Last Summer

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he says.

  “What were you dreaming about?”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “You.”

  Ten • Chloe

  I can’t believe we slept together last night. Okay, not slept together, slept together. We kept it clean. The fact that my mom didn’t check on me was a relief, too. When we woke this morning, Mom was nowhere to be found. I washed the rest of Logan’s clothes, and then we ate breakfast, deciding we’ll take a jog, maybe do a little swimming. Later, we’ll come back here, shower, and crash.

  “Can I be honest with you?” Logan asks between breaths. We’ve been jogging next to the lake for the past ten minutes.

  “I would hope so,” I respond, squinting at the early-morning sun intensifying on the horizon.

  “Okay,” he begins, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know if this is going to work.”

  I stop running. “Don’t tell me you’re backing out, especially after your episode yesterday. Logan, you know what drugs have done to you. You’ve lost your family, friends, potential football career . . . the list goes on and on. Yet you still want more, as if you haven’t hurt yourself and those you love enough already.”

  He glances away, resting his hands atop his head, jaw flexing and relaxing. “Have you ever wanted something so badly, but you just know it’s not good for you?”

  “Yes,” I mumble, thinking about how many boys I’ve had crushes on, only to have them break my heart by rejection. In the end, something inside told me they weren’t the person I thought they were.

  “Well, that’s how I feel about heroin.” So that’s his drug of choice. Until now, he had only mentioned an addiction to morphine, but I remember hearing that heroin is derived from morphine. Makes sense, because of his football injuries. “And I know this is probably over your head,” he continues, “but this is what matters to me, because for over six months now, I haven’t known anything else.”

  “I’m listening,” I say, urging him to get this off his chest, especially if this means he’ll come to terms with the fact that he has a serious problem. Because, right now, it sounds like he’s trying to back out of this treatment plan. And if that’s the case, I don’t think I’ll stick around for him much longer. This can’t be a toss-up; I can’t go back and forth. He either wants my help or he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.

  His hands fall beside him, and he can’t stand still, pacing in circles, hands shifting from his hips to his sides again and again. “Okay, this may sound cheesy, but it’s the only way I can tell you so that it makes sense.”

  He waits for my . . . approval, I guess? I nod.

  “Heroin is like my girl. She can be a complete bitch, but when we’re good, we’re really fucking good. Unnaturally, of course. I’m completely attached to her, and she’s my obsession.” He glances my way. “Does this make any sense?”

  “Yeah, keep going.”

  “So, when she was taken from me—”

  I hold up one finger. “Um, correction: she wasn’t taken from you. You freely gave her away. I’m not into thievery, just so we’re clear.”

  “Okay, fine. I gave her up. But the point is she left. She’s gone, and I can’t do anything about it. I almost feel like my insides are crumbling into tiny pieces, like aged buildings before they finally collapse. My heart feels like it’s been ripped from my chest, only to be replaced again every time I look at you.” That really gets my attention. I jerk my head toward him, but he’s oblivious to what he just said, I think. “And now that she’s gone forever, I miss her. I don’t know if I made the right choice. So, naturally, I’m torn.”

  “You know you did the right thing, but you also have the itch to use again. I get it.”

  He bares his teeth. “And damn it, I feel like I want to murder somebody right now, maybe even take a few hostages. I feel like crying and screaming at the same time. I’m so conflicted. My brain is in chaos.”

  I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his waist, laying my cheek against his chest. “You’re going to be all right,” I say. “I promise I’ll help you get through your wild emotions.”

  He sighs and encircles me with his arms. “Seriously, if you hadn’t come along when you did, I might be dead right now.” Then, faintly, he adds, “I might be in Jake’s place.”

  “Let’s not think about that, all right?” I mumble against his shirt. “Let’s think happy thoughts, like gradually getting you involved with your family again. That’s my next plan of action.”

  He chuckles, and the sound rumbles against my ear. “So that’s next on the to-do list?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And after that?”

  Peering up at him, I answer, “Haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’m working on it.”

  Logan gets this roguish look on his face as he gazes out at the lake. “I know what we can do next,” he says.

  Before I can ask what he’s talking about, he picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. I squeal and yell, “Put me down!” even though I know it’s useless. He wades through the shallow part of the lake’s edge, and then, when the water level is up to his waist, he tosses me like a ping-pong ball in a beer pong match, easily and effectively, liquid splashing all around me as I hit the surface.

  “Logan!” I screech as I come up for air. “How could you?”

  “What?” He shrugs. “It’s already hot out. That shit back there was getting too intense, so I decided to cool us down.” His grin is so wide, his cheeks probably hurt.

  “Oh, that’s it,” I say, splashing my way over to him and dunking his head.

  We play fight, dipping each other, lurking underwater so the other doesn’t know where we’ll pop up next. Pretending we’re Olympic swimmers, we practice our backstrokes, and then float atop the water, allowing the lake to carry us where it sees fit.

  Logan and I swim until our muscles ache and our stomachs grumble from lack of food. Drenched, we walk back to the lake house, where I’m sure my mom has returned from wherever she decided to go earlier. I take one glance at Logan and realize his face is pale—not what it should be after being in the sun all morning.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He lifts his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t feel well.”

  “It looks like the blood has drained from your face.” I circle his waist with my arm. He leans on me a little, but not so I’m supporting his full weight. “You’re probably exhausted. I mean, we didn’t sleep at all last night, and we’ve been swimming. Your body’s not used to it.”

  “Probably,” he says.

  I release him when we reach the house so he can climb up to my window. Mom’s eating a sandwich and chips in the living room, while flipping through channels.

  “Hey, baby,” she says. “I got groceries this morning, so we have plenty of snacks.”

  “Cool.” I dart past her and up the stairs.

  “Chloe,” she presses, “why are you soaking wet?”

  Think, Mom. Why else? “I went swimming.”

  She pauses. “Are you okay, honey? I’m really worried about you.”

  I lean against the banister and sigh. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You spend all your time locked up in your room. It doesn’t seem normal. You weren’t that way before you father . . .” she trails off.

  “Mom! I’m fine, okay? This has nothing to do with Dad. I’m just bored out of my mind and don’t want to deal with either of you until the divorce is finalized.”

  She stops chewing, holding a chip in mid-air. “Your father and I won’t start the paperwork until we return home. As far as I know, he’s gone back, so it’s just us. I thought we might enjoy the lake house one last time.”

  I clear my throat. “Yeah, um, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  She waves me off. “You didn’t mean anything by it, I know. Now, go on and do whatever it is you’re doing in your room. I still don’t know if I should be worried or not.”

&n
bsp; “Definitely not,” I say, but the truth is she’ll freak if she finds Logan in my room, or hanging out at my window. In their minds, my parents have kept this clean persona of me, as I’m sure most parents do until their children reach a certain age, but that doesn’t mean I’m Ms. Goodie Two Shoes. And if she knew what I’ve really been doing, well, I may never see the light of day again.

  “I’m still holding you to that rain check for a movie,” she calls behind me as I walk down the hallway toward my bedroom. I don’t respond.

  After I open the window for Logan, I grab a couple of towels so we can dry off.

  “Do you want to take a shower first?” I ask, motioning with my head toward the bathroom.

  “Nah. You can go.”

  “You sure? You still look pretty pale.”

  He shakes his head.

  “All right,” I say awkwardly, although, to be honest, I have no idea why this moment is uncomfortable. Maybe because we’re discussing a shower? Maybe because I have to dig through my bra and underwear drawer in front of him? All I know is I’ve never done this with any boy before. Then again, Logan isn’t just any boy.

  As I lay my clothes out on the closed toilet lid, Logan says, “Door stays open.”

  I twist my head to glare at him. “What? Why?”

  “You’ve seen me naked. Now, it’s my turn to see you.”

  My jaw drops. “That’s not fair. I didn’t ask to see you naked.”

  Amused, he crosses his arms as he leans against the wall. “You told me to strip off my dirty clothes so you could wash them. I’m pretty sure that counts.”

  Rolling my eyes, I reply, “I didn’t mean it like that; I only meant for you to get them off of you so I could be nice and help you out, like a Good Samaritan.”

  He tries not to smile. “Same thing.”

  Abruptly, Logan’s face pales out. He cups his hand over his mouth and makes a mad dash to the bathroom, throwing my clothes off the toilet lid and propping it open. He vomits until I doubt he has anything left in his system and all that’s coming up is stomach acid. I rush downstairs and grab a soda and crackers, hurriedly bringing it back and setting it on the bathroom countertop.

  “Okay, showers can wait,” I say.

  “I’m fine,” he says, his voice echoing in the toilet bowl.

  “No, you’re not. This must be some side effect of the drugs, or you’ve started the withdrawal process.”

  “I said I’m fine!”

  It’s pointless to argue with him when he’s like this. I know it’s not really him per se, but the other side of Logan. The mean side. The side that hates the world for the way he’s been treated. All I can do is be there for him, let him know he’s not alone.

  “I brought you some crackers and a drink,” I tell him. “They should help your stomach feel a little better.”

  He waves me off. “I don’t need them.”

  God, his mood swings are worse than a girl who’s PMSing. Be easy on him, Chloe. He doesn’t realize what he’s saying. If only that were true. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that Logan is fully aware of the words coming out of his mouth. I’d hate to have to punch him again.

  “Well, if you change your mind . . .” I leave him with that as I settle on my bed and turn on the TV.

  He pukes a few more times, but nothing comes up; he’s basically dry heaving at this point. Logan finally stands and turns on the faucet, utilizing the cold water to splash his flushed face. Using a hand towel to wipe off the excess water, he takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror. I hate watching him. I hate feeling like I’m borderline creeper. There’s just something that’s fascinating about a person who looks at their reflection. What are they contemplating? Is he reminiscing about how he got to this point, about everything that’s led him to the right here, right now?

  Part of me thinks, I’ll never know. The other part of me thinks, He’ll tell you, eventually. Give it time. Except, time is what we don’t have at the moment; we’re stuck in an hourglass, and the sand is vanishing bit by bit.

  Eleven • Logan

  My eyeballs feel like they’re about to pop out of my head. I’ve thrown up before, but this is totally different. This feels like my guts are going to slide out of my throat and into the toilet. And, of all things, I had to puke in front of Chloe. I had to wreck the flirting and teasing and what was turning into one of the best days I’ve had in a really, really long time. I ruined it. All of it. I’m so fucking disgusted with myself, I might puke again.

  Chloe’s been so nice about it, too, which makes me feel like shit. Not physically, but emotionally. The withdrawal from H has done its number on me; I can’t handle anything else past this point. Right now, I want to beat the shit out of something. Maybe my fist meeting a brick wall will help. Who knows? I also have the urge to just fucking cry about everything. Everything. I continue to daydream about Lucas, about me being there for him when he needs me. About him trying to act cool and impress his big bro. But I’m not there; I’m here. And now I’m going through withdrawal because I was addicted to heroin. This is me. Logan Andrews. Resident low-life druggie, who can’t get his shit straight.

  “I can’t be here,” I say, nearly strangling on the words.

  Chloe sits up. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. I. Can’t. Be. Here. I need to go.” Although, where and why I’m going, I’m unsure, but I have an idea, and it’s not a good one. As a matter of fact, it’s a piss-poor excuse of an idea. Something so far-fetched, I can’t even believe I’m about to do it. But my body is caving in on itself, and I can’t control these feelings any longer. The needs of my body outweigh the needs of my mind.

  Chloe stands. “Logan, don’t do this. I know what you’re about to do. Just . . . don’t.”

  I can’t even look her in the eye. God, I’m such a horrible excuse for a human being. “Not now. I don’t need your shit right now. What I need—” I stop myself. She knows. I know. There’s no point in trying to explain myself.

  Her bottom lip quivers, and I resist every urge to kiss it again, make it all better.

  “Please,” she begs.

  One simple word has a dramatic effect on my heart and soul, but it’s not enough. The urge is simply too strong to sit here and vomit my insides. So I do what I’ve done—what I’ve thrived on—for the last six months: I bail. I can’t simply kick this habit without some serious help, and although I’m grateful for the time with Chloe, it’s just not enough.

  Despite her numerous, heart-wrenching pleas, I leave. Out her window, down the lattice, and into the world again. By the time I reach the cottage, it’s noon. The sun is reigning overhead. Everybody is on the lake. The boiling heat sits on my tongue, and sweat beads on my brow, but I’m determined. And once I’m determined about something, there’s no stopping me.

  I only wish I was that way with staying clean.

  “It’s got to be around here somewhere,” I say to myself, thinking. Where did Chloe hide my stuff? How long she was gone determines how far I should go to locate my things. I also need to search for freshly-disturbed soil, where she dug and then repacked the dirt on top of the hole. But in a dense forest such as this, any hope of finding my contents may be a lost cause. This idea sends my phobic brain into a frenzy.

  You’ll never find your stash, Logan, it tells me. But she knows where it is. She can tell you. She won’t, though, so you’re on your own. She won’t help you, hasn’t yet.

  “Just leave me alone!” I scream, covering my ears with each hand. If I had the ability to wrench this damn voice out, I would. Take a pair of tweezers, maybe some pliers, and pull.

  I fall to my hands and knees. You won’t find it. “Shut up!” It has to be here somewhere. If my mind was functioning correctly, I’d remember the length of time she was away from the cottage so that I could calculate the distance she travelled. But I’ve never really been fantastic at math. What I do know is that she vanished for a good ten minutes, which means she buried my stuf
f five minutes out.

  She tricked you. She took your things. She’s been using them when you’re not around. Watch out for her, Logan. She can’t be trusted!

  “SHUT UPPPPP! Shut up, shut up, shut up! I can’t take this anymore. She didn’t do anything!”

  Behind me, there’s a rustle of dirt and grass and twigs. I glance over my shoulder. Chloe stands several feet away, her face creasing at the sight of me. She knows I came looking for the drugs so I won’t have to deal with withdrawal. She also knows where the drugs are buried.

  Slowly, I stand and turn toward her. “Where are they?” I ask.

  Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. Where are they? Where did you bury them?”

  She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. “You know I can’t tell you that, Logan. It’s for your own good.”

  “Aaaaghh!” I cry out, fisting my hair. How can she do this to me, when she knows I need the drugs back? Does she purposely want to inflict mental pain and suffering?

  Yes, says my mind. Yes, she does. I told you she would, but you didn’t listen. You never listen.

  “Stop talking to me!” I shout, but, as usual, my mind doesn’t pay attention.

  “I’m not saying anything,” Chloe says nervously.

  She always has something to say. Don’t believe a word that comes out of her mouth! It’s all a game to her, a trick. And now you’re paying for it. How does that make you feel, Logan?

  I can’t help it: I fall to my knees and beg and wish and pray that my head will stop talking to me, that my stomach will stop churning like the water against the lake’s shore, that this gaping emptiness I have inside will be filled with something more substantial than the hell I’m living in.

  Chloe’s arms encircle my crumpled body, my failing body. Because that’s what’s happening, isn’t it? My body is failing me. I’m failing myself. I’m a failure.