Tracking Logan Foster

{22} Not Broken Yet

It was strange to be known as Iris Johnson for twenty-three years of my life before suddenly becoming known as Iris Foster in seemingly the next second.

Logan had proposed to me three years after his memories had resurfaced and we had made good on his promise to "catch up" which in turn had made its presence in the form of a two year old rascal by the name of Heath Foster.

Heath's full head of sunny blonde curls resembled his father's and his bright blue eyes were identical to my own.

"Ma-ma?" He squeaked, reaching chubby fingers in the air. I smiled lovingly down to him, and bent to scoop him off the ground.

I twirled him in the air, making him squeal in delight as his laughter warmed the entire room despite the steady flames in the fireplace already contributing to the temperature.

Heath's gap toothed grin matched the smile on my face as we danced around the room with him in my arms. Logan watched us from across the living room, spinning the ring on his finger as his foot tapped along to the beat of the music.

Running a hand through his hair, Logan's eyes crinkled, but not in happiness. I couldn't quite decipher the way his eyes darkened before he squeezed them shut or how I'd catch him clutching his head in what I believed to be pain.

I shot him a questioning look as I continued to dance with Heath, and he caught me worrying. Logan quickly threw on the mask, easily replacing his previous discomfort with a joyful smile.

He nodded once, making his way over to us.

"Da-da!" Heath giggled, stretching his arms to his father who pressed a kiss to my lips before taking his son in his own arms.

"Hey kid," Logan chuckled, spreading goosebumps down my body from the love emanating from his simple words expressed for the two year old.

Heath's curious fingers ventured to the bald spot on his father's head where a scar had embedded itself on his scalp, constantly reminding the both of us about his operation years ago.

As if the delicate touch of a two-year old felt like a burning iron, Logan hissed between his teeth and flinched, stretching his neck away from his son.

"Does it hurt?" I whispered, biting my lip from where I stood, nervously wringing my hands together.

I wasn't naïve. I knew the scar didn't cause physical pain, per se, but what it did cause was emotional and psychological pain that was incurable.

Yet, all Logan replied with was, "No. He just surprised me."

Then he playfully tossed Heath in the air and caught him as if nothing had happened. All was soon forgotten as the three of us laid on the beige carpet in the middle of the room, gazing up at the starless night through the ceiling window above.

Right before our very eyes, stars began to appear on the sheet of blackness. Heath pointed at the stars from where he rested his head on Logan's chest.

"Can you see the Big Dipper?" Logan asked, focusing on Heath as he did so. Heath's oceanic eyes widened as he fought for comprehension.

Logan affectionately wrapped his hand around Heath's stubby fingers, positioning both of their hands so they were following his line of sight, pointed directly at the stars.