Chapter 17 Three Years Before
3 years before Penny
Most of the class has crashed.
Controllers are scattered across the floor, chips crushed into the carpet, soda cans half-empty and forgotten on tables. The fireplace burns low, just enough to paint the room in soft orange light. It smells like sugar, smoke, and the end of a perfect day.
I’m on the couch, stretched out, my head resting in Jemma’s lap. Her fingers drift through my hair without rhythm, lazy and slow. Every time her nails graze my scalp, something inside me unclenches.
I reach up and trace my thumb along her cheek, warm and smooth under my hand. “I’m glad I met you,” I murmur.
She giggles, quiet enough not to wake anyone. “We’ve been at the same school for four years, Logan.”
I groan but smile anyway. “Yeah, well… I’m glad I finally got the guts to talk to you.”
She laughs again, that soft musical sound that makes everything else fade. “You didn’t. You wrote it on a piece of paper.”
I pinch her side lightly, making her squirm and laugh harder. “Will you give me one win?”
Her laughter softens into something gentle. She keeps playing with my hair, her voice quieter now. “I’m glad you talked to me too.”
I push myself upright, knocking over a few empty cans in the process. They clatter across the floor, echoing in the quiet. I wince, mutter, “This place is already a disaster,” then look back at her.
“Come here,” I say, tilting my head, arms open.
Jemma hesitates for half a breath, then crawls over, light as air, settling onto my lap. She smells faintly of lavender and shampoo, her hair brushing my jaw.
I run my finger down the curve of her jaw, my heart thudding. “You know I’ll always respect your boundaries, right?”
She smiles up at me, eyes half-lidded. “That’s the second time you’ve told me that.”
I smile back. “Because it’s true. I don’t ever want you to feel forced to—”
“Logan,” she cuts in, soft but steady. “I like you. I want to.”
Her words settle between us like something sacred. I don’t rush it. I just look at her for a long second, memorizing every line of her face. Then I lean in, and when our lips meet, it’s slow. Warm. Real.
It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
For the next little while, Jemma scrolls through her phone, showing me random videos, her shoulder pressed against mine. “Okay, wait, look at this one,” she says between giggles, eyes half-closed from how tired she is. The video is some trend—people lip-syncing, falling over, making jokes I barely understand. She’s laughing so hard she snorts once, and that alone makes me laugh.
“You want me to do that?” I ask, incredulous.
“Tomorrow morning,” she says, pointing her phone at me like a challenge. “You promised.”
“I did not.”
She grins. “You did in your heart.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. The conversation drifts after that—little things, memories, what they’ll do after graduation, nothing important but all of it easy. I don’t remember the last time I felt this light.
When she yawns, her long black hair slides over my arm, silky and warm. “Alright,” I murmur, brushing it back. “That’s your cue. Bedtime. God knows what these maniacs have planned for tomorrow.”
She blinks at me sleepily, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “Okay.”
We stand, fingers naturally finding each other. Her hand is small in mine, her palm cool. The floor creaks as we make our way upstairs, careful not to wake anyone sprawled on couches or mattresses. The air smells like smoke and shampoo and the faint sweetness of whatever perfume she wears.
In the dark room, the bunks look like a maze of shadows. She climbs up first, graceful even half-asleep, then turns to help steady me as I follow. The mattress squeaks softly under our combined weight.
I peel off my shirt, tossing it near my bag, but keep my joggers on. She does the opposite—her jeans rustle off, but her shirt stays. For a second we just lie there, breathing the same air, the silence between us warm and full.
Then she shifts closer. Her body curls against mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers rest lightly on my chest, tracing idle shapes there, and as much as I’m trying to be a gentleman, being this close—her warmth, her skin, her steady breath—is doing something to me I don’t have words for.
I inhale slowly, forcing my heartbeat to calm, and lean down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Goodnight, Jemma,” I whisper.
She mumbles something I can’t quite catch, a sleepy hum against my skin, and then she’s out—gone, drifting, her breathing soft and even.
I stay awake a little longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her hand on my chest, thinking that if every night were like this, maybe the world wouldn’t feel so heavy.
It’s strange — how something so simple can make the noise in my head quiet down.
Because when I’m alone, the thoughts don’t stop. The house I go back to after all this—empty for days, full of silence and arguments when it isn’t. The parents who barely talk to each other, let alone to me. The ache that’s been sitting in my chest since then, since the moment everything cracked open two years ago and never really healed.
I don’t know what I’m doing after this. Everyone else has a plan — college, jobs, scholarships, something. I’ve got... nothing. No future carved out. Just a vague idea of seeing the world, going anywhere that isn’t home. Maybe if I move far enough, the grief won’t follow.
But lying here, with Jemma asleep in my arms, I almost forget.
When I’m with her, or with Caleb, Nate, and Ryan — when we’re laughing until our stomachs hurt, sneaking out for food, playing stupid games that last all night — it’s like I can breathe again. Like there’s still something good out there, waiting to be found.
Maybe I don’t need to have a plan right now. Maybe for tonight, this is enough.
I look down at Jemma, the faintest smile tugging at her lips even in sleep, and let my eyes close, the weight in my chest finally quiet.
For once, I feel good.
And that’s more than I’ve felt in a long time.