Logan - a Preston Brothers Novel: A More Than Series Spin-Off

by Jay McLean

  I stop to stare at him, to look right in his eyes. We’ve spent enough time together that I know his traits, his downfalls. His eyebrows rise when he lies, and as soon as he’s done, he chews his bottom lip, like he’s doing right now. I should call him out on it, but what would be the point? Instead, I laugh under my breath and shake my head, “Welcome to my world.”

  Lachlan says, looking up at me, “So does that mean I can quit school, too?”

  “No,” Lucy, Leo and I say in unison.

  Lachlan’s laughter fills my ears, my heart.

  Once we’re out of the airport, I stop to breathe in fresh air as if I’d been locked away for years. Someone calls my name, and I turn to see Courtney. She hands me a piece of paper—her number—and says, “You should call me. Maybe we can get together sometime.”

  I take her number, shove it deep in my pocket. I won’t be using it. Won’t be needing it. “I’m really not looking to get involved right now,” I tell her.

  Besides, my heart isn’t really mine to give away…

  Leo drives back home, Lachlan in the front seat, Lucy and me in the back. When we get to town, my gaze searches—scarlet—and my mind wonders—scarlet—and I turn to Lucy, my eyes pleading. Her frown gives me the answer before her words do: “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, shaking her head. “She’s gone, Logan.”

  My family is all waiting for me on the front porch when we get to the house. I smile when I see them. Lucy grasps my arm, squeezes once. Leo turns to me. “Welcome home, little brother. We missed you something fierce.”

  I try to hold back on my emotions through every hug from all my siblings, through their words of encouragement and pride that humble my heart. I keep it together for as long as I can, but when I’m standing in Dad’s office, alone with the man who’s believed in me beyond words, beyond reason, and I look into his eyes—eyes filled with tears, I break. I fall apart in his arms—arms of pure strength—and I grasp on to the back his t-shirt, apologize for everything I’ve put him through. He keeps his hold tight, unwavering, and I am six years old…

  I am six years old and I’m lying in bed, terrified, the blankets pulled to my chin. I stare at the strip of light under the bedroom door, my eyes widening when I hear the sound…

  Fee-fi-fo-fum…

  A second later, the door opens, and Dad pokes his head inside. “I knew you’d be awake.”

  “How did you know? I ask.

  The mattress dips when he sits on the end of the bed. “Lucas shouldn’t have shown you the movie with the scary clown.”

  “I not scared!” I shout, lying through my teeth.

  “Oh, I know,” he says, his voice low so he doesn’t wake the other kids. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  I nod, start to get out of the covers. “You can tell me anything.”

  He dips his head, his mouth to my ear. “I’m scared, Logan. And I knew you’d be awake because you’d know that, and you’d worry about me. Right?”

  I settle my hand on his huge leg. Nodding, I say, “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m here now.”

  “But… I’m still scared.”

  So am I, I don’t say. Because I want so badly to be just like him: brave and strong. “What can we do to make you feel better?”

  His eyes wide, he asks, “Can you come downstairs with me… maybe eat a bowl of cereal?”

  “I can pour the milk!”

  On his shoulders, I giggle all the way out of the room and down the stairs, where it’s completely silent besides the clicking of Mom’s knitting needles. She’s sitting in her chair, her fingers moving but her eyes on us. “The rest of the kids are in bed,” she tells us, but she’s smiling. Not as big as I am. I don’t think anyone could ever smile as big as I am. Mom asks, scowling at us, “What are you two up to?”

  Dad helps me down from his shoulders, holds my hand in his as we walk toward the kitchen. “We’re having some quality man time.” He ruffles my hair. “Just me and my boy.”

  54

  Aubrey

  My mom doesn’t know where I live. She does, however, know where I work. So, when I get a call on the radio telling me I have a visitor at reception, I know it’s her.

  I leave my cleaning trolley outside room 302 and take the elevator down to the ground level. Mom stands a few feet from the desk, wringing her hands. She’s nervous. She should be. Whenever we’re together, things are hostile at best. When I get to her, she asks, “Have you got a break coming up?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe I can come back—”

  “No.”

  “Aubrey.”

  I drop the facade. “I’m on the clock, Mom, so I can’t really talk… what are you doing here?”

  She reaches into her bag, reveals two envelopes. “You have mail.”

  I take them from her, recognize the handwriting on both.

  Mom says, “I thought you should have them right away. They look personal. Do you know who they’re from?”

  My pulse spikes. My hands shake. “Thank you for bringing them to me,” I say. Then I turn around, shove the letters in my back pocket, and promise to keep them there until I’m home, alone, where I don’t have to hide my reaction… or my emotions.

  After work, I go straight to my room, where I sit in the middle of the bed, legs crossed, drapes of white satin surrounding me. I stare down at the letters, trying to decide which one to read first or if I should read them at all.

  One is addressed to Aubrey O’Sullivan.

  The other: Miss Red.

  I pick up the letter from Logan, hold it to my heart, then to my ear. I shake it. I’ve known that there was something more than just paper in there since the second Mom handed it to me. Curiosity filled my mind the entire day. Fear filled my heart.

  “Just do it, Aubrey,” I whisper to myself, my eyes closing. I unseal the envelope and reach inside. Metal. Cold. My eyes snap open, and I empty the contents onto my palm. I hold the flattened penny under my nose, my eyes widening when I read the words etched into the metal, etched into my soul: You + Me.

  Dear Aubrey,

  I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I don’t think I realized until too late that my actions and mistakes have consequences on anyone other than just myself. The past seventy-two hours in this hospital room have helped me see that. My family—they’ve helped me through it. I don’t know who’s helping you, but I hope someone is. And I hope that someone is there to help you realize that you’re a victim in this, too. Maybe not in the same way I was, but still… you are. And there’s nothing wrong with feeling that.

  Lucy and Amanda, my therapist, have found a treatment center for me to attend. It’s in Florida. Apparently, I won’t be able to call or write or keep in touch with anyone besides Lucy. I don’t know if that’s something you expect or even something you want. For me, I’d like to know that you’re doing okay. Selfishly, I’d like to think that you’ll think of me sometimes and wonder the same. Even more selfishly, I’d like to believe that you’ll never stop loving me. Because as hard as I’ve tried, as much as I’ve fought it, I’m still crazy in love with you, Aubrey. And I don’t know what that means or if there’s anything I can do about it.

  I’m going to be taking this letter with me to the treatment center. My therapist says I can use it as a journal to look back on my progress. If I send it to you, it won’t be until after I get out. If I send it to you, it means that I want you to read it.

  It’s been two weeks, and I want nothing more than to see you. Or to call you. I’d give anything just to hear your voice. The detox is killing me, the rehab… I don’t even know. I think the worst part, though, is the therapy. There’s so much of it so many times a day, and right now, I feel like all it’s doing is making me face my mistakes. Every day, the people here are trying to force me to come to terms with all the events that led me to where I am now. I wish I could say that it’s been easy, that the path was written before I knew there was a path…

  While talking about it all, I rea
lized that you—you probably have no idea what happened, what set it off, what triggered all of this.

  On the day I left you, there was a letter in the mailbox. It was a police report with your father’s name on it… a kid had come forward, someone I didn’t know… I didn’t read the whole thing, but just enough. His name—your dad’s—made my skin crawl. I thought that was bad enough, but then I flipped the page over and there you were… hair too red and too wild and missing teeth and too many freckles and you were in his arms and your mom was there and I knew… I knew who he was to you…

  You don’t have the same last name and I don’t know why.

  I thought you lied to me about it.

  I thought you knew about me.

  I thought you came into my life to ruin it like he had done.

  I thought so many things, and all I wanted was to stop thinking.

  So I went to the source of mindless thoughts, to my dealer’s house, and I suppose that’s where it started. It was a whirlwind of desperation and destruction and…

  I wasn’t lying the first time you asked me if I’d slept with someone else and I told you I don’t remember. I didn’t then.

  I do now.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be sorrier for anything in my life than I am for doing what I did. And I know it won’t make sense to you, that you won’t ever be able to forgive me, but… and this is where I get really fucking selfish, Aubrey… I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it to hurt myself.

  And I sit here in this empty room, and I picture you in your kitchen… the way you were… the way I destroyed you… and I realize that it was never about me.

  Because you + me, we were never about just me.

  And now it’s too little too late, but I’m sorry anyway.

  Aubrey,

  I started group therapy today. We were supposed to talk about one thing we looked forward to when all of this was over. People were talking about their kids, about holding them, loving them. I talked about our very first night together. It felt pathetic in comparison, but those people—they don’t know…

  All it took was one girl.

  One night.

  For you to ask yourself one question.

  I showed you what was beneath the bravado that night.

  And you fell in love with me because of it.

  Now I’m in my room again, and I can’t stop thinking about you.

  Strands of scarlet wrapped around my fingers, and I lifted my gaze to your green-green eyes. The warmth of your nakedness coated my skin, and your forearms pressed down on my chest, your toes tickling my legs. My fingers crawled up and down your spine as the morning light bled through your bedroom window, turning scarlet to sunshine. “I like your bed, Red,” I told you.

  You looked around. “Yeah?”

  “I like the drapes, the way they surround us like this. Like there’s nothing and no one else. It’s just us, in our own little bubble. In our own little world.”

  You smiled at me, the freckles on your nose shifting with the movement. Your fingers toyed with the lucky penny hanging around my neck, and you said, “Maybe you got this wrong…”

  “The penny?”

  You nodded. “Maybe it wasn’t about you finding luck, Logan. Maybe you are the luck. Maybe… maybe it’s meant for the person who finds you. Because I found you, and I feel pretty damn lucky that I did.”

  I bit down on my lip, moved the hair from your eyes, and kissed the tip of your nose. You caught my lips with yours. Kissed me once. Then you settled your head on my chest. “I feel like I was destined to find you,” you murmured.

  My fingers paused on your spine. “I feel like you were destined to save me.”

  Aubrey,

  I’ve been here for two months now, and every day this letter sits folded in my pocket. Every day, I read it. Every day, I realize that nothing’s changed. I don’t know if that’s progress. I don’t know what it means. All I know is that I think about you all day. I dream about you all night. I wake up, and you’re the first and only thing on my mind. My pillows don’t smell like you, and I hate that they don’t.

  I’m going to stay, Red. I’m going to stay for you, for my family, and maybe even a little for me. Because I don’t want to fail anyone. I don’t want to fail you, Aubrey.

  Red,

  I made you a penny.

  It’s not a lucky penny.

  It’s a penny filled with hope.

  My hope.

  You + Me.

  55

  Logan

  I stand on the marble floors, my finger itching at the space between my collar and my neck. I’m in a suit and tie, and I feel like a jackhole. Probably look like one, too. “Tell me again why I’m dressed like this?” I ask Dad, but he’s too busy talking with Cameron about the architecture and age of the building.

  Lucy rolls her eyes at them and stands in front of me. Her belly presses against my leg when she reaches up to adjust my tie. “Quit messing around with it. And you’re dressed like this because… because I don’t know why. But it’s a big deal for Lachlan, so suck it up, Princess Asshole.”

  We’re standing in the foyer of St. Luke’s Academy, the only private school within a fifty-mile radius, waiting to get into the theater. During the four months I’d been gone, Lachlan’s started entering some art contests. He’s been doing as well with his art as he does with his running. This contest, according to Lachlan, is his most important one yet. He submitted his own work—work no one in the family has seen—and it made the final cut. Tonight, they announce the winner.

  Lachlan’s already in the theater, on his own, getting judged. They do this in private because, and this is crazy, the organization fears that parents will sabotage the competitions’ pieces. I can’t even deal with how ridiculous that is. I stare down at Lucy, still fiddling with my tie. “Can you not be an annoying, over-the-top parent?”

  The door to the theater opens before she can respond, and all the guests form a line to file through one by one. “The tickets are allocated seats,” Dad says over his shoulder. “Lachlan arranged them.” He stops by the door to reach into his pocket and pull out a wad of tickets the size of my head. He starts rambling off our names, one by one, handing us the tickets with our names written in blue pen. “Lucy, Cameron, Lucas, Laney, Leo, Lincoln, Liam.”

  Behind us, people start complaining that we’re holding up the line. Lucy glares. “Would you chill the fuck out?”

  The asshole behind me says, “Nice. You plan on kissing your baby with that filthy mouth, sweetheart?”

  If you ever want to see the fear in a man’s eyes from the threats of six men over six feet tall, get him to say something shitty to the men’s daughter/sister/wife. I step forward, “Say that again.”

  Dad takes my arm. “Forget him. Here’s your ticket.”

  A woman mumbles, “Damn Preston Punks.”

  Lucy yells, “Whore!”

  And then we’re being ushered to our row, a discombobulation of bodies all trying to find their allocated seats.

  “Ten minutes until it starts,” Dad says, sitting down next to me. “Let’s try not to get into any verbal or physical altercations, okay?”

  I stand to remove my jacket, loosen my tie. Too many people. Too little space. I feel like I’m suffocating. Luckily, the seat next to mine, an aisle seat, is empty. I hope it stays that way.

  Fifteen minutes later, the lights dim. A few minutes after that, Lachlan, along with five other kids, walks onto the stage. It takes a few seconds for my family and me to realize that we’re the only ones standing and clapping. So… this is nothing like Lachlan’s track meets. Noted.

  An old man with a gray beard waits for us to be seated before adjusting the microphone on a podium. “Welcome to The Fifteenth Annual—”

  The door to the theater opens, shuts, the sound echoing through the room. The old man sighs into the microphone. “We’re on a schedule here, young lady.”

  Lucy, on the other side of Dad, whispers, “Someone shou
ld really remove the pole up this guy’s ass.”

  Dad shakes his head.

  I push his elbow off the armrest. “That’ll be you in a few years, grumpy old man.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  “Hey, Luce,” I whisper yell and wait for her to lean forward, past Dad, to look at me. “Should we start planning Chicken’s third birthday party?”

  Dad grumbles.

  I laugh.

  The woman in front of me turns, glares, tells us to pipe down.

  Lucy opens her mouth to retort, but stops, her eyes wide and focused on something behind me. “Oh, my God…”

  I look over my shoulder.

  Scarlet.

  Upon scarlet.

  Upon scarlet.

  56

  Aubrey

  The other letter my mother had given me included a ticket and single flier with three words written in bright red marker.

  The flyer was for an art contest, and Lachlan’s name was listed as one of the finalists. I told myself I wouldn’t go, that it would hurt too much, that nothing good could possibly come of it. I was still telling myself that on the three-hour drive here. When I got here, I’d sat in my car, watched each and every one of the Prestons, people I’d once considered my family, enter the parking lot, get out of their cars, meet by the front door, and walk into the building together. I stayed in my car, tried to convince myself not to come in. But then I looked at the flier again, the invite from a little boy who owns a piece of my soul and the words he’d written… the only three words he knew he’d need to get me here:

  Please, Miss Red?

  And now I’m here, sitting next to a boy who owns every piece of my heart, and I struggle to breathe. Struggle to keep my emotions in check. If I’d known I’d be sitting next to him, I would’ve stayed by the door, watched it from a distance.