Last Summer

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  He smirks, but the full effect doesn’t appear on the rest of his face. “Long story, but the gist is that I’d like to see my little brother again.”

  “Does he live here?”

  “Nearby.”

  I cross my arms. “Well, that’s a good starting point.”

  He looks at me, then, like he can see straight through to my soul. “Why are you doing this for me? I mean, what’s it to you?”

  I should ask myself this question a hundred times over before ever agreeing to anything, but the truth of the matter is I feel sorry for the guy. If it were me, if I were down on my luck and holing up in dingy, abandoned houses, I’d be grateful for somebody’s help. Grateful, but leery.

  “I just wanted something to look forward to this summer,” I say, laughing nervously. “Tag. You’re it, I guess.”

  He observes me. “So, how does this work, anyway?”

  “Not really sure, but we can, maybe, take it a day at a time?” Crap. That sounds like I’m asking for his approval, which is the exact opposite of what I should be doing for someone in this situation. He needs somebody who will guide him in the right direction, somebody who has soft-yet-firm principles on how to manage his lifestyle. Somebody who knows what the hell they’re doing.

  “You have no idea,” he states flatly.

  “I have a general idea. That doesn’t mean I mapped out everything; it just means I have a good starting point.”

  He cocks one eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that?”

  “Well, first, you need to hand over whatever drugs you have left.” I stick out my hand, palm up.

  His eyes rake over my arm and all the way up to my face, hesitating. This wasn’t how I pictured this situation unfolding. In my dream world, this strange boy would admit he has a problem and conquer his deepest, darkest fears by gladly handing over the last of his supply, thanking me in the process. Okay, it’s a bit far-fetched, but it’s a start, right?

  “Nu-uh. No way. Not gonna happen,” he responds. “You can’t just take my shit.”

  I almost chuckle. “You’re really paranoid about people confiscating your belongings, aren’t you?”

  Daggers virtually shoot from his eyeballs.

  “Look, I don’t want to touch anything that you own; I just want to help,” I persist. “And the first step, I think, is wrecking your stash. Then, we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

  “Horrible! You can’t just take things from me and expect me to be okay with it. Because that’s just it—it’s not okay. If this is all you’ve thought of to help me, then don’t bother. I can find help—real help—elsewhere.” He stomps off in the direction he normally takes, one that I’m becoming quite familiar with.

  “Fine,” I call behind him. “Leave like you always do, because that’s really going to aid your dilemma. I’m sure it makes the pain go away, too. Maybe even acts as an emotional crutch when you need it most.”

  That stops him dead in his tracks. He then backs up a couple of steps and turns toward me, advancing. The look in his eyes burns with fury. Rage. Before I run the other way, he reaches out and seizes my slender arm. I struggle to wrench myself out of his grasp, but it’s too tight.

  He leans in, so close to me his breath warms my nose, and says through gritted teeth, “They provide none of the above, permanently. Temporarily, yes. It’s an escape, a place I seek when my problems become too much. You have no idea what it’s like. You live here, in your precious lake-side cottage, with the perfect family and the perfect life, while I’m struggling to live. Don’t pretend you care. You don’t know how.”

  My eyes sting with unwanted tears and it takes great effort to restrain them. This is definitely not how I dreamt this conversation. “You’re wrong,” I say, still attempting to worm my way out of his grip and steady my trembling voice, “on so many levels. My life is as far from perfect as it gets, and it’s crumbled into nothing more than dirt.” My courage falters, so I hurry to recapture it. “I have an escape, too, something that doesn’t require injecting volatile substances and harming those who care for me. If I can do it, so can you.”

  “Oh, really? What’s that, listening to music in your iPod, maybe even watching romantic comedies in the comfort of your home, cuddled up against your boyfriend?”

  “No.” Choosing not to inform him I haven’t had a boyfriend since, oh, never, I reply, “I like to run.”

  This poor, poor boy. What has life done to you? Not only does he not trust me, but he’s scared I’ll take his belongings, and he’s under the assumption my life is perfect. Maybe my family gives off that vibe, but the truth is that my parents will probably sell the summer house once they divorce. The truth is I’ll probably never return to Sandy Shores due to the painful memories that occurred here. The truth is I don’t know what happens next, and I’m terrified.

  And damn it if I don’t sniffle, totally giving away my emotions. You betrayed me, body and mind! He releases his hold. Still within arm’s reach, he cautiously searches my face, his gaze roving all over, from eyes to nose to lips . . .

  I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes. “Okay, so we don’t really trust each other yet. That’s fine, but how can we change?” Stealing a glance up at him, I notice his features are less severe.

  “I don’t know,” he says finally, looking even more distraught, like it pains him to speak about this. Like he doesn’t really want my help.

  Wiping my eyes, I say, “Well, I think we need to figure out the basics: where you’re staying, when to meet up, stuff we can mutually agree on. I don’t want this to be one-sided.” Please, please, please don’t back out of this.

  “I can do the basics, I guess.” Surprisingly, he extends his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Logan.”

  A gradual smile crosses my mouth. Maybe he isn’t a lost cause, after all. “Hi, Logan. I’m Chloe.”

  The truth is . . . I don’t want to be alone anymore.

  Five • Chloe

  “Tell me about what you were like before,” I say, plucking blades of grass and tossing them at the water.

  “Before?” Logan’s lain back, resting on his elbows. We’ve been sitting for hours, waiting on the moon to rise and cast its pearlescent glow on the lake. Ripples steadily lap against the shore.

  “Yeah. Like, what did you do before you . . . before you ended up like, you know . . .?”

  “This?” he finishes, smoothly waving at himself.

  I nod.

  “I played football, mostly. Quarterback.” He stares straight ahead, his face a blank canvas in which I want to paint a smile, or any emotion. “My dad always pushed me to be the best quarterback our town had seen in years. But the more pressure he and my coaches applied, the more I struggled, and the more I failed. My arm gave out mid-season—tore my rotator cuff—and I was out just like that.” He snaps his fingers once for emphasis. “After I was benched, some of my fellow teammates said they had a miracle cure for the pain. They told me if I started taking morphine, I’d be back to normal in no time at all, that I’d be playing again before the season was over.” He shakes his head, brusquely exhaling. “You see what good that did.”

  “And you blame them for getting you hooked?”

  “I blame them, I blame my father, I blame my coaches—the list goes on and on.”

  “But not yourself?”

  He snaps his head in my direction, his face warping in irritation. “Of course not. How was I supposed to know I’d become addicted to the one thing they promised would help my situation?”

  I ignore his outburst, figuring he doesn’t need somebody to argue with; he needs somebody who will listen. “So, tell me, is morphine what you’re addicted to now?”

  His body relaxes a little, as do his features. “No.”

  I wait and wait and wait for more information, but he doesn’t deliver. God knows I don’t want to get him riled up again. If there’s one thing Logan needs besides rehab, it’s anger management.

  “I’ve got to head out.
If your parents weren’t worried about you earlier, they probably are now,” he says.

  “Doubt it.” We spend a moment in silence. “When will I see you again?” I’m surprised at how my voice barely registers.

  “I’ll stop by in the next couple of days, or something.” He shrugs.

  Ouch. He’s obviously not impressed with my rehabilitation skills.

  We stand and awkwardly gaze at each other, unsure how to say goodbye.

  “Until next time,” I say.

  “Yep. See ya.”

  As I watch him walk in the opposite direction, I can’t help but mentally fist pump and pat myself on the back. Though it doesn’t seem like I got very far, some deeper part of me shrieks, Yes, you did! Not only did I learn his name, but he also gave me a little glimpse of his world, why he turned out the way he is. That’s something, right?

  Back home, Mom’s passed out on the couch and the TV screen casts eerie flashes across the walls in the living room.

  “C’mon,” I say, pulling the throw off her. “Let’s get you tucked in.”

  She shakes her head, still asleep. “He has to be there. He has to.” Her words trail off into nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

  I frown. “Who? Dad?”

  Just the mention of him brings a smile to her face, even while she’s dreaming.

  “Okay, Mom. He’s waiting for you in bed. Let’s get you upstairs.” Truth is . . . it’s very unlikely my father is waiting on my mom. He’s probably out painting the town and won’t be back until tomorrow. Nevertheless, I loop Mom’s arm around my neck and pull her up. She’s dead weight as I help her to the master suite, and we both stumble twice on the staircase. But once we reach her bedroom, she easily collapses on the mattress. I pull the comforter and sheet down then up, tucking her in.

  And I was right—Dad’s not here.

  “Night, Mom. Sleep well,” I whisper.

  She mumbles incoherently.

  Downstairs, I rummage through the refrigerator, settling on bottled water and a bag of cheese cubes. As I meander to the couch, the knob on the front door rattles. Keys jingle on the opposite side. Let’s hope I don’t have to help his drunken ass to bed, too—that would be the proverbial icing on top of the babysitting cake.

  “Oh, uh . . . hey, pumpkin,” says Dad, who doesn’t look half as smashed as I thought he would.

  “Late night at the office?” I finally sit down, snatching the remote from the arm of the couch, and flip through TV channels. This late, nothing’s on, but it gives me something to do, as opposed to looking my dad in the eye.

  “No, uh, just out with Dan. Catching up and stuff.”

  Jeez, can you lay off the stammering a little? It almost makes you, you know, sound like a liar.

  “That’s cool.”

  “Is your mother in bed?”

  Keeping my eyes fixed on the TV screen, I reply, “Yes, Dad, your wife is in bed.”

  He’s immobile on the foyer. “So, uh, I take it she’s had another one of her nights?”

  This time, I glare at him, hoping he’ll get the message. “Of course she had one of her nights. But what do you expect when her husband does everything he can to avoid her?”

  “That’s not true,” he says, stepping a few feet forward. “It’s just . . . your mother and I . . . we’re two different people now than we were twenty years ago. Things change. People change. That’s a way of life, I guess.” His fingers drag through his chestnut-colored hair. Suddenly, I’m glad I inherited my mom’s blonde tresses and most of her genetics. Is that a horrible thing for me to say, because I don’t want to be associated with my dad?

  “Whatever happened to ‘till death do us part’ along with the rest of your wedding vows?” I question. “Do they mean nothing to you?”

  He progressively moves to stand behind me. Leaning over the back of the couch, I now smell the stench of beer laden on his breath, floating like a thick fog between us. “We meant every word at the time. But, until you’re married for a couple of decades, you have no idea what it’s like.”

  I swivel on the seat cushion. “So, tell me what it’s like, Dad. I’m all ears. Tell me . . . Is it absolutely horrifying, loving somebody until your bones ache, because you feel that deeply for them? Or maybe it was horrible because you two were so young when you had me and things were just never the same again.” Oh, no. Word vomit is about to detonate in T-minus 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . “Or maybe it’s because you didn’t love her enough and that’s why you’re having an affair!” God, I’ve done it now.

  Dad looks like I slapped him—not once, but possibly three or four times. “How’d you . . .” he trails off. “You know, then?”

  “Dad, seriously, I wasn’t born yesterday, and it’s not like you’re double-oh-seven about it, either. The worst part? I’m positive Mom knows, too. So you’re basically contributing to her drinking problem. Way to go. You deserve a freaking cookie.”

  “You listen to me, young lady.” He growls, latching onto my arm and squeezing a bit too hard. “You don’t know anything. And don’t ever speak to me like that again, not under my roof!”

  It’s the alcohol speaking, because my dad has never grabbed me before. “Let go!” I screech, which only makes his fingers dig in harder.

  “You don’t disrespect me, and you don’t disrespect your mother, you hear me? I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget, so help me . . .” He tugs me over the back of the couch and drops me onto the floor with a loud thwack. I attempt to scurry away, like a rat looking for a hiding place, but he grabs my ankles and pulls me toward him.

  Tiny pinpricks stab my eyes as tears begin to form. I’m not sure what’s worse—the mental pain of my dad being so callous, or the physical pain he’s causing my body. Or is it fear? Fear of the unknown.

  “Get your hands off her, you son of a bitch!” Mom shouts from the top of the stairs.

  Dad glances from Mom to his hands, like he’s grown an extra finger on each, and then frees me from his bond. “I—I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry, Chloe,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief.

  Mom bounds down the stairs—a little clumsily in her condition—with a baseball bat attached to one hand and a violent look in her eyes. “You sick bastard. How dare you!”

  It’s then I realize how soaking wet my face is. Managing to slip out, I make it to the kitchen before I crumple into a heap on the floor. Mom and Dad’s vicious screams wage back and forth across the room. I curl up into a tight ball, pulling my knees to my chin, and sob like a small child.

  How could he? I’ve always read about domestic situations, but never dreamed my own father would pull a stunt like this. He was always the supportive type, the one who took my side more than Mom. But now? He’s a shadow of the man I thought he was. A ghost of what he could’ve been. Cheating and alcohol will do that to a person, I guess.

  The front door slams shut, rattling the house. Mom’s at my side, soothing me, cooing in my ear, “Everything will be all right, sweetie. You and I are going to be all right.”

  “Will we, Mom?” I want to say, but the words suffocate in my throat, lost forever.

  Her hand smoothes my hair over and over again. Eventually, she coaxes me to my bedroom, where this time, she’s the one tucking me in.

  “I’m going to make everything all right, baby. I promise.” And with that, she leaves.

  There’s a tug in my mind, pushing a thought forward, explaining I bring nothing but bad luck, that I might be the worst person in the world. I can’t help my parents. I can’t help Logan. Right now, I can’t even help myself. So, I cry.

  And cry and cry and cry.

  Six • Logan

  Well, that didn’t go nearly as bad as I expected. She’s likeable. Cute. She does this thing with her nose where it scrunches up, and I’m convinced she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. She definitely hasn’t figured me out, which is a good thing—because the moment I let her in is the moment my whole charade is up. I can’t let her get cl
ose; I’m practically plagued.

  My plan is to let this girl have some fun this summer, since it’s obvious she doesn’t have any friends here. Once she returns home, I’ll go back to being me, and she’ll forget I ever existed. Easy enough, right?

  Except, for whatever reason, I can’t stop thinking about her changing me.

  My mind is a traitor: So what if she changes you? Let her.

  But that’s not how it’s supposed to work, I think. She has a life of her own somewhere else and can’t be bothered by me. Once upon a time, she and I would’ve been a perfect match: cute blonde dating the all-American quarterback.

  But that was before.

  And, from what it sounded like, she’s got enough problems on her plate without dealing with mine, too. She’s not equipped to handle all the shitty baggage I carry, so there’s absolutely no reason for her to get involved more than she should. Which is why I continue to revert to my original plan, the one my mind fights against.

  Walking back to Bernie’s, I decide to take a detour. Maybe if I stick to back roads and forgotten alleyways, Big P and his thugs won’t find me. I snort. Yeah, right. Sometimes I wonder if those guys have a special honing device with my name on it.

  I pass by the intersection I ran through earlier to escape from B and Ice. The day crowd has thinned out, and the night crowd is moving in on their territory. Loud music blares from too many speakers, pulsing tunes so hard it vibrates car frames. Girls sex up their look with heavy makeup and barely-there clothing. Guys wear sunglasses . . . at night. Cool, bro. Really fucking badass. I feel sorry for anyone else stuck in that mix; they don’t know what they’re getting themselves into. It’s a maze of teenagers and college-aged kids with suped-up, low-riding vehicles their parents doled out money for because their child was too damn busy acting cool instead of getting a job.

  There’s a word for these kids: wannabes.

  And if a crisis ever occurred, their parents would be the first people they call.

  I shake my head, my hair swishing at eye level. Thank God my parents didn’t leave a silver spoon anywhere near my mouth, because if they did, I’d be hanging out with the likes of those dudes behind me.