Last Summer

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  “Tomorrow,” I respond. “There’s no sense in waiting. I need to get in shape, and we probably won’t have much time, anyway.”

  Puzzled, her brows crush together. “Why won’t we have time?”

  Go for the kill, heartbreaker. Do what you do best. “Because you’ll leave in a couple of months, go back to wherever it is you came from, and we won’t ever see each other again. So, that’s that. The sooner we can get this over with, the sooner I can return home and we can ‘part ways,’” I say, adding air quotes around the last bit.

  Her head jerks back slightly, but she’s quick to cover up her offended expression with a more neutral one. “All right.” She even fakes a smile.

  I nod.

  “Um,” she says, breaking our stare by glancing at her notepaper, “tomorrow it is, then. Bright and early, we’ll go running. How does that sound?”

  “Good.”

  “I’m just going to . . .” She points toward her bedroom door and smiles, partially.

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

  The door closes behind her and I want to beat the shit out of myself. How am I not going to fall for this girl over the next two months? She cute, sexy, and smart—and she has no idea she’s any of these things. I bet a guy’s never told her, either. Has she even been kissed? What if I’m her first?

  Lose the idea, Logan. It can’t happen.

  But it can happen, and that’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid that, for once in my life, I’ll accomplish something great, I won’t be a failure, and, as it always happens, that something will be ripped from my arms—and my heart, if we get that far. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from our short meetings together, it’s that my heart is definitely in trouble.

  Chloe returns with two sandwiches and two bottles of water.

  “I was trying to hurry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want Mom asking why I had two of each. Fortunately, she didn’t even look up from the TV.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yeah, so . . . I was thinking . . .”

  We sit down on her bed, and I rearrange my towel so I won’t flash her like earlier, even if that was intentional. She and I need to be able to hold a serious conversation without my junk interfering as a sideshow.

  “About what?”

  “About your sleeping situation,” she says slowly. “You don’t plan on staying in the old cottage, do you?”

  I lift my shoulders for a couple of seconds, and then let them fall. “I guess. I mean, I don’t have anywhere else to sleep.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say,” she says, in between bites of her sandwich. Her eyes dance, like she’s up to no good. “What if I asked you to stay here and sleep in my closet? There’s plenty of room.”

  I don’t know what worries me more: the fact that I’m concerned, at first, about how much closet space she has, or the fact that I don’t question staying here before I question the closet space. And if these two thoughts aren’t dire enough, I actually glance toward her closet to assess the amount of room available.

  She follows my line of sight and stands up. “Want me to open it?”

  “Nah, that’s okay.” Stay away from her, man. You guys cannot sleep under the same roof.

  “You sure? It’ll be a lot comfier than sleeping on those wooden boards.” She transfers weight from one foot to the other and clasps her hands in front. “I’m serious, Logan. Think about this. You’ll have food and water and shelter, which is better than what you’ve had for the past . . . however long you’ve been living like this.”

  I nod. “I’ll think about it, but no guarantees and no promises, got it?”

  She purses her lips and nods in return. “Got it.”

  The next thirty minutes are spent talking about our lives, how we ended up here, where we want to go. Chloe opens up regarding her past, and I tell her little regarding mine. I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want her becoming attached and then toss me aside when she finds a new toy. My mind tells me Chloe’s different; she won’t do that. The other half of me is arguing that it doesn’t matter. Once she’s gone for the summer, with the way her living situation is, she’ll be gone forever.

  She runs downstairs to get our clothes and returns with a ball of mismatched items. Separating my clothes from hers, I actually hold mine up and sniff the fresh scent; it reminds me of home. My mom always washed laundry on weekends and, after they finished drying, she’d lay them on my bed. I’ve never forgotten their aroma—warm and clean, inviting me to put them on and never take them off.

  It’s the same way now.

  Dressing in my T-shirt, boxers, and jeans, I then throw the used towel in Chloe’s laundry hamper. “Well,” I say, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.” For now, but you’ll be thinking otherwise when you don’t have any H left in your system, my mind adds.

  Climbing out the way I came in, I reach ground level and glance back up at Chloe. She smiles and waves. Not the same smile I want to see on her face, but it’s a smile. Walking back to the cottage, past the overgrown brush and underneath the sun’s heated gaze, I secretly wish I agreed to sleep in her closet.

  Nine • Chloe

  On my jog over to the cottage, the sun already blazes on my face and arms, and the tourists and locals are taking advantage of this fact by hanging out on the river. Two people zip across the water on jet skis, spraying anyone within range. A third person on a jet ski has an inner tube attached, with a girl lounging in it.

  “Ready?” I hear the man call to the girl in the oversized, black donut.

  “Ready!” she replies, followed by a screech of anticipation.

  The man takes off slowly, but eventually increases his speed, and the girl in the inner tube screams as they whiz down the lake. I grin and shake my head. Must be nice, having the luxury of spending all day on the water. I had hoped my parents would take our boat out one last time, but that’s obviously not going to happen. I’m sure Dad will sell it once their divorce is finalized.

  As I enter the cottage, I notice Logan is curled up in his usual corner, sweating profusely, hugging his knees to his chest.

  “Oh, my God. Logan? Logan!” His eyes stare past me, to nothing. Racing to him, and careful to avoid any holes in the floor, I shove him a little, just to see if he responds. As if he’s caught in slow motion, he lifts one fist, turns it palm up, and unwraps his clenched fingers.

  “Take it,” he says in a gust. “Take it and bury it somewhere so I’ll never find it.”

  I glance at the objects: two needles, a bag of I-don’t-want-to-know-what’s-in-there, a spoon, and a pipe. All items are protected with balled-up newspaper scraps, like a cushion, and placed in a plastic sandwich bag.

  He’s handing over his stash! Step one is complete. I snatch the bag from him and take off toward the woods by the cottage. Without tools to dig a hole, I’ll have to use my fingers. It’ll be worth it, though, especially if this means Logan is forever freed from his drug addiction.

  I run and run and run until I’m completely out of breath. Just in case he changes his mind and decides to follow me, I need to hurry. There are so many trees that I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back; they all look the same. I pick one, squatting down at its base and raking the soil with my fingertips. The further I tunnel into the ground, the harder and more compact the dirt becomes, which slows me down. I need Logan’s stuff to be buried forever, not someplace where hikers or a passerby will stumble across it.

  Finishing up, I pack the dirt, throw a few twigs and leaves on top, and begin walking back to the cottage. I’m worried about Logan. I’ve never seen him look like that; it must be a side effect, or he’s beginning withdrawal.

  He’s crying when I return. So much so, his cheeks are shiny from the amount of tears staining them.

  “Oh, sweetie.” I sit down, pressing my hand to his forehead. He’s burning up with a fever.

  �
��Why’d you take it, Chloe? Why?” he begs and scorns simultaneously. “You shouldn’t have taken it; you should’ve left it alone.”

  “What good would that have done?”

  “I want it baaaaaack!” he screams. Violently, he shakes his head, his shaggy hair slinging back and forth. “Back, back, back,” he repeats over and over again.

  Reality check, Chloe. This is the real deal. “You’re not getting it back, and I’m not telling you where it is. And if you continue to act this way, I’m leaving.” I stand up, but he grabs my arm, his fingernails digging into my skin. I try to yank out of his grasp, but he squeezes tighter.

  “Take me to it,” he says, his eyes filling with more tears, pooling against angry, red rims. “I made a mistake. Can I please have it back?”

  “No,” I state with finality, then wrench my arm free of him. I take off running out of the cottage, headed for my house. I don’t know why I run, other than the fact that he’s completely off his rocker right now and I’m uncertain what he’s capable of.

  He catches up, though, snatching me around my waist and pulling me to the ground. When he flips me over on my back, I flail and kick, trying to push him off. We wrestle for a matter of minutes, neither one of us truly gaining control over the other, until my limbs become weak and strained. I slap him once across the face and he growls in response, clasping my wrists and pinning them above my head as he looms over me. This brings back sore memories of my dad, which are all too recent. Of course, the experience with my dad never went far, thanks to Mom, but this is still pretty damn close.

  “Get off!” I scream.

  “Tell. Me. Where. You. Hid. It,” he articulates through gritted teeth.

  I turn my head away and, pressing my eyes shut, hold on to a tiny shard of hope that Logan will return to his former self. “Please stop,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”

  Logan doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything; he freezes.

  I roll my head so I look up at him once more. His eyes fume, like all the anger of the world is seething behind them, unrestrained.

  “Please, please,” I plea. “I’m doing this for your own good, Logan. You have to trust me.”

  Something in him shifts, like he’s finally aware of his surroundings, aware of me. The fury and wrath I witnessed just a moment ago is now gone, and is replaced by fright. “Jesus, Chloe. I’m sorry.” Freeing my wrists, he tugs me into his arms, onto his lap. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he rubs my back. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking. I’m not me.”

  “I know,” I choke out, letting a tear descend. For the first time since the incident with my dad, I want to talk to somebody about how it made me feel, about how it made me irate. “My dad attacked me the other night, so I sort of . . . froze up. I thought you might do the same.”

  Logan pushes me backward so he can look at me. “He fucking attacked you? How?”

  Shaking my head, I glance away. “He was drunk. I pissed him off. Luckily, my mom was there to stop him.” I shrug. “And that’s that.”

  “Hell no it’s not. Is that how you got the bruises on your knees?” His hands immediately slide to the bend in my legs, lightly brushing his fingertips across my skin, searing my flesh with his touch. I shiver and close my eyes, savoring the sensation. “Tell me, damn it!” He literally shakes me out of my musing.

  Hoarsely, I respond, “Yes.”

  Pressing his lips to my forehead, he makes a gruff, throaty sound. “I’m sorry that happened to you. If I could find a way to fix it, if I could knock some sense into him, I’d do it.”

  I swallow back the burning lump in my throat. “I’ll be fine. It was just . . . unexpected. He’s never done something like that before.”

  “Well, he should’ve never crossed the line, no matter how much he’d been drinking.”

  “If my mom hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  He pulls me to his chest. “I’m glad she was.” Wrapping one arm around my waist, he resumes languorous loops across my back with his fingers. “Do you know what you do to me?” he whispers against my ear, catching me by surprise.

  My heart speeds up, and my mind isn’t within reason. So, I shake my head.

  “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he goes on, “but I know if I become attached, you’ll be taken from me. Like, this is too good to be true.” He takes a few ragged breaths, and then presses his brow to mine. “Everything I’ve ever cared about has disappeared from my life. I don’t want the same to happen with you.”

  “It won’t,” I say, but I can’t make promises. Truth: he’s right. In a couple of months, I’ll be leaving, heading back home, and I’m not sure what will happen to Logan, or us.

  He groans. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Chloe. I’m serious. I don’t want to lose you. You’re the first good thing to happen to me in a long, long time.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Logan,” I say. “Not about something like this.”

  A gleam sparks in his eyes at my response. He murmurs, “What do we do now? Where do we go from here?”

  “Well, first, we can go back to my place, where you’ll be staying until we can figure something out. Your friend’s murderer is still out there, somewhere, and I don’t want you all alone.”

  His thumb grazes my cheek. “I’m capable of defending myself.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t,” I reply, “but I worry when you’re out here. You need food and a roof over your head and . . . me.” I blatantly grin.

  “You, huh?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “Yes, you,” he agrees.

  “So it’s settled, then?” I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms, challenging him to say he can’t stay at my house.

  He takes the bait. “All right. I’ll sleep in your closet.”

  After Logan gathers his backpack, we amble to the lake house. I enter through the sliding glass doors at the rear, and Logan climbs up to the second floor, to my bedroom window.

  “I’m going to run to the grocery store tomorrow. Is there anything you want?” Mom asks as I pass by the living room on my way upstairs.

  “Uhhh,” I stammer, stepping back one stair, “nothing I can think of right now. I’ll let you know?”

  She nods. “Oh, and Chloe,” she says, stopping me again. “I’ve thought about it, and if you want to go to the police station and file a restraining order, let me know.”

  “Restraining order? For what?”

  “For your father, of course.” She narrows her eyes. “Why else?”

  I let my shoulders fall. “Mom, I understand you’re looking out for me, but Dad was drunk. It was a one-time thing in the eighteen years I’ve been alive, and I just don’t see him as a threat.”

  She purses her lips. “Fine. But if you change your mind . . .”

  “I know.”

  She returns to the TV, and I return to my room, which I haven’t been more excited to see than now. If the butterflies in my stomach are any indication, then Logan is the only positive thing to come out of this summer. He may also be the most destructive.

  I close the bedroom door behind me, sprinting across my room to flip the latch and open my window. “Sorry, got sidetracked by my mom.”

  “No worries,” he says, sliding one leg, then another, through the opening.

  “I’m going to grab some extra sheets and pillows so you can fix your bed.” I add, “I wish we had an air mattress.”

  “That’s okay,” says Logan. “This is better than rotted wooden boards, bugs crawling across my body, and mustiness.” He smiles genuinely.

  Searching our linen closet in the hallway upstairs, I find a couple of extra sets of sheets, as well as one extra pillow—not two like I had hoped for, but it’s better than nothing. Logan creates his spare bed, while I manage to sneak more food from the kitchen.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” he says when I return. He sits on the edge of my bed, flipping through channels on my television. “It’s
just . . . I don’t remember the last time I watched TV.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. Watch whatever you want to.”

  He settles down, with his back against the wall, selecting an action flick. I double check that my bedroom door is locked, and then curl up next to him, smelling a mixture of both mold and laundry detergent on his clothes.

  “I like this,” Logan says, rubbing his hand up and down my arm. His touch spreads tingling warmth under my skin and into my abdomen. “It reminds me of home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s clean and safe.”

  Okay, there’s really nothing to say to that. He’s been bouncing from abandoned houses to empty alleyways for months now and this is bringing back memories. Good memories. Maybe I underestimated myself when I took him on as a project. I mean, if I’m being honest, the guy isn’t some drone from an alien planet; he’s a human being, with feelings. So all of this homeliness may be exactly what he needs for his rehabilitation process.

  Crossing my fingers.

  ~~~

  “Don’t touch her!”

  The words pull me out of my sleep. My first thought: Oh, God, my dad’s back. I jump out of bed and turn on my light. Glancing around my room, I don’t see anything. Logan repeats himself, and that’s when I realize he’s having a nightmare.

  “Don’t touch her! Don’t fucking touch her, I said!”

  “Logan, sweetie,” I murmur, gently tugging on his upper arm. “Logan, it’s me . . . Chloe. You’re dreaming.”

  He breathes rapidly in and out of his nose, like he’s hyperventilating, and he’s not waking up. If my mom hears him, she won’t hesitate to throw him out, and then we’ll be back at square one. So, I do the only thing that pops into my mind: I kiss him.

  He struggles at first, but then his body relaxes. I pull back when his eyelids open.

  “Chloe,” he whispers.

  “You were having a nightmare.”

  He wraps one arm around my waist and drags me on top of him. I bury my face in his neck, sighing contentedly. Slowly, he runs his hands underneath my shirt, across my ribs, and back down. A moderate fire swells where his fingers stroke; it filters deep into my stomach, settling at the bottom.