Last Summer (10 page)

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 stuff 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.

“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 squeeze. “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.