Crazy Little Thing Called Love

by Beth K. Vogt

“Are you going to the reunion next month?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then this is your only chance to walk the hallowed halls of Niceville High School, our alma mater.” He tilted his head toward the gym. “Join me?”

  He braced himself for her refusal—and so the sound of her laughter, coupled with the way her hand brushed against his as she came alongside him, was an intoxicating and unexpected glimpse of the past.

  “Lead on!” Vanessa fell into step with him.

  “Just act like we’re supposed to be here, and nobody will be any wiser.” Logan slung his arm over her shoulders, waving at the workman on top of the gym roof.

  She matched her steps to his, the heels of her boots tapping against the asphalt. “We’re alumni—of course we belong here.”

  “That’s the spirit. Where to first?”

  “The lockers—I want to see my locker.” She ran ahead of him. “And then I’m going to all my classrooms.”

  “You think you can remember your schedule from senior year?”

  His question caused her to stop in the middle of the hallway. She closed her eyes, appearing deep in thought. And during those moments, Logan allowed himself to stare at her face—and remember when he had the freedom to touch her thick hair, to kiss her mouth, to watch her brown eyes light up with laughter or soften with the first moments of passion . . .

  “I’ve got it— What?” Vanessa’s question interrupted his perusal. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing.” Logan tucked his hands into his jean pockets. “You remember your schedule? Prove it. Take me to each one of the classrooms—in the proper order.”

  “But we weren’t in all the same classes. You won’t know if I’m right.”

  “Vanessa—I knew your schedule senior year. I’ll know.”

  “Oh.” A faint tinge of pink stained her cheeks. “Okay. Here we go: Honors English—I had that with Mindy. And then you and I had math class together . . .”

  By the time they recalled both their class schedules and found their lockers, reminiscing about teachers and classmates, the empty hallways echoed with their laughter. Then they found their graduating class photograph framed among all the other graduating classes—their faces side by side.

  “My mom had to do some sort of special order to get me senior photos, since we moved two weeks after school started.”

  He’d never really thought of all the challenges Vanessa faced moving during her senior year.

  “Do you ever regret not going out for swim team during senior year?”

  “No. You know what teams are like, Logan—you lead one. People get close—they have inside jokes, traditions . . . it was bad enough being the new girl again. That seemed to be my role in life. The new girl. I wasn’t going to be the outsider on the swim team, too. So, I just decided I wasn’t going to swim. It was easier.”

  “But you loved swimming—”

  “Sure. But that’s what moving is all about—giving up what you love. Or not getting attached to anything—or anybody.” Vanessa moved away from the class photo, the sound of her boot heels echoing in the empty hallway. “Did I ever tell you what happened when I was in middle school?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We actually lived somewhere for three years. That was like forever. Long enough to make friends. Oh, never mind—this was years ago . . .”

  “No, tell me. I want to hear.”

  “I became friends with this girl—Patty. Best friends—we ate lunch together at school and talked about boys and had sleepovers. Yeah, typical girls.” Vanessa’s laugh was short. Sharp. “And then . . . we had to move. Of course we had to move. But Patty and I swore we’d be best friends forever. And she invited me back to visit for her birthday weekend. I couldn’t wait.”

  “What happened?”

  “I should have stayed home. It was four months after we’d moved—and she had a new best friend. I’d been there a whole twenty-four hours when I accidentally overheard her ask her mom, ‘Why did you make me invite her?’ So I pretended to be sick until it was time for me to get back on the plane and go home.”

  “She sounds like a real brat.”

  “No. She taught me an important lesson.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That people change. That relationships . . . change. Sometimes I forget that for a moment or two, but not very often.”

  Vanessa fell silent, and Logan had no response, no challenge to her statement.

  The truth was, he’d taught her the same thing.

  NINETEEN

  Falling in love and having a relationship are two different things.

  —KEANU REEVES (1964– ), ACTOR

  “Do you have time for a little more ‘for old times’ sake’?”

  Logan’s question seemed to whisper on the rush of the wind as he turned the motorcycle onto the tree-lined road leading to the Mid-Bay Bridge. The echo of her yes replayed over and over in Vanessa’s head. If she dared, she’d unclip her helmet, yank it off, and let the air rushing by run its fingers through her hair and pull the words out of her mind. Toss them over the side of the bridge so they’d tumble into the water below and drown.

  Instead, as Logan increased his speed, she slid forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. Closed her eyes and held on, resting her head against his back.

  The asphalt beneath them was solid . . . real. The sky above them was sparkling blue—not a single cloud. She needn’t fear falling into the waters of Choctawatchee Bay. Let meaningless dreams of fog and crumbling bridges and jumping into the water below stay where they belonged—in the night.

  And she wasn’t surprised when Logan parked the motorcycle near the beach they always went to as teenagers. This was what the day was all about, after all.

  For old times’ sake.

  Falling into old habits was easier than she ever realized. Locking the helmets on the back of the bike. Logan’s “Ready for a walk?” accompanied with a grin. They couldn’t leave their shoes at the base of the weathered steps—not with the debris Cressida had strewn along the beach—so the white sand squelched beneath their feet, but they couldn’t feel the coolness against their toes. Still, they were close enough that their arms touched. Their breathing mingled with the sounds of the Gulf . . . the plaintive cries of seagulls as they wheeled back and forth over the water and the sighs of the waves against the shore.

  “This has always been my favorite place.” Logan settled into an easy pace near the water’s edge, but not close enough to give the waves permission to splash up against their shoes.

  “That night we rescued the teen?” Vanessa began unbraiding her hair, the wind tugging strands loose. “It was my first time back to Destin in years.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I finished out at FSU after we divorced—and I came back to Niceville a few times. For holidays. For Rylan’s high school graduation.” She ran her fingers through her hair, releasing it about her shoulders. “I just could never bring myself to come back here. Too many memories.”

  “Even with the memories, this was still my favorite place.” Logan’s hand brushed up against hers. “Because of the memories, too.”

  “I was afraid I’d run into a ghost coming back here—”

  “And then you run into me.”

  “Yeah.”

  He grasped her hand, his skin warm against hers, pulling her to a stop. “Are you sorry?”

  “No. No, I’m not sorry.”

  When they fell back into step, it seemed natural—right—to let their hands remain clasped, their fingers intertwined.

  “I come here every year after we finish the storm-chasing season. It’s my way to relax.” Logan’s chuckle was low. Brief. “Sometimes my team asks if we can go somewhere else. The mountains, maybe. And every year, I say no, even though I know I’ll see you here.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I thought we might actually run into each other—even though we never did. But more than that,
the memories are still here. The good and the bad. And I was willing to have both.”

  “Logan—why?”

  She didn’t have to ask anything else. He knew exactly what she was asking.

  • • •

  How could he explain his actions to her?

  “If I still loved you, why didn’t I come after you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If I say I was stupid, that won’t be enough of an answer to erase all the hurt built up between us.” He eased her closer, and she allowed him to put his arm around her so she was close against his body. “At first I was angry that you’d even file for divorce, and I let myself stay angry. And I was young—”

  “We both were.”

  “Yes—but getting married young isn’t an automatic death sentence, Vanessa.”

  “I know—like your grandfather said, ‘You either get married when you’re young and grow up together, or you get married when you’re older and you grow up together.’ ”

  “You remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I let my youth and my anger and my stupidity become a mixture of stubbornness . . . and rather than figuring out how to work things out, how to stay married—grow up together—I let our problems come between us.”

  “What happened between us—it wasn’t all your fault.”

  “You asked me why I didn’t come after you—I’m answering the question. At first, it was easier to blame you. To not say I was wrong. To not ask you to forgive me. But it was more than that.” Logan seemed to wrestle with the words. With himself. “You were everything to me, Vanessa. And I kept thinking, what if I came and asked you to try again . . . and you said no? I couldn’t face that.”

  He knew God had granted him this moment. After all, God was a God of redemption. Of reconciliation.

  He stopped. Turned to face Vanessa, who remained sheltered in his embrace, his arm angled across her back. Somehow, they’d stepped too close to the water, the waves washing back and forth across their shoes, wetting the hem of his jeans, anchoring them into the sand. A Gulf breeze blew strands of her hair across her face, and he brushed them back, tucking them behind one of her ears, his fingertips trailing along the outline of her jaw.

  “If I had it to do again, I’d do it all so differently, love.” He cupped her face with both his hands. “But I accept God is not a God of do-overs. I have to face the truth that I won you—and I’ve lost you. But I have this moment. And I can say I regret not coming after you. Not doing everything I could think of to make our marriage work. Forgive me, please.”

  “Logan . . . I do . . .” Vanessa’s voice trembled over the words, a broken benediction.

  His thumb brushed over her full bottom lip, the softness flaming a longing inside of him. His hand slipped along the warm curve of her throat, and he urged her closer, the veil of her eyelids hiding any message her eyes might communicate.

  Their kiss held the purity of coming home and the enticement of the forbidden. He’d never forgotten the feel of Vanessa in his arms, the scent of her perfume lingering in her hair, how she accepted his kiss, her lips soft and responsive beneath his.

  Sweet torture, when she was marrying someone else.

  • • •

  Surrender.

  With every beat of her heart, Vanessa found herself yielding to Logan again. The excuse of “for old times’ sake” evaporated, and in its place stood unadulterated desire.

  For his touch. His kiss. For him.

  Within seconds, restraint gave way to a passion that took her unawares. She’d forgotten how quickly she responded to Logan’s touch, his fingers threading through the windswept strands of her hair. The full length of his body pressed against hers until she bent backward, but she knew he wouldn’t let her fall . . .

  He was right—they couldn’t go back. But what about the future? Couldn’t they figure out a way to be together again?

  No.

  No.

  Somehow she found the strength to push Logan away, stumbling back a few more steps into the water, the pull of the tide helping her to put even more distance between them. Turn away. Dive underwater. Hold her breath and swim for the horizon. For safety.

  “Stop. Don’t . . . don’t kiss me . . .”

  Logan followed her into the surf, splashing water up onto his clothes. “Vanessa, I’m sorry. I was trying to apologize—”

  “Stop.” She backed up more, the sand shifting beneath her boots. “No more apologies.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “You can’t kiss me! I’m marrying Ted! You can’t kiss me!” He reached for her again, and she dodged his hand. “Don’t touch me—”

  A wave hit her from behind, throwing her off-balance and tossing her to her knees, soaking her through. Logan grasped her by her wrists and hauled her to her feet.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gulf water dripped from her clothes and hair. Tears coursed down her face. “Don’t . . . kiss me again.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Take me back . . . to Mindy’s. Please.”

  “You need to dry off.”

  She shook off his hands and trudged back to shore, fighting against the rolling waves. “Now. I want . . . to leave now.”

  During the ride back to Niceville, Vanessa sat on the motorcycle so there was ample space between her and Logan. She shivered inside her sodden clothes as the air rushing by pressed them against her skin. Logan pushed the edge of the speed limit, his knuckles white against the motorcycle handlebars, leaning into the curves so Vanessa clung to the edges of the seat.

  Logan barely pulled the motorcycle to a stop in front of Mindy’s house before Vanessa clambered off, unbuckling the helmet and yanking it off her head and tossing it at Logan as he anchored the bike before climbing off. It landed on the street with a loud clatter as she turned away.

  “Hey!” Logan grabbed her arm. “We need to talk.”

  “We survived eight years without talking.” She pulled against him. Stomped her foot. “Let go of my arm.”

  “Go ahead and hate me if you want. But I’m saying what I need to say this time.” With his hand wrapped around her wrist, Logan forced her to stand still. “That kiss was all wrong, I admit it. You’re engaged. I get that. But the truth is, I still love you. I never stopped. If you weren’t engaged, I’d do everything in my power to win you back.”

  She stared up at him. What was she supposed to do? Pretend this was some romantic movie where everything turned out perfectly in the end? The star-crossed young lovers didn’t mess things up and die—but somehow ended up married and enjoying happily-ever-after like the Wrights and Logan’s grandparents?

  Life wasn’t like that.

  Even Logan’s grandmother died.

  “We had our chance, Logan.” When his grip on her arm loosened, she twisted out of his hold and stepped back. “And we failed.”

  Footsteps sounded behind her. Oh, no. Had Mindy and her husband witnessed what just happened?

  Someone rested a hand on her shoulder.

  “You okay, babe?”

  Ted?

  She whirled around and came face-to-face with her fiancé.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I flew in early this afternoon. I was worried about you. So I came to check on you and the wedding plans.” He motioned back and forth from Logan and Vanessa. “Everything okay here?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. This is my—”

  Logan nodded, his wet hair tangled. “I’m an old high school friend of Vanessa’s. Stopped by to say hello when I heard she was in town.”

  “I’m Ted Topliff.”

  Logan straddled the motorcycle. “You must be her fiancé. You’re a lucky man.”

  He put on his helmet, blocking his face from view and preventing further conversation. When he started up the bike, Vanessa stepped back onto the curb, Ted joining her.

  “Why are you all wet, Vanessa?”

  “I fell into the
Gulf.” She stomped toward the house, her sodden boots and clothes squishing with every step. “Time for a shower.”

  Let Logan drive off. There hadn’t been any real goodbyes the first time. Why should she expect one now?

  CHRISTMAS 2004

  Was this how her mother felt when her father returned home from a long trip?

  Vanessa checked her hair in the mirror again, still not quite used to the layers. Would Logan like that she was letting it grow long? Would he like the haircut Mindy had talked her into, the strands framing her face?

  She pressed the palms of her hands against her stomach, willing it to settle. This was Logan, her husband, she was waiting for—not some unknown guy coming to pick her up for a blind date. She wouldn’t tell him about the couple of classmates she’d had to fend off during the last semester while Logan was in Oklahoma—the ones who somehow didn’t see her wedding band. Or didn’t care about it.

  She resisted sneaking one of the peanut butter chocolate chip cookies she’d baked in the Hollisters’ larger kitchen—a treat she’d prepared for Logan. He’d be hungry and tired after a long day on the road from Oklahoma. He’d probably eat half a dozen while he unpacked. And then, who knew? Maybe they’d go have dinner at the Boathouse, or ride the motorcycle over the bridge and walk on the beach. It didn’t matter. They’d be together. And after surviving the first semester apart—and Logan not even coming home once for a long weekend at Thanksgiving because he was working on some sort of huge group project—surely he was as tired of their long-distance marriage as she was. Maybe during Christmas break she could convince him to transfer to FSU.

  The sound of the door opening had her whirling around, smoothing her hair away from her face.

  “Vanessa? You here already?” Logan stepped inside, dropping his bike helmet at his feet.

  “Yes—oh, Logan, I’m so glad—” She ran to meet him, throwing her arms around him. Inhaled the scent of his hair, savoring the feel of his arms around her. At last.

  “Hey. I’ve missed you, too.” He pressed a kiss to her neck and laughed, low and husky.

  And then someone else laughed.

  What?