Last Summer (5 page)

He glares at me. “I’m not doing this for
you.”

I shrug. “Of course you aren’t; you’re doing
it for you. At least, that’s the goal.”

“Look, we need to get some things straight
before I agree. Can you come down?”

I smile. “Be right out.”

Passing by Mom in the living room, she
doesn’t even bother to turn around and look at me. There’s no
telling how long she’ll be pissed about our little tiff. Mental
note to self: watch a movie with her sometime this week, even if
it’s torturous.

Outside, the boy waits expectantly, then
motions with a backward nod away from the house.

“I figured your parents would ask questions
if they saw me,” he says as we meander down the lake’s shore. “I
also figured you were pretty spoiled, so you’d have the best view
of the lake.”

I roll my eyes and snort. “The whole parents
thing? Not likely. My dad’s either screwing his tramp girlfriend or
tossing back a few beers, and Mom’s acting like a
chronic-depression sufferer who ran out of meds. And good guess on
where my room is, by the way. It would’ve sucked if it were my
parents’ bedroom instead.”

“Yeah, no shit.” He stares at the ground
before him, eyebrows creasing in deep thought.

Time to change the subject before this topic
becomes a mess. “Earlier, you didn’t need my help, so what made you
come back?”

He smirks, but the full effect doesn’t
appear on the rest of his face. “Long story, but the gist is that
I’d like to see my little brother again.”

“Does he live here?”

“Nearby.”

I cross my arms. “Well, that’s a good
starting point.”

He looks at me, then, like he can see
straight through to my soul. “Why are you doing this for me? I
mean, what’s it to you?”

I should ask myself this question a hundred
times over before ever agreeing to anything, but the truth of the
matter is I feel sorry for the guy. If it were me, if I were down
on my luck and holing up in dingy, abandoned houses, I’d be
grateful for somebody’s help. Grateful, but leery.

“I just wanted something to look forward to
this summer,” I say, laughing nervously. “Tag. You’re it, I
guess.”

He observes me. “So, how does this work,
anyway?”

“Not really sure, but we can, maybe, take it
a day at a time?” Crap. That sounds like I’m asking for his
approval, which is the exact opposite of what I should be doing for
someone in this situation. He needs somebody who will guide him in
the right direction, somebody who has soft-yet-firm principles on
how to manage his lifestyle. Somebody who knows what the hell
they’re doing.

“You have no idea,” he states flatly.

“I have a
general
idea. That doesn’t
mean I mapped out everything; it just means I have a good starting
point.”

He cocks one eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And what’s
that?”

“Well, first, you need to hand over whatever
drugs you have left.” I stick out my hand, palm up.

His eyes rake over my arm and all the way up
to my face, hesitating. This wasn’t how I pictured this situation
unfolding. In my dream world, this strange boy would admit he has a
problem and conquer his deepest, darkest fears by gladly handing
over the last of his supply, thanking me in the process. Okay, it’s
a bit far-fetched, but it’s a start, right?

“Nu-uh. No way. Not gonna happen,” he
responds. “You can’t just take my shit.”

I almost chuckle. “You’re really paranoid
about people confiscating your belongings, aren’t you?”

Daggers virtually shoot from his
eyeballs.

“Look, I don’t want to touch anything that
you own; I just want to help,” I persist. “And the first step, I
think, is wrecking your stash. Then, we’ll go from there. How does
that sound?”

“Horrible! You can’t just take things from
me and expect me to be okay with it. Because that’s just it—it’s
not
okay. If this is all you’ve thought of to help me, then
don’t bother. I can find help—
real
help—elsewhere.” He
stomps off in the direction he normally takes, one that I’m
becoming quite familiar with.

“Fine,” I call behind him. “Leave like you
always do, because that’s really going to aid your dilemma. I’m
sure it makes the pain go away, too. Maybe even acts as an
emotional crutch when you need it most.”

That stops him dead in his tracks. He then
backs up a couple of steps and turns toward me, advancing. The look
in his eyes burns with fury.
Rage
. Before I run the other
way, he reaches out and seizes my slender arm. I struggle to wrench
myself out of his grasp, but it’s too tight.

He leans in, so close to me his breath warms
my nose, and says through gritted teeth, “They provide none of the
above, permanently. Temporarily, yes. It’s an escape, a place I
seek when my problems become too much. You have
no
idea what
it’s like. You live here, in your precious lake-side cottage, with
the perfect family and the perfect life, while I’m struggling to
live. Don’t pretend you care. You don’t know how.”

My eyes sting with unwanted tears and it
takes great effort to restrain them. This is definitely not how I
dreamt this conversation. “You’re wrong,” I say, still attempting
to worm my way out of his grip and steady my trembling voice, “on
so many levels. My life is as far from perfect as it gets, and it’s
crumbled into nothing more than dirt.” My courage falters, so I
hurry to recapture it. “I have an escape, too, something that
doesn’t require injecting volatile substances and harming those who
care for me. If I can do it, so can you.”

“Oh, really? What’s that, listening to music
in your iPod, maybe even watching romantic comedies in the comfort
of your home, cuddled up against your boyfriend?”

“No.” Choosing not to inform him I haven’t
had a boyfriend since, oh,
never
, I reply, “I like to
run.”

This poor, poor boy.
What has life done
to you?
Not only does he not trust me, but he’s scared I’ll
take his belongings, and he’s under the assumption my life is
perfect. Maybe my family gives off that vibe, but the truth is that
my parents will probably sell the summer house once they divorce.
The truth is I’ll probably never return to Sandy Shores due to the
painful memories that occurred here. The truth is I don’t know what
happens next, and I’m terrified.

And damn it if I don’t sniffle, totally
giving away my emotions.
You betrayed me, body and mind!
He
releases his hold. Still within arm’s reach, he cautiously searches
my face, his gaze roving all over, from eyes to nose to lips . .
.

I inhale a deep breath and close my eyes.
“Okay, so we don’t really trust each other yet. That’s fine, but
how can we change?” Stealing a glance up at him, I notice his
features are less severe.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, looking
even more distraught, like it pains him to speak about this. Like
he doesn’t really want my help.

Wiping my eyes, I say, “Well, I think we
need to figure out the basics: where you’re staying, when to meet
up, stuff we can mutually agree on. I don’t want this to be
one-sided.”
Please, please, please don’t back out of
this.

“I can do the basics, I guess.”
Surprisingly, he extends his hand and says, “Hi, I’m Logan.”

A gradual smile crosses my mouth. Maybe he
isn’t a lost cause, after all. “Hi, Logan. I’m Chloe.”

The truth is . . . I don’t want to be alone
anymore.

Five
•
Chloe

“
T
ell me about what
you were like before,” I say, plucking blades of grass and tossing
them at the water.

“Before?” Logan’s lain back, resting on his
elbows. We’ve been sitting for hours, waiting on the moon to rise
and cast its pearlescent glow on the lake. Ripples steadily lap
against the shore.

“Yeah. Like, what did you do before you . .
. before you ended up like, you know . . .?”

“This?” he finishes, smoothly waving at
himself.

I nod.

“I played football, mostly. Quarterback.” He
stares straight ahead, his face a blank canvas in which I want to
paint a smile, or any emotion. “My dad always pushed me to be the
best quarterback our town had seen in years. But the more pressure
he and my coaches applied, the more I struggled, and the more I
failed. My arm gave out mid-season—tore my rotator cuff—and I was
out just like that.” He snaps his fingers once for emphasis. “After
I was benched, some of my fellow teammates said they had a miracle
cure for the pain. They told me if I started taking morphine, I’d
be back to normal in no time at all, that I’d be playing again
before the season was over.” He shakes his head, brusquely
exhaling. “You see what good that did.”

“And you blame them for getting you
hooked?”

“I blame them, I blame my father, I blame my
coaches—the list goes on and on.”

“But not yourself?”

He snaps his head in my direction, his face
warping in irritation. “Of course not. How was I supposed to know
I’d become addicted to the one thing they promised would help my
situation?”

I ignore his outburst, figuring he doesn’t
need somebody to argue with; he needs somebody who will listen.
“So, tell me, is morphine what you’re addicted to now?”

His body relaxes a little, as do his
features. “No.”

I wait and wait and wait for more
information, but he doesn’t deliver. God knows I don’t want to get
him riled up again. If there’s one thing Logan needs besides rehab,
it’s anger management.

“I’ve got to head out. If your parents
weren’t worried about you earlier, they probably are now,” he
says.

“Doubt it.” We spend a moment in silence.
“When will I see you again?” I’m surprised at how my voice barely
registers.

“I’ll stop by in the next couple of days, or
something.” He shrugs.

Ouch
. He’s obviously not impressed
with my rehabilitation skills.

We stand and awkwardly gaze at each other,
unsure how to say goodbye.

“Until next time,” I say.

“Yep. See ya.”

As I watch him walk in the opposite
direction, I can’t help but mentally fist pump and pat myself on
the back. Though it doesn’t seem like I got very far, some deeper
part of me shrieks,
Yes, you did!
Not only did I learn his
name, but he also gave me a little glimpse of his world, why he
turned out the way he is. That’s something, right?

Back home, Mom’s passed out on the couch and
the TV screen casts eerie flashes across the walls in the living
room.

“C’mon,” I say, pulling the throw off her.
“Let’s get you tucked in.”

She shakes her head, still asleep. “He has
to be there. He has to.” Her words trail off into nothing more than
a hoarse whisper.

I frown. “Who? Dad?”

Just the mention of him brings a smile to
her face, even while she’s dreaming.

“Okay, Mom. He’s waiting for you in bed.
Let’s get you upstairs.” Truth is . . . it’s very unlikely my
father is waiting on my mom. He’s probably out painting the town
and won’t be back until tomorrow. Nevertheless, I loop Mom’s arm
around my neck and pull her up. She’s dead weight as I help her to
the master suite, and we both stumble twice on the staircase. But
once we reach her bedroom, she easily collapses on the mattress. I
pull the comforter and sheet down then up, tucking her in.

And I was right—Dad’s not here.

“Night, Mom. Sleep well,” I whisper.

She mumbles incoherently.

Downstairs, I rummage through the
refrigerator, settling on bottled water and a bag of cheese cubes.
As I meander to the couch, the knob on the front door rattles. Keys
jingle on the opposite side. Let’s hope I don’t have to help his
drunken ass to bed, too—that would be the proverbial icing on top
of the babysitting cake.

“Oh, uh . . . hey, pumpkin,” says Dad, who
doesn’t look half as smashed as I thought he would.

“Late night at the office?” I finally sit
down, snatching the remote from the arm of the couch, and flip
through TV channels. This late, nothing’s on, but it gives me
something to do, as opposed to looking my dad in the eye.

“No, uh, just out with Dan. Catching up and
stuff.”

Jeez, can you lay off the stammering a
little? It almost makes you, you know, sound like a liar.

“That’s cool.”

“Is your mother in bed?”

Keeping my eyes fixed on the TV screen, I
reply, “Yes, Dad, your
wife
is in bed.”

He’s immobile on the foyer. “So, uh, I take
it she’s had another one of her nights?”

This time, I glare at him, hoping he’ll get
the message. “Of course she had one of her nights. But what do you
expect when her husband does everything he can to avoid her?”

“That’s not true,” he says, stepping a few
feet forward. “It’s just . . . your mother and I . . . we’re two
different people now than we were twenty years ago. Things change.
People
change. That’s a way of life, I guess.” His fingers
drag through his chestnut-colored hair. Suddenly, I’m glad I
inherited my mom’s blonde tresses and most of her genetics. Is that
a horrible thing for me to say, because I don’t want to be
associated with my dad?

“Whatever happened to ‘till death do us
part’ along with the rest of your wedding vows?” I question. “Do
they mean nothing to you?”

He progressively moves to stand behind me.
Leaning over the back of the couch, I now smell the stench of beer
laden on his breath, floating like a thick fog between us. “We
meant every word at the time. But, until you’re married for a
couple of decades, you have no idea what it’s like.”

I swivel on the seat cushion. “So, tell me
what it’s like, Dad. I’m all ears. Tell me . . . Is it absolutely
horrifying, loving somebody until your bones ache, because you feel
that deeply for them? Or maybe it was horrible because you two were
so young when you had me and things were just never the same
again.”
Oh, no.
Word vomit is about to detonate in T-minus 3
. . . 2 . . . 1 . . . “Or
maybe
it’s because you didn’t love
her enough and that’s why you’re having an affair!” God, I’ve done
it now.