Last Summer

by Rebecca A. Rogers

  “It’s okay, Logan. We’re going to get through this,” she murmurs, each word sending faint puffs of air against my ear, causing my body to shiver. She hugs me tighter and runs her fingers through my choppy hair; I sheared most of the ends last month, when I found a pair of scissors in a trash bin outside one of the souvenir shops.

  “I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I say, voice splintering.

  “Why don’t you come back with me? I can make you some chicken noodle soup. That always makes me feel better when I’m sick.”

  Yeah, but you’ve never been physically and mentally sick. The first, maybe, but definitely not the latter. Chicken noodle soup isn’t going to help.

  “I think I’ll stay here for a little while,” I tell her. “Until I feel well enough to walk again.”

  “Want me to stay with you?”

  “No,” I say a little too quickly. “No, um, I just want to be alone right now.”

  The distrustful gleam in Chloe’s eyes tells me everything I need to know without a single word: she’s fearful for my future, for the monster I’ve become, and she doesn’t want me searching for the drugs, or using again. But, without a word, she stands up, brushes off her knees, and leaves in the opposite direction—where I should be going.

  I lay on my side for what feels like hours. The sun descends beyond the horizon, and the stars glitter in all their brilliance. During this time, not a single thought passes through my psyche. I’m void. Blank. Emotionless. I care nothing about past, present, or future. I care about nothing at all. My eyes are totally consumed by the stars, and, eventually, the moon.

  Is this what it’s always like during withdrawal, the feeling of drifting along, never really sure of where one’s going? I don’t want to feel like this. I want to be happy and healthy and living a normal life again. In my dreams, I enjoy life with my friends at school, and the football team, of course. My family. Lucas. All of these things mattered to me once upon a time, and they still do. But I don’t know if I’ll ever really get them back . . .

  Sitting up, I stare into the shadows for mere moments before realizing I’m zoning out. I’m in a haze, and I don’t know how to shake it off.

  “Logan, why won’t you get better and come home?” Lucas’s voice perforates the night.

  “Lucas? Luke, where are you?” I squint and glance all around, but see nothing. And he doesn’t answer me. “Where are you?” I call out. “Luke? Lucas!”

  For hours, I sit in the same spot, hoping Lucas will make his presence known. Sometime during the latter half of those hours, I realize how fucking insane I’ve become: I expect my little brother to just pop out of the bushes like he’s been hiding there all along. Stupid.

  I was also stupid to send Chloe off the way I did. She’d still be here right now, if I had said yes to her staying. But no, I just had to have some alone time.

  I stand up, stretching my muscles. I don’t know if the delusions and nausea were a part of the withdrawal process, but I hope I won’t experience them again anytime soon. Especially not in front of Chloe; that was pretty damn embarrassing.

  What I’m most worried about is how long the withdrawal process lasts. What if I have another episode where I wander off into the woods and hear my younger brother speak to me? What if I become so dizzy I can’t stand, which causes the queasy feeling in my stomach to turn over and over? What if I’m one big, heaping pile of useless shit after the drugs wear off? I understand they’ll fade out at some point, sure. But I’m scared how I’ll react once they do.

  I don’t even know if I remember what I was like before; the old me, who I was. Most of my memories are hazy fragments. Bits and pieces scattered like wreckage of a sunken ship. Now all I have is the new me, still a part of the old, but not exactly the same. I’ve matured a little, became more of a man. I’ve learned how to step up in certain situations, but I still have a long way to go.

  I meander over to the lake’s edge, squatting down and dipping my hand into the cool water. After splashing it all over my face and using it to swish out my mouth, I feel more rejuvenated.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned today, it’s that I need to take charge of my life. If I’m ever going to see Lucas or Chloe or my parents ever again, I can’t be what they think I am. I have to be me. I have to go after what I want; otherwise, what am I living for?

  Twelve • Chloe

  A clink on the windowpane wakes me. At first, I think I might’ve dreamt it happening, but the same sound hits the glass once more. I sit up. Shoving the covers off and still half-asleep, I stumble toward the window. Emphasized only by the pale moonlight is Logan.

  I flip the latch and stick my head out, hissing through gritted teeth, “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to know if you’d give me one more shot.” He shrugs. “If you don’t, that’s cool. I wouldn’t blame you.”

  With a sigh, I motion for him to climb up.

  “Let’s talk,” says Logan, as he enters my room. Typically, these aren’t words anybody wants to hear, but this is Logan we’re talking about. He’s bound to have some excuse.

  “Okaaay,” I say, plopping down on my bed, not giving him my full attention. “So talk.”

  “I’m sorry for what I did earlier. I should’ve let you stay, and I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you.”

  I nod curtly. “Thanks.”

  “I just . . . I feel like I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how to stop this reaction.”

  I finally glance at him. “It’s called withdrawal, Logan. From what little I know, it sucks. You’re sick and your body is pissed because you’ve starved it from the one thing it’s hungry for. If you can get over this mountain, then you can conquer anything. But this,” I continue, “this is the hardest part. Just stay with me, okay? It’s crucial that I don’t lose you to heroin.”

  He hangs his head. “You won’t lose me, Chloe. Not now. Not ever. I’ve made stupid mistakes and I’m ready to man up to them. For you, for my family. For me.”

  Clutching his hand, I link our fingers together. “I can’t keep going back and forth, you know. You’re a good person, but you’re right: you’ve made some terrible mistakes. You have to decide if being clean is really worth it. If not, then I can’t help you anymore than I already have.”

  “I’m ready,” he says with confidence. “I can’t watch my life just pass me by, never fully able to rein it in.”

  “I understand.”

  He squeezes my hand. “All right. So, what’s the next step?”

  “How about we rest up before we create another checkmark on the to-do list?”

  Kicking off his shoes and losing his shirt, he scoots backward on my bed, pulling me with him. I lay with my back to his chest. His arm is coiled so tightly around my waist, I can’t move even if I try.

  Logan leans forward a little, his lips grazing the edge of my ear, and says, “Good night.”

  I shiver, and he presses me closer to him, if that’s even possible. “Night,” I respond.

  ~~~

  “Why don’t we grab something to eat? My treat,” I say as Logan exits the bathroom. Steam follows him out.

  While he was taking a shower, I thought about how he probably doesn’t remember the last time he had a hot meal. Sandwiches are becoming repetitive in the Sullivan household, and I think it’s time for Logan to bulk up. Right now, he’s just lean muscle.

  “Have you ever been to Bernie’s?” he asks.

  I brighten. “It’s only one of my favorite places to eat!” But that was when my family was still a family, and we used to participate in family-like activities, such as eating meals together. I haven’t been to Bernie’s since our summer vacation last year.

  Logan gently rests his hand on my thigh, the heat of his palm sending goosebumps up my leg. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake off the thought of before. Before my family was a wreck. Before I met Logan. I also shake off the sensation he gives me as his fingers firmly sque
eze. “Nothing. I just haven’t been there in a while. But it’s cool; Bernie’s is fine with me.” I smile so he won’t be confused by my abnormal behavior.

  “Okay. Bernie’s it is.” He grins, and we have an unspoken moment, where our eyes hold each other’s glance longer than normal. “Chloe . . .”

  “Yes?” I peep.

  He breaks the connection by looking away and removing his hand from my thigh; there’s an instant chill once it’s gone, despite the mild room temperature. “Um, I just wanted to say thank you for helping me. Nobody in this world has the patience or time to help. Not one on one, at least. So, uh,” he says, clearing his throat, “thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, it was either help you or watch Lifetime movies and reality TV shows with my mom all summer.” I lift my hands in the air, weighing the options like an ancient scale, and settle on Logan having the upper hand. “Mmm. You won.”

  “You mean, you missed all kinds of awesome TV for me? Aww, how sweet.”

  I snort. “I’m not entirely sure about the awesome part, but yes, I missed it all for you. Plus, my mom likes to hit the bottle while lounging. Well, who am I kidding? She hits the bottle all the time, and, with her on anti-depressants, it’s not fun. Although, she’s slacked off on the drinking lately. Maybe she’s finally coming to her senses.” I shrug. “Who knows?”

  “Damn,” says Logan. “So, you basically have to babysit her?”

  “Sometimes. But only if she’s had a really bad day. I blame my dad, though. She wasn’t like this until he started staying late at work and wouldn’t return her phone calls. I think she knew then that he was sleeping with someone else.” The overheard telephone conversation at the beginning of this summer brushes against my mind, but I quickly push it away. Mom hasn’t mentioned where Dad went, but I wonder if he’s staying with her. Oksana. I doubt Mom knows the new girl’s name.

  “My parents went through a rough time like that once,” Logan says openly.

  “What happened?”

  “Dad began flirting with this girl at work. I didn’t know about it until I stopped by his office and noticed they made a lot of eye contact with each other. I shrugged it off, thinking they were just being friendly, but a few weeks later, Dad’s phone dinged while he was in the shower. Mom happened to be in the bedroom at the time, cleaning, and she checked his phone without thinking anything about it. Turns out, it was a text from that girl; she wanted to know if they were still on for drinks later. Mom confronted Dad about it, but he lied and said it was a company get-together, that everybody was going out for drinks, so it was no biggie. I heard the convo when I passed by their bedroom. Later, after Dad left, I told Mom about stopping by his office a few weeks before, how he and that girl exchanged a lot of smirks and glances.” Logan rolls his eyes. “Mom told me to watch Lucas, and she grabbed her car keys and practically flew out the front door. I don’t know what happened after that, but, as far as I know, Dad and that girl were alone. It wasn’t a company thing like he said.”

  “Oh, my God. That’s awful.”

  “Yeah, they went to marriage counseling for months, and were finally able to work out their problems. Dad complained Mom didn’t love him like she used to, and Mom said he wouldn’t pay attention to her, or listen when she wanted to talk. I guess it’s all about communication.”

  Too bad my parents can’t attend marriage counseling and work out their problems. That’d be a fiasco. I picture Dad complaining about Mom drinking while on prescription meds, and Mom complaining about his affair. Or is it affairs?

  “But they’re okay now?” I inquire.

  “Oh, yeah. They sorted through their problems, and they agreed to be more open about what’s bothering them. It’s worked so far.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Who knows, maybe your parents could do the same.” His mouth curves into an altruistic smile. I know he has good intentions, but he doesn’t really know the extent of what I’ve lived with for the past six months: the constant bickering, the distrust, pieces of small furniture flung across rooms and smashed against walls.

  “I don’t think so,” I say, returning the same empathetic grin.

  He slides one arm around my shoulders and crushes me against his chest. “Don’t worry about it, then. Whatever decision your parents make, it doesn’t mean they stopped loving you, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s your fault.” He releases his grip. “Okay, now, go get ready. I’ll head over to Bernie’s and grab us a booth, all right?”

  “Sounds great.”

  He practically pushes me off the bed and toward the bathroom.

  “I’m going. I’m going.” I chuckle, heading straight for my closet to find something to wear.

  Logan lifts my window, but not before looking back at me. “See ya in a bit,” he says, with a wink.

  I giggle like I’m ten years old. “Bye.”

  He shakes his head and has the biggest, cheesiest grin attached to his face.

  After taking a shower and primping myself, I head downstairs. Just as my foot reaches the bottom step, the front door opens and Mom enters.

  “Oh, hey, honey. Mind helping me?” she asks.

  Damn it. I can’t say no because she’ll guess something’s going on. Saying yes means I’m delayed from seeing Logan any longer. I settle on saying, “Maybe.”

  “Great.” She actually looks better than she has in a while; there aren’t gloomy circles under her eyes, she curled her blonde hair, and—oh, my God!—is that makeup? I feel bad for advising Logan she’s basically a drunken pill-head, because the mother I see before me is the mother I remember from when I was a kid, even as early as one year ago. My happy mother. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, breaking my train of thought.

  “Oh, I was just . . . um . . .” I firmly press my lips together. Yeah, I’ve got nothing.

  Mom laughs, and the sound is light, airy, like birds singing in the treetops on a bright, spring morning. She’s back. My mom is back!

  “You look . . . different,” I say.

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “Different?”

  “In a good way.”

  She doesn’t seem convinced, but if the wry smile at the crook of her mouth means anything, she takes my compliment to heart. “Flattery doesn’t imply you can evade hauling in groceries, you know.”

  I snort. “Of course not.”

  “But nice try,” she says as she passes by me on her way to the front door.

  I reach out and touch her arm. “Mom?”

  She stops, staring at my hand and then at me. “Yes?”

  “I meant what I said about you looking better. I’m glad you aren’t just sitting around.”

  Her blue eyes search mine for this new, unknown form of emotional expression, one which she and I haven’t experienced together in quite some time. “Well, in that case, thank you.”

  I smile and leave her standing on the foyer as I head outside. The back hatch on the RAV4 is open, and the rear is full of sacks taut with produce and canned goods. Normally, Mom only buys sandwich and junk food. Never before has pasta or fresh veggies been on the menu.

  When Mom returns to help with the rest of the fare, I wave my hand over the groceries and ask, “What’s all this?” There’s enough food in here to feed us for weeks.

  “You’ll see.”

  Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.

  With the last of the grocery bags set on the counter and the RAV4 locked up, Mom and I begin sorting through what needs to be placed in the fridge and the cabinets.

  “So . . .” I begin, pressing for a sign she’ll explain what the food is for.

  She twirls around to face me. “Dinner. Every night from now on. No excuses.”

  Shit. I’m supposed to be on my way to meet Logan right now and, instead, I’ll be dining in. With my mom. What is this world coming to? I think Hell has officially frozen over.

  “Um, actually,” I start, glancing away so I won’t see the hurt in her eyes, “I was pla
nning to go to Bernie’s tonight.”

  “Sweetie, if you wanted to go, you should’ve just told me. We could’ve gone. I don’t want you going out by yourself with that killer still on the loose.”

  “No, I meant—” But I stop myself, because if she finds out what my original intentions are, there will be another murder in Sandy Shores. “Fine. Let’s go.” At least Logan will see us, and see why I was sidetracked.

  By the time we drive to Bernie’s, find a parking spot, and are seated at a table, over forty-five minutes has passed since we unloaded groceries. My eyes discretely scan the restaurant. I’m at an advantage; we’re seated at the bar because Mom wants a drink—surprise!—so I can see the entire place.

  And Logan is nowhere in sight. Which worries me. The police still haven’t found Jake’s killer, and I have a gut feeling Logan knows who did it. He won’t flat-out tell me he knows, but he won’t look me in the eyes the few times I’ve asked him. And he fidgets. That’s a definite sign, right?

  So, what if Logan was jumped by the killer? If whoever murdered Jake was blatant enough to leave his body in a parking lot, then why not be obvious during daylight hours, too? I have this crazy idea that Logan is linked to the person who stabbed his friend, and, whoever they are, they might be after him, too.

  Thirteen • Logan

  It’s now been over an hour since I left Chloe’s room and she hasn’t shown up. What does that mean? Did she purposely refuse to come because, deep down, she wants nothing to do with me?

  For the fifth time, Heather, the waitress, stops by my table. “Nothing yet?” she asks, noting the empty seat across from me.

  “Fuck this,” I mumble to myself, standing up and leaving Heather behind.

  “Sir?” she calls behind me. I honestly didn’t want to alarm her, but shit, I just wasted an hour of my life and hers. An hour she could’ve had someone else sitting there, eating, ready to give her a tip soon. Instead, she got me, a loser guy who was supposedly meeting someone. Now I just look like a dumbass.