Disclaimer: Sadly, I own none of the X-Men or the rights to them. I also don't own the rights to the title of the story, which happens to be both a Frankie Valli and Fergie song.

Author's Note: This story is the forth, and last, story in a series I've written. If you'd like to start at the beginning you can read 'Confessions of a Broken Heart', 'Remember When It Rained', and 'Behind These Hazel Eyes' (in that order) by going to my profile. Although you don't have to read any of them before reading this. Like the others, I think it stands pretty well on its own. I do want to thank everyone for the reviews and amazing support you've given me over the past two years as I've written these 4 stories. I really appreciate ya'll hanging in to see what happens to Jayden and the rest of the X crew. I hope ya'll enjoy this one.

Big Girls Don't Cry

Know thyself.

That's what Socrates told us. It sounds simple enough. After all, if we don't know us, who does?

But it's not simple. As a matter of a fact, it's the hardest thing anyone can do. Because to know ourselves, we must also know our demons. We must know our faults and failures. What we can and can't do. We must know our strengths and weaknesses. We have to search over inch of our soul and know it.

My life as I knew it in the past two years had changed completely. Everything I thought I had figured out was wrong. What I believed was being challenged.

I had gone from living in northern California with my adoptive parents, whom I had been with for fourteen years of my life, only having broken memories of my birth mother and not knowing who my real father was, to moving to New York to be with my father, barely keeping a relationship with my parents, and having my birth mother die.

Getting to know myself was becoming more than just difficult; it was terrifying.

At this point, you're probably wondering who I am. Well, so am I.

My name is Jayden. I was nineteen years old and lived in Westchester, New York. And right then I was doing everything I could to hold onto my last shred of sanity. Which was proving much harder than I thought.

I stood in the bathroom, facing the mirror, and held the scissors close to my neck. The bathroom was an off white that reflected itself in the blades of the scissors. The floor, the sink, the bathtub, the shower curtain, the towels, the wooden blinds, they were all the same color white. A color that, in strong enough doses, made me feel as if I was going mad.

Or perhaps it wasn't the bathroom; maybe it was just me.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm my nerves. I knew I couldn't make the cut perfect; my hands were shaking far too much. But I could make it count. And that was all that mattered.

I held the scissors close to my neck and closed my eyes as I made the cut; it was too painful for me to watch.

When I finally opened my eyes, I saw the chunk of brown hair that I had just cut lying splayed across the white floor. I finally forced my eyes to look at myself in the mirror and saw my severely uneven hair reflected back in the glass.

I had decided that part of getting to know myself would have to involve me getting rid of the old me. The insecure, scared, hurt Jayden could only leave if I cut her away. And so with every snip of my hair, she slowly disappeared.

A few months before, I had woken up to find that I had cut my hair in my sleep. I had always taken such pride in my long hair that the discovery horrified me. My identity felt compromised. By hair. It was when I had started thinking back on it that I realized how incredibly superficial that was. So I decided that if my hair was my identity and I got rid of my hair, I could face who I really was.

So I started cutting. Half an hour later, I had succeeded in turning my hair, which had been loosely hanging around my shoulders, into a short pixie cut. I was trying to even it all out when there was a knock on the door.

"Hey, you've been in there a while, you feelin' all right?"

It was Logan. My father. I had only met him a year and a half before, but he was more than anything I ever could have imagined. He wasn't married and didn't have any other kids as far as he knew, but he had stepped into his father role like he had been born to do it. That wasn't to say he didn't make mistakes, he did, but when it came down to it, he got all the stuff that really mattered right.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I called to him through the bathroom door.

"You feel like grabbin' something to eat?"

"Yeah, uh, just…just give me a few minutes," I said, suddenly starting to panic.

I hadn't told him about my hair cutting liberation plan and I was worried about what he might think. He was all for me getting to understand myself better, but sometimes he wondered about my methods.

"What're you doin' in there?" he asked, picking up on the note of panic in my voice.

"Nothing, just give me a second," I said, picking up as much of the hair from the floor that I could. I tossed it in the trash bin by the sink and listened as Logan turned and twisted the knob, shaking the door on its hinges.

He was worried about me, and rightfully so. All of my 'liberation' efforts before had involved me in the bathtub. Either trying to drown myself or nearly coming down with hypothermia while waiting from an answer from the universe. Of course at the time, it all seemed quite logical to me.

"Darlin', if I gotta jimmy this lock, I don't think Chuck's gonna be too happy if I screw up one of his expensive bathroom doors, but I'll do it. So you can either open the door or I will, you hear me?"

"Yeah, I heard you. Just hang on."

Chuck's real name was Charles Xavier. He was the owner and headmaster of a boarding school in New York, where I lived. The public thought it was just for gifted students. But the reality was that it was gifted mutants. Professor Xavier had invited me to live there the year before, and although it was a scary decision to make, it was one I never regretted.

But we weren't at the school. We weren't even in New York.

Three weeks before, I had come home from a trip to Canada in which I attended my birth mother's funeral, was attacked and nearly killed, and had taken the life of someone I believed would be better off dead. When I returned to the school, the first person I had seen was Scott Summers. I had been in love with him for nearly a year when I told him about how I felt for him. At first he had brushed it off, saying he could be what I needed and that he was still in love with his wife, who everyone believed to be dead. But when I came back and saw him that day, something changed. He told me that I made him happy and although he would never get over Jean entirely, he could see himself moving on with me.

I had gone through a lot over the few months leading up to that moment and right then, everything seemed to finally be getting back on track. My life seemed to lose the dark ring that had been wrapped around it. Everything seemed to be perfect.

And then she came back.

His wife.


She wasn't dead after all. The Professor tried to explain to us that kinetic energy had kept her alive for nearly two years while her body remained under water. But aside from Jean herself, Scott and Hank McCoy, who took over her doctor duties while she was gone, no one seemed to understand how it had happened.

Now don't get me wrong, it's not like I actually wanted her to be dead. I was thrilled she was still alive. Really. But under the circumstances, I was a little devastated.

Which brings me back to why I wasn't in New York. While everyone was welcoming Jean back and planning a recommitment ceremony for her and Scott, I was quickly having a nervous breakdown. So the Professor did what he had done to Scott right after he had lost Jean: He sent me away.

He had inherited a beautiful beach house in a small town in the panhandle of Florida when his parents had passed away. And when anyone started going mad in New York, that's where he sent them.

That's where he sent me.

And it had worked. I had grown up in northern California where my parents and I would make a trek to the beach sometimes twice a month, even in the winter. So despite it being a bleary, chilly mid-February, I felt at home. And because of that, I was finally able to grab a hold of my emotions and turn them around.

I had decided I had allowed myself to get too full of self pity, I was too dependent on other people, and that I had become too hard on myself. So I had made a list of things I wanted to change.

I started the change on the outside first: It was a visual reminder that I had changed on the inside and that I still had a long way to go.

Logan knocked on the door once again. "I'm givin' you to the count of five to open this door. If you don't, I'm comin' in anyway. So you better cover anything you don't want seen."

Logan was a great father. He came by it naturally. He had a need to protect the people he loved and he did it well. Sometimes a little too well.


I grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept up the hair from the floor as quickly as I could.


I dumped the hair into the trash bin.


I stashed the broom and dustpan back in the closest where I had gotten them earlier that day.


There was no way I could hide it. He was going to find out that I had just spent half and hour cutting my hair shorter than his one way or another. And it was probably best that I saved the Professor's door; they looked expensive.

"Five," he said, his voice not breaking his even, patient tone. Not even as I heard the 'snikt' of a claw as he prepared to unlock the door on his own.

I twisted the lock and slowly, tentatively, pulled open the door. I gave him a sheepish smile as he stared at me. "Surprise?" I said with a nervous laugh.

He swore as the single middle claw on his left hand slid back into his hand, hiding itself in his forearm with the others. "What did you do?"

"Does it look bad?"

"No." He was telling the truth, I could feel it, and that made me feel better. "But why did you cut it? I thought you liked it long?"

I shrugged. "I needed a change."

"Is that the only change you're plannin' on makin'?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're not gonna get tattoos and start piercin' yourself up, are you?"

"I don't plan on it, no."

He looked at my hair, or lack thereof, and shook his head as he let out a sigh. "All right. Hop in the shower and get the hair off you and we'll get some dinner."

I nodded. "Okay."

He started to turn away but then stopped and turned back to me. "And it better not take longer than ten minutes for you to shower, either. Now that you don't have any hair, there's nothing for you to spend time on."

I smiled. "All right, I'll be ready in a little bit."

He looked at me for a moment. "This hair thing," he said, pointing at me, "does it have anything to do with summers?"


He cocked his eyebrow at me. "Does it have anything to do with Jean?"

I looked down at me feet, taking a sudden great interest in my gold toenail polish that was chipped. I wanted to ignore him, but it wasn't going to be that easy.

He walked into the bathroom, pushing the door open as he did. He kept moving until he was standing right in front of me, and we were toe to toe. "Does this have anything to do with Jean?" he asked again. And when I didn't answer, he didn't bother asking another time. He titled my chin up to look me in the eyes. "Why are you doin' this 'cause of her?"

"I'm not, really," I said. "It has more to do with her coming back than just her."

"What's cuttin' your hair got to do with her comin' back?"

"I felt like I was starting to get some things figured out, but when she came back, she changed everything.

He cocked his head at me. "And cuttin' your hair off, that helps you figure things out again?"

I laughed. "No," I said. "But it gives me control back over some aspect of my life." I let my eyes wander around the maddening white room once more before looking back to him and meeting his gaze. "It may not be much, but it's a start."

He nodded and I knew he understood. He bent and dropped a quick kiss on my forehead. "Whatever you gotta do, darlin'," he said. Then added; "If you were wantin' to take some more pictures today, you better hurry up or it'll be too dark comin' back to see anything."


He gave me another kiss on my forehead before leaving my bathroom, closing my door as he went out.

I moved to the bathtub to turn on the water in the shower so that it could warm up while I was getting undressed. When I was done, I looked at myself once again in the mirror.

The hair cut wasn't too bad. I had actually managed a pretty decent job. But it was definitely a big change and going to take a while for me to get used to. Although with my hair away from my face and gone, I could see that I looked more like Logan. The man it took me three months to figure out was my father. The man I looked so much like.

My normally tan skin had taken a pinkish tint to my cheeks from where I had gotten wind burn while running on the beach the day before.

The whiteness of the room seemed to illuminate my hazel eyes. Despite all of my features that looked like Logan's, my eyes looked the most like his. They had the same mix of green with flecks of gold. But it wasn't just the shape and color that looked like his; it was everything that reflected in them that did. Everything that shone through. I saw in my eyes what I saw when I stared into his. And that's what I loved the most about myself.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and let out a sigh. I found it odd how I could both familiar and so un-familiar to myself at the same time. But I was ready for a change, but it hair, or scenery, or attitude. I welcome it with open arms.

I stood in the bathroom of a beach house in Florida at the beginning of February of my nineteenth year and I felt a change. I sensed it. And I was prepared.

Know thyself.

That's what Socrates told us.

That's what I planned on doing.

"Ain't that about the fourteenth picture you've taken of the sun settin' already?" Logan asked.

We had just finished eating dinner at a small restaurant in town and we were walking back to the house. But what should have been around a ten minute walk had taken twenty minutes, and we weren't even half way there yet.

For Christmas a month and a half before, I had received a camera as a present. Hank McCoy, the school's doctor and chemistry and mathematics teacher, who also happened to be my best friend, had bought it for me. It was the kind that was used by newspaper photographers and allowed me to take one picture after another with no delay. Which I found incredibly fun and useful. Logan only found it annoying, or at least he acted like he did, anyway. But he had been extremely patient with me about it. He understood I was excited over having a new hobby that I was actually pretty good at. And when I asked him to, he would go out and walk with me while I looked for new things to photograph.

But on the walk back, I suppose he found my 'fourteenth picture' of the sunset to not be such a new thing. Especially since I had already had six rolls of film developed while I was there and a little less than half had been of either the sunset or sunrise.

I looked away from the horizon over to Logan. He looked perturbed, but he usually did. So I moved the camera to look at him and snapped his picture as he slid his half smoked cigar to the side of his mouth.

"Better?" I asked with a slightly sarcastic tone and a smirk.

He blew out the smoke from his cigar and let out a small, low growl. "At least it's something different," he muttered. "You ready to go back or do you need more pictures of sand and grass, too?"

I let go of the camera, allowing it to hang on the strap that was around my neck. "No, we can go now."


He began walking once again along the sand covered sidewalk and I fell in step right beside him. After a couple of minutes, he stomped out his cigar and wrapped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close to his side. I wasn't sure if it was a sign of affection or just him trying to keep me from wandering off to take more pictures.

We were nearly back to the house when it started raining. So we ran the rest of the way there. But it didn't do much good; we got soaked anyway. When we stepped in the door, he pulled of his leather jacket and boots and I watched him shake the water from his hair. The sight of it made me laugh as he reminded me of a wet dog shaking water from its fur.

He looked at me as he was unbuttoning his blue flannel shirt. "You mind sharin' what's so funny?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

I smiled. "Nothing particular. Just you."

He studied me for a moment and then nodded. "Did your camera get hurt in the rain?" he asked as I sat down on the bench that sat by the side door.

"I don't think so," I said, pulling off me water logged sneakers. "I think it's pretty sturdy."

"Good. You want me to get a fire goin'?"

"Yeah," I said, pulling off my own leather jacket. "If you don't mind."

Professor Xavier's beach house was an older house. It had been built some time in the twenties or thirties. The outside had a huge porch that wrapped all the way around the whole building. The front had a porch swing and the back had a patio with some wooden whitewashed beach chairs and a couple of hammocks that Logan and I had spent some time enjoying.

The inside was relaxed and comfortable. There was a lot of white, beige, pale green and a faded rose color throughout the rooms, of which there was eight. Four bedrooms, a kitchen, a dinning room, a living room and a side room. The side room was where we had been instructed by the maid who kept the house while no one was there to take off our shoes to keep the rest of the house clean. There were also two and a half bathrooms. Although Logan and I had had the discussion upon discovering the half bathroom that if there's no actual bath in there, should it technically still be called a bath room?

Aside from the rather lack of color in the house, I quite liked it. It had an old but simple way about it. It wasn't too terribly big, but it was a great vacation house and perfect for Logan and me. The two weeks we had been there, we had both spent quite a bit of time lying about on the couch in front of the fireplace in the living room watching TV.

We only had a few more days left before we had to head back home, and I was almost sad about leaving. Obviously the prospect of having to go back home and pretend to be cheery over Scott and Jean wasn't too appealing, but I was actually enjoying myself there.

Logan and I had left the school a few times over my year of living there. But we had always stayed in motels, hoping from one to another until we decided to go back home. But this wasn't a motel; it was a house. And I felt comfortable there with just him.

I moved through the living room on my way to the bedroom I had claimed as mine and saw Logan squatted down in front of the fireplace trying to get a fire started. I was making my way out of the room when I heard him swear.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah, I just dropped my lighter in the fire."

I looked over my shoulder and saw him reaching his hand into the fire to retrieve his dropped lighter. When he pulled it out, his hand was red, his skin burnt. I watched as it quickly began to heal, soon looking as if he had never been burnt at all.

"Seriously, was a lighter that important?" I asked.

He looked over at me. "Marie got it for me," he answered simply.

Marie, or Rogue as everyone else knew her, was head over heels in love with Logan. It hadn't taken me too long after meeting her to figure that out. It did, however, take some time for me to catch on to the fact that he was also in love with her. To begin with, I had been strongly set against it. She was only a couple of years older than me and I couldn't imagine her ever being with him. As a matter of a fact, I hated her. It took me months to finally be able to be around the two of them without getting sick. Once I got passed that, I realized there was no legitimate reason for me to hate her. We had started getting closer but I had put her on my list of things I wanted to change; if Logan wanted to be with her, I needed to completely get over my problems and do my best to make friends with her. So despite thinking reaching into a blazing fire just for a lighter was a little over the top, I didn't say anything. I just rolled my eyes at him.

After watching his hand heal third degree burns in less than a minute and successfully keeping my dinner down, I continued to my room. I stripped off my wet clothes and pulled on some dry pajamas before taking my other clothes to the bathroom. Then I joined Logan back in the living room. He had the fire going, the TV on and was flipping through the channels. I sat down on the couch beside him as he stopped the TV on the History Channel where they were airing a special on Hitler and the Nazis.

"You know," I started, "I never quite understood how Hitler's idea of the perfect race could be blonde hair and blue eyes when he himself didn't even look like that. It seems to me that if you were going to try to turn the world against a certain set of people, you would make sure you weren't one of them."

"Yeah, but you forget that Hitler was psychotic."

"You're psychotic; you don't go around attempting to exterminate whole races of people."

"I'm a different kind of crazy, darlin'. It's not the same."

"But how can someone be that way? How can you hate someone because of how they look or how they're born?"

"Don't know. Never much understood it myself."

We were both quiet for a few minutes as we watched a man who had escaped a concentration camp talk about his life before the Nazis took over. When it went on commercial I couldn't hold back a question I had been thinking about.


"Hm?" he grunted out as a reply.

"Do you think…" I paused and saw him look at me from the corner of my eye. "Do you think I'll ever be able to get over Scott?"

He let out a sigh and ruffled the back of his hair with his right hand as he wrapped his left arm around the back of the couch, letting his hand rest on my shoulder. "I don't know. I wish I did, but I don't. I know eventually you'll move on. But I don't know about gettin' over him."

"Do you think I'll be okay with seeing him with Jean?"

"I don't know about that either, kid."

"Are you going to be okay seeing him with her?"

He looked at me. "What do you mean?"

"I know how you felt about her. You loved her and you thought you lost her. Now that she's back are you going to be okay seeing her with Scott?"

"Me and Jean…we never were anything and we never will be. Doesn't matter that she's back now or not."

"Because of Marie?"


"You know, I don't hate her anymore."

He gave me a smile that looked more like a smirk. "That's good."

I snuggled up to his side, resting my head against his chest. "We have to go back home soon, don't we?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "But you're gonna be fine."

"I know. It just hurts right now."

"I can always break his legs, you know?"

I laughed. "I'm not sure that would do any good, but I'll keep the offer in mind."

I watched the fire inside the fireplace dance atop the logs. I listened to it crackle and pop as the wood burning. The smell was oddly comforting and the sound was calming. I watched the fire until I found my eyes too tired to stay open and they fell shut. A few moments later I felt a blanket being wrapped around me and I snuggled closer to Logan.

"Night," I mumbled sleepily. "Love you."

I felt his lips press against my left temple in a soft kiss. "Right back at'cha, kid."

I see things. And no, I'm not talking about hallucinations. I'm talking about the real deal. I have visions. The proper name for my mutation is clairvoyancy. Along with seeing things, I also have a strong intuition. So I can sense people's true emotions, even when they do their best to hide them. I was agile and moved smoothly, like a cat, which had earned me the codename Lynx from Scott. And on top of all of that, I had inherited Logan's keen senses, though mine weren't nearly as strong as his. But mostly my mutation was invested in my clairvoyancy. I had been having visions for as long as I could remember.

Some are of the future, of things that are yet to happen. Of events that can be changed.

And some are of the past, of things I can't change. I can't fix. I'm helpless to do anything but watch.

Those are the ones I hate the most. They're also the ones I see the most.

I was in a room. It was dark. And wet. The floor was made of concrete and I couldn't see more than four feet around me each way. But I had been there before, and I knew that even when lit, the room was all the same.

There was a man, sitting in a chair, in the only lit part of the room. He was naked and blindfolded. He was strapped to the chair with thick leather straps around his chest, his arms, wrists, shins and ankles.

I couldn't see anyone in the room, but I knew they were there. They were always there. They were the ones that watched him. They were the ones who tortured him. They stood in the darkness, waiting, watching, until one of them finally stepped forward.

He didn't say anything. He walked right up to the man in the chair, took off the glasses that sat perched at the end of his nose and peered at his prisoner's face.

The prisoner was Logan.

"Hello Weapon X," the man said, his top lip turned up in a smirk as he realized his words made Logan stiffen in his seat. "Are you ready to get started?"

Logan let out a growl that started low in his chest and grew louder as it escaped his lips.

The man just watched him as he continued to smirk. Then he turned around and spoke into the darkness. "Get your things men." There was a sound of shuffling and a few minutes later two men came from out of the shadows. They were carrying a faded black duffle bag. They carried it to where the man, Stryker, was standing beside Logan, and dropped it to the floor. "You may begin."

They opened the bag and began pulled out its contents; a hammer, a drill, nails, and sharpened wooden skewers.

And then they went to work.

One of the men took the hammer and handed one of the thick, rusted nails to the man who he was working with. He placed it on top of Logan's hand, in the center, and then nodded to his partner with the hammer.

And he swung it.

The hammer drove the dull nail into the top of Logan's hand, embedding it in his flesh.

Logan was blindfolded and the sudden surge of pain caught him off guard. He opened his mouth and let out a growl of pain.

The man with the hammer continued until the nail had been successfully hammered through Logan's hand and into the wooden arms of the chair.

And then they repeated it on the other hand.

When they were done, the man who had been steadying the nails picked up one of the wooden skewers. He placed the sharpened end under the tip of Logan's fingernail on his left thumb, and the man with the hammer swung, driving it under his fingernail. Then he swung again.

And again.

And again.

He drove the skewer halfway under his thumbnail, and then began on his left index finger. Then the next. And the next. And the next until they had driven all of the skewers underneath all ten fingernails.

Then he grabbed the drill. He placed the drill bit to his left knee cap. And then they drilled into his knee.

The scream that came from his chest was primal sounding. It was inhuman. It rang in my ears, the sound piercing my heart. I felt all of his pain, and his rage, and his fear. And I wanted to stop it. But I couldn't.

I watched as the man, unflinching, removed the drill bit from his kneecap. It was covered in blood and had bits of skin attached to its tip. He then moved it to his right knee and continued to process. When he was done, I watched in horror as he stood, moving the drill to his forehead. I felt it as it began to cut into his skin.

And then I woke up screaming.

I sat up in bed and it took me a few moments to reinsert myself back into reality. Once I did, I stopped screaming. I was still trying to catch my breath when Logan came into my room.

"You all right?" he asked, standing in the doorway.

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "I'm fine."

"Do you need me to stay with you for a little while?"

As part of my list of changes I had wanted to make, I had written at the top that I needed to stop depending so much on Logan. I needed to be able to stand on my own. Whenever I had bad visions before, he would get in bed with me so that I could sleep. He had a way of keeping the monsters at bay and driving away my nightmares. But the problem was, I was going to be twenty in just six months and I couldn't keep running to my daddy every time I had a bad dream. I had to learn to fight my own monsters.

So Logan and I discussed it and I had gotten some tips from Hank. He suggested when I had a bad vision, Logan should sit in my room, where I could see him, but to stay in the bed by myself. After I got used to that, he said I should take a picture of Logan and keep it by my bed, so that if I woke up in the night alone and scared, I could look at his picture and feel safer. The hard part about that idea had been to get a picture of Logan where he wasn't scowling at the camera.

I let out a sigh as I looked up at him in my doorway. My breathing had finally gotten back under control, but I was still a little shaky.

"Yeah, I want you to stay," I said.

He moved from the doorway and stepped fully into my room. He pushed my door to, but didn't close it all the way. A line of light spilled in through the crack and fell across the floor. We had moved one of the chairs from the dining room into my room so that he could sit beside me when I needed him. And that's where he sat.

I lay back down in bed and looked over at him. "Was it a bad one?" he asked, referring to my vision.

"Well," I said, turning on my side towards him, "it wasn't a good one."

He gave me a smile in the dark and I smiled back. "You just gotta remember they ain't hurtin' me anymore."

"I know."

For nearly two years I had been having visions of Logan from when he was tortured some twenty odd years before. When they first started, I didn't know he was my father. I just knew he was different than anyone else I had ever seen. And I couldn't get him out of my head. So I found him. After two months of being gone and getting to know him, I found out who he was and everything finally made sense. When I moved to the school, the Professor helped me to understand my mutation and while he explained how it worked, he told me that Logan's mind and mine were linked together far closer than anyone else's he had ever seen. As a result of that, he could sometimes see what I had seen. He had relived many of his own nightmares by looking into my eyes and seeing my visions. But I tried to protect him from them as much as possible.

"Hey Logan?"

"Yeah baby?" he said, trying to settle into his chair.

"I've been thinking."

"Is it the kind of thinkin' that leads to me spendin' money?"

"Not really."

"Alright then, go on."

"Well, I was thinking, I know we were planning on staying here until the end of the week, but maybe we could leave sooner."

He cocked his head to the side and raised his eyebrow at me. "I thought earlier tonight you didn't want to go back? Why do you wanna leave sooner now?"

"Well, that's the part I was thinking about. I thought I might as well get it over with, you know? Face my fear head on kind of thing."

"You sure? 'Cause we can stay here 'til Friday."

"Yeah, but today's Wednesday, so if we leave today, or in the morning rather, we can get home before Friday," I said. "I mean, if you don't mind leaving a little early?"

He let out a laugh. "Yeah, I'm gonna mind leavin' the beach," he said sarcastically. "I'm not exactly the sand and ocean kind'a person, darlin', it ain't gonna bother me one bit if we leave tomorrow."

I smiled at him. "Thank you."

He smiled back and gave me a wink. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Now go to sleep. I'll be right here for now."

"Okay. Goodnight…again."

He shook his head, but kept smiling. "Yeah, night."

All of my life all I wanted was one person I could connect with. But for eighteen years, I never had it. And because of that, I felt alone. It wasn't until I met Logan that I realized what I had been missing. We were in no means perfect, both of us had our own personal flaws, and faults, and quirks. But together…together we made sense. And I knew that as long as he was with my somehow, I could make it through anything. I could face my greatest fears. I could fight my own monsters.