Because I wanted to know whether the person beneath the performance could handle being denied.
He couldn’t.
He stepped forward.
Too quickly.
A few people moved backward.
I didn’t.
He stopped less than six feet away.
“You think you’re tough?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you scared?”
I looked into his eyes.
“Because I’ve been scared before.”
His expression faltered.
“Of what?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was too complicated.
I had been afraid of losing people.
Afraid of sending young men into danger.
Afraid of receiving a knock on a door.
Afraid of phone calls after midnight.
Afraid of becoming the kind of person who stopped caring because caring hurt too much.
But I had never been afraid of a man standing in a driveway trying to impress his father.
Logan stepped closer.
I could smell the sweat and synthetic rubber from his training shirt.
