Citizens of Logan Pond Box Set

by Rebecca Belliston

  Oliver gave her a probing look, waiting for an answer to a question she hadn’t even heard. Blinking, she said, “Sorry, what?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…ill.”

  She was.

  Horribly.

  Oliver loved her while Greg was trying to love her. The difference was devastating. So why was she fighting it? Why did she keep choosing the man with the most potential to hurt her? She wasn’t even the type of girl to chase guys, and yet she’d been chasing Greg like a pathetic puppy dog.

  She looked up at Oliver. Oliver, with the kind eyes, dark, thinning hair, crisp, green uniform, and shoulders hunched protectively toward her. She loved Oliver, but was it enough? Did it even matter anymore?

  His forehead wrinkled, looking even more concerned.

  “I’m fine,” she answered. “Just…”

  She took another breath, feeling the shift in her mind.

  Oliver.

  Not Greg.

  But the second she thought it, her limbs began to tremble, and the next words just blurted out of her.

  “I love Greg.”

  Oliver paled. “What?”

  Blood rushed to her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to say it—she hadn’t even meant to think it. Looking up at the darkening sky, she wished away the words. She’d never said them aloud, not even in her own mind. And yet…Greg could be dead somewhere, locked up somewhere, never returning, coming back tomorrow, or unable to truly love her in return. But that didn’t change anything. Steeling her nerves, she did the last thing she should do.

  She said it again.

  “I love Greg. I’m so sorry, Oliver, but you need to know.” And more than anything, she needed to say it. “I’m sorry if that hurts you.” She was even sorrier for herself, knowing how much it hurt to love someone who was trying to love you back.

  He shrugged. “I know you do. It’s okay, Carrie. I appreciate your honesty.”

  Though he tried, he couldn’t quite hide the pain in his eyes. She shouldn’t have told him, but the honesty felt so liberating.

  Clearing his throat, he looked around. “I better go now.”

  As he grabbed the door handle, the next round of words just blurted out of her.

  “The thing is, I kind of love you, too. I mean, I think I might, but I don’t know for sure, and I really don’t want to hurt you, and I know saying this probably does, but…”

  Stop talking! she yelled at herself. But thinking of Greg forcing himself to love her, to not have been open with his motivations—whether consciously or not—hurt deeply. She couldn’t do that to Oliver. Let the chips fall where they may, she would have full disclosure with everyone, even if she lost both men.

  Oliver’s expression looked a few seconds shy of a heart attack. “You what?”

  The guilt engulfed her. She had told Richard that she didn’t want to hurt Oliver, yet she managed to say the two worst things within seconds: she loved Greg but she kind of loved Oliver, too. Despair and hope in the same breath. What kind of person did that?

  “I count you as one of my dearest friends,” she whispered. “I love you, but it’s different than it is with Greg, and I don’t know if that means anything, but…but…” The words stopped flowing. Her gaze dropped to her hands. “I just wanted you to know.”

  For a full minute, he didn’t breathe. When she stole a peek up at him, his eyes were wide in shock. He was only able to manage one word.

  “Okay.”

  Silence smothered them. The words replayed over and over in her mind: I love Greg, but I kind of love you, too.

  Was she insane?

  One of them needed to break the silence. That was why they needed Greg. Someone who could plow on and crack a joke, poke fun at their social ineptitude, or even bluntly force the conversation onward. In her mind, the ball was in Oliver’s court, so she stared down at her clasped hands, waiting.

  “Okay,” Oliver whispered, as if to himself. “Okay, okay, okay.”

  Another minute, and then he straightened. “I think you know…um…” He shifted. “I think you know how I feel about you, Carrie. I mean, I think you know. And I’m sorry because I can’t not feel that way. I’ve tried, but it hasn’t worked. But…I…I think you know.”

  She nodded, overwhelmed.

  “Okay.” He took another deep breath. “Okay, okay, okay.”

  He loved her, and she kind of loved him back. So where did that leave them?

  Turning, he opened his car door and got in. Apparently, that left them nowhere. But he didn’t leave. He stared at CJ’s garage for several heartbeats before he rolled down his window.

  “See you soon?” he said with a timid smile.

  She tried to smile back. “Okay.”

  Long after his car disappeared and the sun slipped behind the horizon, Carrie still stood on May’s driveway. She had no idea when Oliver would be back, or what that would mean for them when he returned. But regardless, she was glad she had said it. Full disclosure. Even if she lost both men.

  “Okay,” she whispered to the wind.

  twenty-five

  “UP! GET UP! HURRY!”

  Greg felt groggy until something—or rather, somebody—smacked his face. Hard. With a grunt, he peeked an eye open.

  A dark shape hovered close to Greg’s top bunk. Lopez looked terrified like he usually did. But it was still dark in the long, sleeping barracks, and Greg was too tired to care why Lopez’s anxiety had kicked in so early. His thoughts lingered with his dream. Burying his face in his pillow, he worked to return to the girl next door.

  “Get up!” Lopez said, shaking him. “It’s late!”

  Greg glanced at the clock. 5:42 a.m. He shot up without thinking and slammed his head on the ceiling. Stupid bunk beds. Rubbing his scalp, he said, “Why’d you let me sleep so long?”

  “Be glad I woke you when I did,” Lopez said. “Are you sick or something? It’s usually you dragging me out of bed.”

  Greg jumped down and threw on his green standard-issue shirt. His head pounded from the ceiling and lack of sleep—he’d gotten maybe two hours.

  In the last few weeks he’d learned that the men slept soundly, having pushed their bodies past capacity during the day. They ran until they threw up, shot guns until they could split hairs, and sat in class—or propaganda hour as he called it—until they couldn’t think straight. All with a constant barrage of yelling from sergeants who insisted they weren’t fast enough, smart enough, or good enough to stay alive.

  It wore the body out.

  But last night Greg had lain awake long after lights out, thoughts swirling from person to person: his mom, wondering how she was recovering; Oliver, wondering how Jamansky was torturing him; the clan, wondering if they’d already abandoned his plans; and Carrie, wondering all too obsessively if she was still Carrie Ashworth or if she was Mrs. Oliver Simmons.

  Or…if she’d kept his hat.

  Most of training had been a blur. His new sergeant hadn’t said anything about Greg’s traitor’s scars, although Greg got more than his fair share of beatings. Just last week, three guards cornered him, kicked him to bits, and called him a rebel scum. He came out of it bruised but not broken. But his commanding officer never breathed a word of Greg’s past, making Greg wonder if he even knew. Still, Greg kept his back and arm hidden as much as possible in the tight quarters.

  In the space of a few weeks he learned that President Rigsby was a “genius” who must be worshipped, toilets were never clean enough, push-ups were never repentance enough, and the only acceptable response was, “Sir, yes, sir!” Most importantly, he learned that nightsticks to the head never got less painful.

  Their sergeant hadn’t told them when or where they would be assigned: as patrolmen on the home front, or in the army to handle the “small incident” which seemed to gain momentum by the day. Greg even heard whispers that yellow and blue cardies were joining the illegals, hoping to undo everything President Rigsby had destroyed in the last six years. Greg would
give them all standing ovations if it wouldn’t mean another nightstick to his head—or retribution for his family.

  All in all, training could have been worse. They got three full meals a day with plenty of protein so they could bulk up. A fine prospect considering half of them were starved wisps when they had arrived. Variety in the diet was also a nice change. Greg ate hamburger for the first time since college. Peanut butter, too. And every day he took a shower so hot it burned his skin, which he had missed. He’d learned the new laws—which they no longer labeled as ”emergency”—and when you could and couldn’t perform a search on full-fledged citizens. All good stuff to know.

  If he could ever get out of there.

  Lopez eyed Greg as he pulled on his socks. “Where did you go last night?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Greg replied evenly.

  Grunting, Lopez smoothed his bed sheets. His cheek had swollen something ugly overnight after taking a hit yesterday when he’d fallen behind on a run. The guy was in his early thirties with two kids and a wife, a blue cardie from a municipality in Rockford. Lopez wanted to be there as much as Greg did. He had good reason to be afraid. Greg wasn’t in the mood for a morning beating either. He laced his heavy black boots in record time.

  Lopez kept shooting him a look.

  Somehow, he knew, even though Greg had been so careful.

  Around midnight last night, Greg had given up on sleep. Hugging the wall, he sneaked past forty snoring guys and down the stairwell. It was the first he’d wandered around, the first rule he’d broken. He didn’t even know where he was headed until he got there. With methodical caution, he reached the only unguarded door to the outside, a kitchen door leading to the refuse bins.

  Propping the door open with a spoon, he had hopped a fence behind the garbage bins and spent the next few hours exploring the massive training grounds. Every section of electrical fence pulsed and hummed in the darkness. Even if he could overcome the electrical issue, the fence was ten feet high and looped with barbed wire. And behind the first fence was another just as daunting. He might as well be in a vault.

  But he hadn’t given up.

  Crouching near the front gate, he watched the guards to see if they ever dozed off. They never even blinked let alone snoozed, downing coffee by the gallons to stay perfectly alert all night long.

  Giving up, he sneaked back in and crawled into bed. He’d slept fitfully after that, all two hours of it. His eyes burned with exhaustion.

  Lopez wasn’t an idiot. But neither was Greg. He would admit nothing.

  Once dressed, he made his upper bunk, straightened his things, and stood at attention in time for his commanding officer to come down the line at exactly 5:45 a.m.

  “Good morning, ladies,” the sergeant said. He’d greeted them the same way every morning. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he had a massive chest and bulging arms. As he strolled down their sleeping barracks, he checked uniforms, overall appearances, and the tightness of their sheets.

  He stopped in front of Greg, examining him with a dark eye. “I thought you were going to shave that beard, soldier.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” Greg said. He was the only one who hadn’t shaved since arriving. He couldn’t tell if his commanding officer liked that about him or not because every day, the guy told him to shave, and every day Greg obediently said, “Sir, yes, sir,” yet never so much as looked at a razor. So far, he hadn’t been beaten for showing up scruffier than the day before.

  So far.

  But the sergeant eyed him longer than usual today. Long enough Greg squirmed in his thick boots. Today might be the day of forced obedience—or abject humiliation.

  Greg still hadn’t decided which way to play the game during training: weak and dumb to fly under the radar, or smart and strong to climb the leadership ladder in the off chance they’d give him freedom—and money. So far, he’d done neither. He’d gone the quiet route, socializing with nobody, speaking only when required, and being the most obedient soldier in all of Illinois.

  Except the beard.

  He was the first to show up, the first to run, the first to finish the run, and the first to clean anything required—and then some. His body, already used to manual labor, adjusted quickly to the rigors of training, and he stood straighter than anyone there. His sergeant could have no complaints about his behavior.

  Except the beard.

  Greg didn’t blink as he held the sergeant’s gaze. He didn’t know the guy’s name since they were only allowed to call him “Sir, yes, sir!” But he wore a perpetual scowl, and his meaty arms looked like he could snap somebody’s neck.

  The sergeant rocked forward. “We don’t allow barbarians on our side. Are you trying to look like an enemy to the United States?”

  “Sir, no, sir!” Greg wasn’t trying to look like anything but who he was.

  “Then I’d suggest you shave, soldier.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Greg barked, knowing full well he wouldn’t. He wasn’t even planning to trim his beard.

  With that, his sergeant turned and shouted to the room. “Today we will break your bodies. Are you ready, ladies?”

  As one, the room yelled, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  The sergeant started to leave but then stopped. He backed up a few paces and eyed Greg again. When his hand slid to his nightstick, fear crawled down Greg’s spine. Greg hated being a coward, even on the tiniest level, but pain had a perfect memory. His head pounded in anticipation of the bruises he could feel coming.

  “In my office,” the sergeant said. “Zero nine hundred hours.”

  Every eye left their rigid spots to stare at Greg. This was a change in the routine they had followed with exactness since they’d started. This was different, and in Greg’s limited experience, different wasn’t good. He could see the pity in their eyes.

  Maybe he’d lose the beard after all.

  He was proud of himself that his voice didn’t quiver when he answered, “Sir, yes, sir!”

  twenty-six

  THE SERGEANT LEANED AGAINST his desk, arms folded, eyeing Greg like a piece of rotting meat as he entered.

  Two other men stood against the back wall. Greg had never seen them before, and his sergeant didn’t introduce them. They weren’t dressed like guards, plus they were too old and pudgy. Both wore uniforms: one with several medals on his chest, and the other in a uniform like Oliver’s, only pure black. Greg guessed this was some sort of informal court-martial. Seemed over the top for not shaving. Or…maybe he hadn’t been as sneaky last night as he thought.

  Greg stiffened, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind his back. Sweat beaded on his forehead that had little to do with his rigorous morning drills. Over the last few weeks, guys would disappear from time to time—usually those who fell behind or mouthed off. If the government sent them home, it was in a body bag.

  As long as they punished Greg and not his family, he could handle this.

  He could.

  His heart raced.

  “What’s the deal with the beard?” his sergeant finally asked.

  “I just prefer beards, sir,” Greg lied. In truth, he detested them. Too itchy and hot, especially this time of year. But he kept his gaze snapped straight ahead over the heads of the two other officers.

  Bad mistake.

  He saw the fist a moment too late. A moment too late and a moment too soon. That was the worst part, knowing what was coming, and not being able to dodge, roll, and throw a punch in return. His sergeant’s fist smashed into Greg’s bearded jaw.

  Pain. Lights.

  The usual.

  Vision swimming, Greg shook his head. The dead can’t help the living, he chanted to himself. He couldn’t fight back.

  He ran his tongue over his teeth to make sure he still had them all. When the room stopped spinning, he planted his feet and stared straight ahead again. It’s amazing they got anybody to do anything with regular beatings. At least this had been a fist. He detested nights
ticks.

  The other two men hadn’t budged, but Greg’s sergeant sat back against his desk, rubbing his fist. Greg hoped he’d broken a few fingers.

  “Show them your marks,” the sergeant said.

  “Sir?” Greg said, not sure if he’d heard right or if his ears were still ringing from the blow.

  “Shirt. Off. Now.”

  So this wasn’t about last night or stupid beards. It was a thousand times worse.

  Frantic, Greg eyed his nightstick and two guns, and then multiplied them to include the other men’s weapons. Moving slowly, he unbuttoned his outer green shirt but left his tank on. His sergeant motioned for him to turn so they could see his upper arm. Greg obeyed, hoping that would be the end of it. A crossed-out star with ID numbers was bad enough.

  The officer with the medals grunted. The officer in black just scowled.

  “Now the rest,” his sergeant said.

  Greg gritted his teeth, pondering the value of playing by the rules if it still got you—and your loved ones—killed. But he pulled of his tank top as well.

  “Turn.”

  Reluctantly, Greg faced the door. He’d only seen the criss-crossed whipping scars on his back a few times, having avoided mirrors since the incident, so he wasn’t sure exactly what they saw. Whatever it was, everything went silent behind him.

  Every muscle in his body braced for the next blow, fully expecting it to be fatal. His mind raced with the million things he had hoped to do before he died. The flower shop. Kissing Carrie. Telling his mom he loved her. Kissing Carrie again. A lot.

  “Care to explain?” his sergeant said.

  Stalling, Greg said, “May I put my shirt back on first, sir?”

  His sergeant nodded.

  Greg took his time dressing, giving him a few seconds to figure out how honest to be. They already knew he was a traitor to the country. The entire Raleigh incidence was probably in some file somewhere. His sergeant seemed like a no-nonsense kind of guy, so Greg answered bluntly.