Too Bad For Her Own Good

Chapter 47

I was finally going home.

It's been 3 weeks since the accident; since we were told the news.

The doctors had kept me in care claiming I was in, "critical stress conditions". Apparently the news of losing my pregnancy added stress to my organs, to my bone; to my being. And that stress and harmful behavior wasn't helping the physically broken part of me.

"Home sweet home, love." Logan gestures inside of the house, his arm around my waist, assisting me inside.

While walking wasn't impossible, it did he to have a shoulder to lean on. It seemed these days, I could barely take a step without getting pushed back.

"Can I get you anything? Water, milk; I can-"

"I'm fine." I mumble, making my way over towards the couch, dropping my bag onto the hardwood floors with a thud.

My eyes take in the comforting scene around me, desperate and clinging to any lingering sense of familiarity.

The way the couches are arranged about a coffee table made of mahogany, facing a television on the wall that's surrounded by piles, and piles of novels and stories.

"Actually, can you hand me a book? Please?" I ask, feeling guilty of asking him for anything. But, he had been such an amazing help. Hell, that doesn't begin to cover it.

He lost just as much as I did throughout this entire experience, and yet he's been at my side helping me the entire time. We've spoken that maybe he needs to work on himself; but all he says is that working on me is like working on him.

He smiles at me, clearly pleased I'm showing interest in anything other then sobbing into his arms or staring blankly at a white wall. "Of course, what can I get 'ya?" He drawls, walking over to the heaping pile of unorganized books.

I pretend to think, momentarily forgetting about the horror that has recently unsued. Logan was able to do that for me; immerse me in all things him, that the outside world didn't seem to exist. Us, we were enough.

"Throw me a Harry Potter, if you'd please." My English accent is lacking, but I can feel my stomach upturn in a nearly forgotten sense of joy when he sends me a smile.

"Let's go with - my personal favorite - Half-Blood Prince." He jokes, tossing the book over to me lightly.

I take in the bent pages, noticing that he'd given me his copy.

That's right. Both he and I had a copy. Leading to two full sized, hardcover sets of Harry Potter in our home.

The pages are all ripped or frayed at the edges; validating it's clear use. The cover is bend, and one of the pages is even genuinely ripped a bit: probably due to Logans untamed anger skills that don't seem to go away whether is fiction or not.

He plops down next to me on the couch, laying down. I pull his head into my lap, the position not harming any of my bruises.

I run my fingers absent-mindedly through his hair, the idea of unpacking in the far reserves of my brain, simply forgotten.

My eyes take in the page, stories of witches and wizards, love and honor; dignity and courage floating through my brain. Fiction did that to us; it gave us a world that wasn't our own.

While the world wasn't always picture perfect or desirable, it was something different. It was something where anything was possible, and where the answers weren't already laid out before you.

Logan and I had shared the love is knowledge; love of books more specifically, since the day we'd met.

But now I've come to realize why. Both of us have everything all planned out. Life, it seems, isn't a mystery anymore. I think both of us are desperate for something we don't know the answer to.