More Than Him

by Jay McLean

  A knock on the window caused me to jump out of my skin. I held my hand to my heart, and turned to see a familiar face.

  He knocked again.

  I should’ve expected to see him; we were parked out the front of his practice. I wound down the window.

  "Hey, Amanda," he said. Then rubbed the scruff of his beard with the back of his fingers. "You got a minute? I’d like to have a quick word, if that’s okay?"

  It could only be about one thing, and for a second, I hesitated. But I wouldn’t let this ruin what I’d spent months trying to build. "Sure." I smiled at him and got out of the car.

  He motioned for me to sit on a bench a few feet away. The cool metal chilled the back of my thighs when I sat. "How have you been, Dr. Matthews?"

  "You know to call me Alan, Amanda."

  I giggled. "How have you been, Alan?"

  He blew out a breath, his smile completely gone. "I’ve been better." He cleared his throat. "That’s actually why I wanted to speak to you."

  My eyebrows drew in. "What do you mean?"

  He took my hand in both of his. I let him. I swallowed down my emotions and blinked back the tears. I don’t know how he’d suddenly made me feel like this.

  "I owe you an apology—"

  I opened my mouth to interrupt, but he lifted his hand to stop me. "Please, sweetheart," he said. "I need to apologize to you. Logan—"

  My breath caught. My insides turned to cement. His name alone still had the power to ruin me.

  "He was in a bad way after what happened to you. And even though it happened to him, too, he never saw it like that. All he ever saw was you. He blamed himself. He thought it was his fault that it happened. And he thought that if you hadn’t of met him . . . well . . ." He let out all the air in his lungs. Then he looked at me, right into my eyes.

  Blinking, I let a tear drop.

  "I thought I was helping him. It was my idea for him to leave and travel. I thought that maybe it would help him if he saw things differently . . . but hell, I never even thought about you."

  I let the dam break; let it shatter into a pool of contained emotions.

  "And I’m sorry," he continued. "I’m sorry that he’s gone."

  "Please," I managed to say, trying to stop him from continuing. I wiped my face. "I appreciate what you’re saying, I really do, but you’re not the one that should be apologizing."

  He nodded. "Do you want to know about him?"

  "No," I said quickly. "I can’t."

  "Okay."

  He removed his hands from mine and leaned back on the bench, and I mimicked his position. We stared straight ahead.

  "You know," he said, his tone a little lighter. "When he left for college, it started to get real lonely in that big old house, but he would come by and visit on weekends. Now, though—I miss him."

  I swallowed the knot in my throat. "Yeah." I did, too. But I wasn’t going to admit that to anyone.

  He laughed once. "I looked up Taco Casserole recipes on the internet."

  I smiled. "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," he replied. "Mine came out black, though."

  I laughed, that awkward crying-type laugh.

  "Just saying—if you ever feel the need to make it, and want to visit a lonely old man in a big empty house, the invitation is there."

  I tuned my head to face him. "Maybe."

  "There you are!" Tyson’s voice came from behind me, interrupting us.

  I stood up, and so did Alan. I waited until he was next to me before I made the introductions. "Um, this is Tyson." I pointed my thumb at him. "Tyson, this is Dr. Matthews." I felt Tyson tense.

  They shook hands.

  Alan smiled, and then faced me. "The invitation will always stand, pretty girl."

  5

  "I swear Mom loves Tyson more than her own kids." Ethan stood next to me while Mom gushed all over Ty.

  "Oh, my," she swooned. "You've gotten so damn handsome."

  I smiled. It was true; he had. I didn't miss the look she gave me over his shoulder while she was hugging him.

  "Well," Tyson started. "You haven't changed a bit. I swear you and Dimmy could be sisters."

  I snorted at the same time as Ethan scoffed, "Lame." Mom smiled warmly at me.

  While Ethan looked every bit like Dad, I was a fine mix between the two. Dad was Mexican, and Ethan got all his dark features: his dark skin, hair and eyes. Mom was almost the opposite. She had fair skin and natural blonde hair; and her eyes were the color of the ocean. She did look younger than her years, and even after everything she'd been through, it hadn't affected her looks.

  "So, when do we get to meet this asshole?" Ethan joked.

  Mom laughed at him. "Soon."

  Scott, his name was.

  Dinner went smoothly. He even managed to keep up with Ethan's fifty questions. Ethan played the overprotective son perfectly. I think Scott found it more amusing than anything else, but he hid it, and treated Ethan with the respect he seemed to think he deserved.

  Tyson sat next to me and occasionally nudged my leg. It was this stupid game we’d played when we’d dated. Back then, it started with nudges on the leg, and eventually it had turned to him trying to sneak his hand up my thigh.

  He didn't do that tonight.

  After Scott and Mom retired to the living room to watch TV, we went up to my room. Ethan had a date; he wouldn't say with whom. Alexis also had a date that night. Funny how that happens.

  "Am I sleeping in here?" Tyson asked, walking around my room. He was taking everything in; like it had changed since the last time he'd seen it.

  "I don't know, I didn't really think about it. I mean, I'm fine sharing a bed if you are."

  He looked at the bed, and then at me. A slow smirk pulled on his lips. "Hey, remember that time . . ." He walked over to the bed and sat on it. "We snuck here after school once. The first time we fooled around was right here—on this bed."

  I nodded, biting my lip. I remembered.

  He leaned in closer. "Shit, it was good times. You were so responsive, too."

  "Tyson," I warned. We were about to go somewhere I didn't want to be.

  He just nodded and cleared his throat. "I'm glad I was your first," he said, removing his socks and jeans. "That way you'll always remember me." He took off his shirt and stood in nothing but his boxer shorts.

  I looked away.

  I waited for him to get into bed before switching off the light on the nightstand. "So does that mean you can easily forget me?" I asked him. I knew I wasn't Tyson's first. He was two years older, and had been open about the fact that he'd dated and slept with other girls before me. We never got into the specifics of it. I didn't want to know. Some girls may have wanted a list of names and locations, but I was happy being naive.

  He laughed quietly. "No, Dim." He rested his hand on my stomach. "I'd never be able to forget you. I don't think any guy would be able to forget you."

  I wondered for a second if Logan had forgotten about me. It'd been months.

  "Trust me," he said, pulling me from my thoughts. "He hasn't either."

  I turned to my side to face him, causing his hand to wrap around my waist. "Why are you so nice to me? I mean—you don't need to be. I was horrible to you. I treated you so badly, and you still talk to me. You still care about me. Why?"

  He pulled me closer to him. "I don't know. I'm not going to lie, it really hurt—what you did to me, but I guess I learned to accept it. Truth is, I'm always going to care about you. You're my best friend, Dim. Shit things happened to you, and you just keep getting up and fighting. You could've easily turned the other way. You could've shut everyone out and let that consume you, but you haven't. And I admire that. I admire you. In fact, I'm pretty sure I love you."

  I gasped.

  "Shut up, idiot. Not like that." He laughed.

  "Oh." Relief washed through me. "Plus, I keep you around because you're easy on the eye."

  I shook with laughter and pushed him away.

  He brough
t me closer. "I'm serious, Dim. In high school, you were cute, you know? Now . . . you've gotten so fucking hot—"

  "Shut up!" I tried to pull away from him but his hand on my waist kept me there.

  "Fine," he sighed. "You want to just fool around for a bit then?"

  "Okay," I joked.

  "Yessss!" he mocked.

  We didn't fool around. We fell asleep.

  He kept his hold on me.

  And I let him.

  ***

  I went to the store the next day, got all the ingredients that I needed, put on my big girl panties and drove to his house. A part of me hoped he wouldn't be home. The other part of me wanted to see him.

  I knocked on the door. He answered almost immediately. His eyes went from my face to the bags in my hand. "Amanda, you have no idea how happy I am to see you."

  "Dr. Matth—"

  He raised his eyebrows, the gesture alone interrupting me.

  I smiled. "Alan." I jerked my head in greeting.

  He sat on the counter, like he had the first time I’d cooked for him. He didn't speak much, just watched me. He offered me a beer; I declined, opting for a soda instead.

  "Is he safe?" I asked him.

  He swallowed his mouthful of taco casserole. "Yes. He's safe."

  "Is he happy?" The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  Alan sighed, and rested his elbows on either side of his plate. "I wouldn't say he's happy . . . but he's . . . coping."

  I placed my fork on the table. "Do you speak to him often?" My voice broke.

  "He calls when he can."

  I nodded and looked down at my plate.

  He perked up. "You want to see pictures of him when he was a kid?"

  My lips lifted at the corners. "Yes," I said sheepishly.

  "He'd kill me if he found out."

  I shrugged. "He's not really here to do that, is he?"

  ***

  We brought our dinner into the living room and finished up eating in there. Alan found six photo albums and placed them on the coffee table. "I know everything is digital now," he said. "But I like to have something physical to hold, you know?"

  I smiled, remembering Logan's words. "Yeah, Logan said the same thing about CDs."

  "Really?" He smiled back at me. "He told me you said the same thing about books."

  I nodded shyly. "Did he talk about me a lot?"

  "Are you kidding?" he said. "You were all he talked about." He took his glasses off and pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and finger. "I know it doesn't mean much anymore, but he really loved you, Amanda."

  Ignoring the conversation, I picked up the first album on the pile and started flipping through it. The first picture was of him as a kid in his little league outfit. You could tell straight away that it was Logan. Even through his forced smile, his dimples still came through.

  "That's one of my favorites," Alan said. "Look at him. He was so little for his age, so skinny; not like now." He laughed once. "His clothes are hanging off him." I watched an emotion take over his face. Pride. "His hat's so big, it's almost falling over his eyes." He took the album out of my hands so he could get a better look. An envelope fell out and landed on the floor. I picked it up. "Oh no." He sounded panicked. He held out his hand and said, "You don't want to see those, darlin'."

  My eyebrows pinched in confusion.

  "They're not . . . happy pictures of him."

  "What do you mean?" I squeaked.

  He sighed and placed the album back on the table. "They're . . . uh . . . evidence."

  "Evidence?" I whispered.

  He nodded and cleared his throat. Then he lifted his eyes to meet mine, and I knew instantly what he meant.

  "Can I?" I asked.

  "Sweetheart, they're not—" He blew out a breath, a look of acceptance on his face. "Okay."

  I opened the envelope slowly and shook out the pictures, they landed face down in my hands. Taking a huge breath, I carefully flipped them over.

  I stopped breathing the same time that Alan gasped.

  This is what monsters are capable of.

  I pushed down my emotions and looked up at Alan. "This is what he was like when he was brought in?"

  Alan just shook his head, his eyes unfocused, his mind elsewhere. "He was a lot worse. That picture was taken a few hours later, after we cleaned up all the blood."

  I slowly flipped through the pictures, one by one. Each one told a different story. With each angle, each body part, I could see Logan as a kid, fading slowly with each hit. Then I got to the last one. It was different to the others; it didn't belong. He was smiling. I heard Alan laugh softly and take the picture from my hand. "He's smiling at me because I wouldn't stop laughing. You know those laughs that build up inside your belly. When you're just so damn happy that you can't contain it? It was the first time he spoke to me." He wiped his eyes and replaced his glasses.

  "What did he say?"

  "What's that, love?"

  I smiled and covered his hand with mine. "His first words to you, what did he say?"

  He sniffed once, his lips curling into a smile. "He'd just fallen off his bike. I was putting a Band-Aid on his knee and he said, ‘You're a nice doctor man. I want to be you when I grow up.'"

  My eyes went wide with surprise. "And look at him now. He's all grown up and on his way there." I tried to comfort him with my words.

  "Yeah."

  It was silent for a moment as I flipped through the horrible pictures again. "How long did it take him to speak?"

  "He didn't. Not until you showed up."

  My eyes snapped to his. "What do you mean?"

  His eyebrows drew in as he watched me. "Oh. You mean the first time? Sorry. My mind was—"

  "Wait. There was a second time?" My voice rose. I couldn't control it.

  He let out a slow breath. "Sweetheart," he hesitated a second. "After that night, with everything that happened to you, and to him, he shut down. He blocked out the world and he turned in on himself. He didn't leave the pool house; he didn't speak to anyone. He barely ate. He barely existed. He turned back into that little boy that I'd first met."

  "I'm sorry."

  "You have no need to be. That's how he copes with things. He doesn't know how to verbalize things properly. His child psychiatrist warned me about it—that it might never solve itself. She said maybe someday, something might happen, and he could turn right back around. I guess that night, when his father came back—that was someday."

  I tried to picture it in my mind—Logan, alone in that pool house, barely existing. And then I imagined me—alone in our house, barely existing. We could have barely existed together.

  "Anyway," Alan's tone brightened, "I have pictures here of when he was around thirteen. I'm pretty sure that was the age he started to believe he was God's gift to women."

  I couldn't help but laugh. "That's so Logan."

  "Yes. Yes it is." He started to flip through the albums. "There's a few where he's flexing his scrawny little muscles. He thought he was jacked."

  I threw my head back in laughter.

  "Here it is," he said handing me the album. Sure enough, there he was, flexing his nonexistent prepubescent muscles. He had that same cocky smirk I was so familiar with.

  I shook my head and ran my thumb over the picture. "This is so Logan."

  My Logan.

  So that's what we did—talked about past-Logan for the rest of the night.

  And then, somehow, I found myself cooking Taco Casserole in his kitchen every other Sunday.

  6

  I didn't do much else apart from school, work and the occasional gym session. The self-defense classes Ethan made me do were actually a blessing. I'd learned more about male genitalia than any girl needed to know—unless, of course, you're using that knowledge to battle monsters.

  I'd started running, too—on a treadmill. I never really understood running as an activity. It always kind of confused me why so many girls in books
ran. Then I read a book where the hero explained to the heroine the benefits of running—about how it releases endorphins and can make you feel. I needed to feel, so I jumped on the treadmill, and forty-five minutes later, when I finally hopped off, I felt different. Maybe it was just in my head, or maybe it really did help.

  "Will you run with me?" I turned to face Tyson on the sofa next to me. His eyes moved from the TV and slowly made their way to mine. He had a mouthful of popcorn. "What?" he said, popcorn falling out of his mouth.

  "You're such a kid. Don't talk with your mouth full."

  He swallowed. "You want me to run with you?"

  I nodded.

  He shrugged.

  The front door creaked open and banged close, and I felt Ethan behind me. He tapped me on my shoulder. When I turned to face him, he had a solemn look in his face. Then he showed me the envelope in his hand. I was confused for a second, but then I saw the international stamp, and my name on the front.

  Logan.

  I closed my bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed. My knee bounced like crazy. My hands shook. My heart pounded against my chest. Sweat built on my forehead. I inhaled deeply, and then let it out slowly. "Okay," I encouraged myself. I slowly opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

  Pretty girl,

  I don't even know where to start. You've probably heard that I've been traveling around. Dad contacted a few people, and I’m working with Doctors Without Borders. I don't know if you've heard of them, but they do a bunch of relief work all over the world. I was helping this one kid, and his mom went into labor, right in front of me. One of the doctors delivered the baby and I was there. I witnessed it all. I was the second person to hold that baby. And you’re right—what you say about them. That they’re miracles. They really are. I wanted so badly to call you after it happened, to tell you all about it. And to tell you that you should do it, become a midwife, or at least try, because it’s such an amazing feeling, and you would be so perfect for it.