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. (Because let’s face it—all teenage boys exist on a sliding scale of stupidity.) Bringing it up is also a nod to our shared past and how much history we share.
