Hypothetical Heart (Farewell Fairwood #2)

Chapter 29

29

“ W ell, let’s see what you’ve got, Win.” Logan motions toward the piano bench.

He brought me into a music practice room in the basement of one of the campus buildings. It’s just big enough for a grand piano and an extra chair nearby, not that either of us mind the close proximity.

“Are you sure we’re allowed to be here?” I ask, looking over my shoulder up at him.

“I rented the room for the night.”

For the past few weeks, the two of us have been dipping our toes in the ocean that is our relationship, and it feels nice. Being able to do things purely based on what feels good and not just what feels right has given our relationship new depth. Like how Logan called me his girlfriend at dinner a few nights ago, and now he’s resting his hands on my shoulders while standing behind me.

“Did you bring the sheet music?” I ask out of curiosity.

“You don’t even use it.” He laughs because he knows I never learned the sheet music. I just watch him play and memorize where my fingers go on the keys. “But yes, I did.” He pulls the packet out of his backpack.

“You know me too well.” I smile and take it from him before patting the bench next to me with my other hand. “Sit next to me.”

He does as I ask, one of his hands gripping my thigh while the other lays on the keys.

“What should we play?” I ask, flipping through the book. I haven’t learned a majority of these songs, but there’s a handful that I’ve attempted to play before.

“You pick,” he tells me.

“What’s the song Mae likes for you to play?”

“ Another Love by Tom Odell?” He plays a few notes of the chorus, making sure it’s the right song.

“Yeah, that one.” It’s the one he was playing when I came to their house the first time he tried teaching me how to play.

He pulls my hands from my lap and onto the keys, positioning each of my fingers with his overtop of mine.

“This is the first key.” He presses both our hands down.

He repeats the process of positioning my hands and playing the keys perfectly, and then he lets me try playing a few keys at a time by myself. I’m not as quick in the transition of notes as he is, but that’s to be expected.

Every time I look at him, he’s smiling at me with pride. His approval radiates through me, making me want to keep impressing him.

“Will you play one hand while I play the other?” I ask.

He nods, waiting for me to position my hand correctly, and for the next bit of time, we each play one hand of the song until it sounds good enough.

There’s nothing hotter to me than the face he makes when he glances back and forth from the piano to me. The sleeves of his button-up are also rolled, making it so his forearms are on full display. It’s one of the greatest sights I’ve ever seen.

I must spend a little too much time not focusing on the keys because the next note I play is not correct and just makes a big, ugly dungggg sound.

Logan looks at me, and as soon as we make eye contact, his face turns from confusion to a knowing look. He’s well aware of why I played the key wrong.

“Can people see through those windows?” I whisper, looking back toward the door and the narrow windows on either side of it.

“No, they’re tinted.” It’s all I need to hear to gain the courage to swing my leg over his lap, knock his hands off the keys, andstraddle Logan on the piano bench. He sucks a breath in through his teeth, clearly struggling to keep his composure.

It’s a good thing mine’s already out the window.

“I’ve thought about doing this since the first time we sat at the piano in your house,” I say, pressing my lips against his ear.

“Well, I guess the least I can do is fulfill the fantasy,” he says, gripping my jaw in one hand while he holds my waist steady with the other.

“Please,” I plea, holding onto either of his shoulders.

His lips crash into mine, pulling me into a completely different state of mind, one that gives me every bit of confidence I need.

I could stay like this forever, I’m sure of it. With his arms around me and his lips on mine, it feels nothing short of a miracle; a miracle we’ve made it this far, a miracle we have each other all to ourselves.

There’s something to be said about the feeling of a perfect kiss because it’s not just about the movement of lips and whether someone uses too much tongue. It’s the feeling that you’re never going to find anything like this because you are so intertwined with this person, the one that screams in your face saying, YOU ARE EXACTLY WHERE YOU DESERVE TO BE.

I’ve felt undeserving of Logan Callaghan my entire life, even when I went around claiming he was my husband in kindergarten–which, at the time, felt like wishing on a shooting star.

Logan’s hands move up my back and into my hair, combing through the waves. “God, you’re so pretty.” He smiles against my lips, unable to contain it.

I go to lean back on my heels, not realizing how far off the bench I’ve gotten, and right as I do, I hear the deafening sound of all the keys on the piano. Logan grabs me, quickly pulling me off the keys and back onto his lap.

“You okay?” he asks, a smirk creeping on his face.

I lean back into him, pressing my lips to his before pulling back away. “I’m fine.”

I feel my cheeks redden at the reminder of what we just did, and my hair is no doubt a chaotic mess from Logan’s hands.

On the other hand, I can’t keep my eyes off the way he’s smoothing over his button-down, his lips a brighter shade of red than usual.

“Ready to head out?” The question isn’t meant to be sexual; it’s not like he’s asking to go home just so we can go further than what we’re capable of on a piano bench, but it still makes my heart race.

“I’m ready if you are.” Part of me feels forced to pretend none of that happened–to fall back into Logan and my old ways– but I have to reassure myself mentally that just because Logan and I aren’t technically dating, it doesn’t mean that didn’t mean what just happened is insignificant.

By the time we make it to the sidewalk outside the building, the streets are noticeably busy with dinner-time traffic.

“Have you eaten? You hungry?” Logan asks, so nonchalantly I almost don’t even register it.

I stop on the sidewalk so abruptly that the straps of my backpack fall from my shoulders and halfway down my arms. “Can we not pretend like that didn’t happen?”

“Pretend what didn’t happen?” he teases, a smile falling over his face.

I try not to laugh. “I’m being serious.”

Logan slings his arms around my shoulders, continuing down the sidewalk, now pulling me alongside him. “I really need you to hear me when I say this,” he tells me.

I nod.

“I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you feel like I’m trying to forget about any of the moments between us because that is the furthest thing from the truth.” He squeezes my upper arm with the same hand that is wrapped securely around me.

“We’ve always been very different in the way we express ourselves–while I’m the type to scream my best news from the top of a skyscraper, you keep it to yourself–and that’s okay, neither way is wrong, it’s simply where we differ.” I nod, leaning further into him so my head isresting on his bicep as we walk. “I tone myself down when it comes to things I think would make you uncomfortable, and maybe that’s wrong of me, but that’s why we’re having this conversation.”

“I don’t want you to tone yourself down,” I tell him. “If you want to scream from the rooftops, then do it. I would never ask you to change yourself in order to make me more comfortable. Life is uncomfortable no matter what, and it’s something we have to live with every day, so why not make it uncomfortable by your own means?”

He presses his lips to my temple, veering me toward the entrance of our favorite sushi restaurant up ahead. “You’re right, and I’m glad you were able to tell me how you feel. Thank you, sweetheart.”

All I can do is smile. At him, at his overwhelming urge to understand every aspect of me, at his willingness to learn from our conversations. He truly is good, all the way down to his core, and it encapsulates my entire being.

“We’re getting sushi now, right?”

He laughs, holding me tighter. “Whatever you want.”

I don’t feel bad about the decision because I know it’s also what he wants. Almost all of our decisions are in full agreement, which always makes the choice seem better because it’s not just what one of us wants, it’s what we want.

It takes a few minutes for us to get seated and for our food to come, but once I have my plate in front of me and start eating, I realize how much bigger my eyes are than my stomach.

“You’re going to have to finish this for me,” I tell Logan. He’s already eaten three pieces.

“You haven’t even started eating yet.” He reaches over the table, grabbing one of my California rolls.

I do the same, practically moaning into the bite.

“This has to be one of the best things I’ve ever tasted,” I say around a pair of chopsticks, my mouth full of sushi.

“I would have to disagree,” Logan replies.

“Seriously? What’s better than this?”

“Your lips.” He smirks cockily, knowing his confession will make me blush.

I pick my napkin up off the table and throw it at his face, both of us laughing even though he’s one hundred percent serious.

“I’m sorry if my taste in sushi offends you,” I joke.

“Sweetheart, you like pineapple on pizza, I’m aware that your taste buds are extremely inaccurate,” he teases.

By the time we’re done eating our food, the city is dark, and our apartment feels farther than a couple blocks away. My feet hurt from my new shoes, and when we round the corner, Logan stops to pick me up, carrying me the rest of the way.

It seems to have become a common trend of ours, and I can’t say I’m mad about it.