not only set down his controller, he came into the bathroom with me. I was so ill that I temporarily suspended my extreme mortification at barfing in front of my crush. Desperate times. Logan held back my hair. He rubbed my back. He got a cool washcloth and wiped my face. And when it was all over and the contents of my stomach—and maybe part of my stomach lining—were emptied out, Logan picked me up, carried me to my room, and tucked me into bed. While a memory involving barf isn’t the epitome of romantic, it reminds me how thoughtful and tender he could be, even when he was a dumb teenage boy.
