’t help but still be worried about her. Genevieve has never had the best luck with guys, especially after The Brandon Situation– her horrendous relationship a few years ago.

We all thought Jameson was it for her. Part of me still hopes he is.

“Do you think he’s coming back?” Other than Genevieve, Logan knows him best, considering they lived together for five months.

“I don’t see how he couldn’t.” Logan takes the last step, stopping to wait for me. “He obviously loves her, and he left with the best intentions, so there’s no way he can stay away for long.”

“Have you talked to him since he left?” Logan shakes his head.

“I have a feeling he’ll be back.”

I know Jameson, maybe not as well as Logan and Genevieve, but I know him enough to know he only did what he thought was best for Genevieve, and once he understands what she really wants, he’ll be right back in Fairwood.

“I really hope you’re right,” Logan sighs, running a hand up his neck.

“Me too,” I say as Logan’s shoulder bumps with mine. “Thanks for the flowers, by the way. They’re beautiful.” I know I already thanked him, but it’s different when it’s just the two of us.

“I do know my flowers,” Logan jokes.

“We both know you had your mom pick them out,” I counter.

“Come on, after five years, you really don’t think I can remember your love for pink and white roses?”

I laugh just thinking about Logan calling through the Callaghan house, “Hey, Mom, what are those flowers Winnie likes called again?”

“You know I’m just teasing you.” Logan has always been that kind of guy. The one who remembers things you tell him like he wrote it on the back of his hand. He has a reputation for being the best gift giver among our friend group.

“You better be.” He smiles as we reach the door of my College English class, where he will depart for his first class. “And don’t think I didn’t see you watching me from your window this morning.”

“What?” I turn, not quite in the door of the classroom yet.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He winks. “I’ll make sure to put on a show next time,” he adds, just because he knows it will embarrass me.

“Whatever, go to class.”

“Bye, Winnie.”

“I’ll see you later.”

“Yup,” Logan smiles. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Win.”

My face brightens with the sentiment. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Logan.”