Crazy Little Thing Called Love (32 page)

There were many ways of breaking a heart. Stories were full of hearts being broken by love, but what really broke a heart was taking away its dream—whatever that dream might be.

—PEARL BUCK (1892–1973), AMERICAN NOVELIST

V
anessa was done with wedding planning. Done with natural disasters. She was ready to go home.

Back to Colorado—to Denver—where there was no humidity weighing down the air. No hurricanes roaring into her life and disrupting her plans. No “for old times' sake” pulling her into the past.

She wanted nice, easy normal.

But that wasn't waiting for her in Denver.

Ted hadn't returned a single phone call or text message she'd left him last night or this morning. Not even her “You know we have to talk even if you want to break our engagement” message that she'd left on his phone right before she got in the rental car and headed to the airport had goaded him into a response.

What was going on? She'd been reduced to “goading” Ted? And her bare hand was a vivid reminder she didn't have a ring to return to Ted if the man who had taken two years to propose suddenly decided to break up with her.

She'd returned the car, which took extra time, thanks to the dings and scratches caused by Cressida. Nothing left to do except check in at the airline and clear security, which should be simple enough at such a small airport. And she had a good three hours before her flight. She'd relax at the gate and read the suspense novel Mindy had loaned her. Forget about everything that happened in Niceville and try to avoid thinking about everything waiting for her in Colorado.

Her gate was a short walk through the airport, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the runways. Hard to believe the civilian airport shared airspace with Eglin Air Force Base.

The military base.

She could only hope Christian was recovered from his ordeal—back to whatever his normal life was. Hadn't his mother said they were a military family? That they'd just moved to Niceville? She'd pray he'd find friends—true friends. Loyal friends.

If she was going to read the novel Mindy had given her—raving about Patricia Bradley's Logan Point series—she needed something to snack on.

She ignored the overhead announcements of flights preparing to board before hers. Plenty of time to browse the tiny newsstand tucked in a corner. What overpriced, caloric treat did she want to indulge in?

Mixed nuts? No.

M&M's? No.

Twizzlers? No.

Vanessa settled on a bag of candy corn.
Now to find some caffeine.
If she topped off the candy with a bottle of Coke, she'd walk onto the plane with a caffeine-laden sugar rush. She stood in front of the refrigerated drink selection. Water or caffeine and sugar? Decisions, decisions.

“The water's a safer bet.”

From behind her, Logan's voice jolted her to attention. She'd hoped she was leaving him in Florida, too. No more conversations. No more confrontations. No more . . . anything.

She selected a bottle of Coke. Turned to move past him.

“Living dangerously, I see.”

“No, just getting what I want.”

“Ah. A wise decision.”

She ignored him—how good he looked in a pair of gray jeans and a black polo shirt—as he came to stand beside her at the cashier stand. And ignored his comment and its double meaning—if there was one.

“So you're flying back to Colorado?”

Vanessa accepted the change from the cashier. “Thank you.” Focused on the exit. “Yes. I'm going home.”

“Me, too. The team flies back to Oklahoma in less than an hour.”

She stuffed her bag of candy into her purse. “I am not doing small talk with you, Logan. We're done—”

“Good.” He stepped in front of her. “I didn't come over here to chitchat with you, either.”

“You misunderstood me. I don't want to talk with you
at all
.”

He gripped her wrist, his skin warm against hers. “Don't walk away from me.
Please.
”

She would not make a scene by twisting and pulling against his hand. “Let go of me.”

“Hear me out, Vanessa.” The huskiness in his voice tempted her, coupled with the indigo-blue of his eyes. “And then I'm gone. On a plane to Oklahoma.”

“Fine. Say what you want to say. I'm listening.”

That made him laugh—a little wild. “No, you're not. I haven't forgotten our arguments, love. You could look straight at me and not hear a word I said.”

The next second, he pulled her into the corner of a vacant gate area past rows of empty chairs, turning so she was against the wall, his body blocking her escape.

“But if this is the only chance I get, I'm taking it.”

“Stop this—”

“You're listening, remember?” He braced both hands on the wall on either side of her. “I'm talking.”

Now he had her attention. His blue eyes were lit up with a fire she knew from the past, one that kindled a response inside of her . . . slow, heated. The familiar blend of daring and “don't be afraid”—all that had attracted her to Logan from the first day she met him—surrounded her. She should shove his arms away—but she stayed.

“I love you, Vanessa Hollister. Always have. Still do. I know you're getting married. And it's killing me.” He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, but the spell between them . . . the magic . . . didn't waver. “Don't do it. Maybe getting married at eighteen wasn't the smartest decision. But just because it was crazy . . . foolish . . . just because we didn't understand everything behind the
I do
's . . . it doesn't mean we were wrong. We made mistakes—but marrying you was the best thing I ever did.”

He fell silent, but he didn't move away. Didn't release her. He might as well be holding her in his arms, locking her in an embrace that stole her breath.

“Say something.” His smile wavered.

Vanessa pressed her back against the wall, establishing as much space between them as possible. “I heard everything you said, Logan . . . but it doesn't change anything. We're still divorced. And I'm getting remarried next April.”

The heat drained from his eyes, a muscle working in his jaw. “Vanessa, I've never stopped loving you—”

“This apology and . . . declaration of love is about eight years too late.” She stopped, hoping her voice wouldn't tremble when she spoke again. “Did you even think about how I waited to hear all of this back then? How I cried myself to sleep in my dorm room? I wore my wedding band for weeks . . . hoping you'd call me or show up on campus . . .”

“I'm sorry, Vanessa—”

“I think your pride is hurt. You don't want me—but you don't want me to get married again, either. Did you make some sort of bet with your buddies that you could get me to fall in love with you again?”

Even as she hurled the accusations at him, she wanted to take them back. Whose actions were worse tonight? Hers or Logan's?

An announcement sounded overhead—boarding was beginning for a flight to Oklahoma.

“That's my flight.” Logan stepped away from her, his arms dropping to his sides.

They stared at one another, Vanessa's every breath labored. Just a few moments more and Logan would be gone—for good.

“This is goodbye, then.”

“Yes.” The one word scorched her throat.

He reached out, and she stilled as he caressed the side of her face with the lightest of touches. Her skin heated.

“Be happy, Vanessa.”

And then he left her standing in the deserted waiting area—before she could assure him that she would . . . she would be happy without him.

•  •  •

His attempt to reclaim his life had failed.

With a jerk and the muffled roar of the engines, the plane backed away from the terminal, taxiing onto the runway. Logan stared out the window, watching the airport recede—the distance between him and Vanessa widening. Again. Permanently.

The dream of restoring their relationship, their marriage? Destroyed.

The plane came to a halt behind others waiting in line to take off, the flight attendant talking through the emergency flight information.

God promised to work all things for good.
All things
.

He was still waiting to see how God could use his decision to keep going after the tornado last July when he should have turned the car back.

The plane moved forward, the engines surging louder, even as his heart seemed to struggle to find its rhythm again. For just a few seconds, the memory of kissing Vanessa on the beach blindsided him—the sweet temptation swirling inside him like the waves that had pulled against their feet.

He hadn't lost Vanessa again—not really. He'd lost her eight years ago and fooled himself into thinking some sort of all-out-there declaration of love and regret would open her heart to him again.

Wishful thinking slammed up against the reality he'd been living with for years—and crumpled.

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

—MAYA ANGELOU (1928–2014), AMERICAN POET AND AUTHOR

“H
ome.”

Vanessa stood just inside the doorway of her apartment, her suitcase sitting at her feet, the door behind her shutting with a soft click.

“Home.” The word rolled into the still-dark rooms.

What was she expecting? Some sort of Disney magic where the sound of the word lit up the apartment with twinkles and sparkles and a sense of belonging that had eluded her for years?

She had an acquaintance on Facebook—one of so, so many she didn't keep up with—who, whenever he came home from a trip, posted the words:
Home. No place I'd rather be.

There were times she wanted to comment:
Home. How do you find it?

Vanessa switched on the hall light, grabbing the suitcase handle, determined to make a beeline for her bedroom. A tight, closed-up odor permeated the rooms. She needed to open up a few windows to get fresh air circulating again. She needed to unpack. And tomorrow was a workday.

Everything was back to normal. Or as close to it as she could get until she talked to Ted.

She slowed down, snared by the small mound of mail on her dining room table. The brown, dried-out leaves of the philodendron collapsed against the planter. And the box she'd shipped to herself from Montana.

She released the handle, letting the suitcase drop to the floor with a thud.
Wash laundry
needed to be added to her to-do list, too. But the box . . . how could she have forgotten it? She ran her hand along the top, her name and address written out in precise, neat rows and covered with clear packing tape.

She carried the dead plant to the kitchen and dumped it in the trash. She should have said a firm
Thanks, but no thanks
to the gift—or given the plant to someone who would care for it. Retrieving a knife from a drawer, Vanessa carried the box to her bedroom. With one quick motion, she sliced through the sealed top. She unwrapped the figurines, laying them side by side on the bed. She'd taken all of them, unwilling to leave even one behind. And there, hidden in a corner, was the box containing Logan's class ring and her wedding band.

She slipped the thin white-gold band onto her ring finger. It still fit.

“Dad . . . I'm getting divorced.” Vanessa sat on the dock, staring out at the bayou. If she looked right, leaned forward just a bit, she could just see a curve of the bridge spanning Rocky Bayou.

“What happened when you went to see Logan?” Her father stood behind her rinsing the boat off with a hose.

She wouldn't share that nothing happened with Logan. Nothing. That it was clear he had his life in Oklahoma—and that she was holding him back. “It's just that . . . that Logan wants out. And I do, too. We made a mistake.”

“I'm not saying I agree with how you and Logan went about getting married—”

“I know that, Dad.”

“You and Logan didn't make the best decision, eloping during spring break. Every father dreams of walking his daughter down the aisle.” Her father came and sat beside her on the weathered boards of the dock, his legs and bare feet dangling over the water. “But you did get married. And I've always liked Logan Hollister. I knew that young man was going places. He had a future.”

Yeah. He was going places—without her. “I'm glad. I hope he's happy.”

“You sure you two can't talk this out? Maybe try counseling?”

Vanessa stared out across the bayou. The surface was smooth, the depths hidden. Had he just suggested counseling—the man who believed in keeping family problems within the family? “That's kind of impossible to do with me here in Florida and Logan in Oklahoma.”