Last Summer (8 page)

“You sure? It’ll be a lot comfier than
sleeping on those wooden boards.” She transfers weight from one
foot to the other and clasps her hands in front. “I’m serious,
Logan. Think about this. You’ll have food and water and shelter,
which is better than what you’ve had for the past . . . however
long you’ve been living like this.”

I nod. “I’ll think about it, but no
guarantees and no promises, got it?”

She purses her lips and nods in return. “Got
it.”

The next thirty minutes are spent talking
about our lives, how we ended up here, where we want to go. Chloe
opens up regarding her past, and I tell her little regarding mine.
I know it’s selfish, but I don’t want her becoming attached and
then toss me aside when she finds a new toy. My mind tells me
Chloe’s different; she won’t do that. The other half of me is
arguing that it doesn’t matter. Once she’s gone for the summer,
with the way her living situation is, she’ll be gone forever.

She runs downstairs to get our clothes and
returns with a ball of mismatched items. Separating my clothes from
hers, I actually hold mine up and sniff the fresh scent; it reminds
me of home. My mom always washed laundry on weekends and, after
they finished drying, she’d lay them on my bed. I’ve never
forgotten their aroma—warm and clean, inviting me to put them on
and never take them off.

It’s the same way now.

Dressing in my T-shirt, boxers, and jeans, I
then throw the used towel in Chloe’s laundry hamper. “Well,” I say,
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”
For now, but you’ll be thinking
otherwise when you don’t have any H left in your system,
my
mind adds.

Climbing out the way I came in, I reach
ground level and glance back up at Chloe. She smiles and waves. Not
the same smile I want to see on her face, but it’s a smile. Walking
back to the cottage, past the overgrown brush and underneath the
sun’s heated gaze, I secretly wish I agreed to sleep in her
closet.

Nine
•
Chloe

O
n my jog over to
the cottage, the sun already blazes on my face and arms, and the
tourists and locals are taking advantage of this fact by hanging
out on the river. Two people zip across the water on jet skis,
spraying anyone within range. A third person on a jet ski has an
inner tube attached, with a girl lounging in it.

“Ready?” I hear the man call to the girl in
the oversized, black donut.

“Ready!” she replies, followed by a screech
of anticipation.

The man takes off slowly, but eventually
increases his speed, and the girl in the inner tube screams as they
whiz down the lake. I grin and shake my head. Must be nice, having
the luxury of spending all day on the water. I had hoped my parents
would take our boat out one last time, but that’s obviously not
going to happen. I’m sure Dad will sell it once their divorce is
finalized.

As I enter the cottage, I notice Logan is
curled up in his usual corner, sweating profusely, hugging his
knees to his chest.

“Oh, my God. Logan? Logan!” His eyes stare
past me, to nothing. Racing to him, and careful to avoid any holes
in the floor, I shove him a little, just to see if he responds. As
if he’s caught in slow motion, he lifts one fist, turns it palm up,
and unwraps his clenched fingers.

“Take it,” he says in a gust. “Take it and
bury it somewhere so I’ll never find it.”

I glance at the objects: two needles, a bag
of I-don’t-want-to-know-what’s-in-there, a spoon, and a pipe. All
items are protected with balled-up newspaper scraps, like a
cushion, and placed in a plastic sandwich bag.

He’s handing over his stash!
Step one
is complete. I snatch the bag from him and take off toward the
woods by the cottage. Without tools to dig a hole, I’ll have to use
my fingers. It’ll be worth it, though, especially if this means
Logan is forever freed from his drug addiction.

I run and run and run until I’m completely
out of breath. Just in case he changes his mind and decides to
follow me, I need to hurry. There are so many trees that I don’t
know if I’ll ever find my way back; they all look the same. I pick
one, squatting down at its base and raking the soil with my
fingertips. The further I tunnel into the ground, the harder and
more compact the dirt becomes, which slows me down. I need Logan’s
stuff to be buried forever, not someplace where hikers or a
passerby will stumble across it.

Finishing up, I pack the dirt, throw a few
twigs and leaves on top, and begin walking back to the cottage. I’m
worried about Logan. I’ve never seen him look like that; it must be
a side effect, or he’s beginning withdrawal.

He’s crying when I return. So much so, his
cheeks are shiny from the amount of tears staining them.

“Oh, sweetie.” I sit down, pressing my hand
to his forehead. He’s burning up with a fever.

“Why’d you take it, Chloe? Why?” he begs and
scorns simultaneously. “You shouldn’t have taken it; you should’ve
left it alone.”

“What good would that have done?”

“I want it baaaaaack!” he screams.
Violently, he shakes his head, his shaggy hair slinging back and
forth. “Back, back, back,” he repeats over and over again.

Reality check, Chloe. This is the real
deal
. “You’re not getting it back, and I’m not telling you
where it is. And if you continue to act this way, I’m leaving.” I
stand up, but he grabs my arm, his fingernails digging into my
skin. I try to yank out of his grasp, but he squeezes tighter.

“Take me to it,” he says, his eyes filling
with more tears, pooling against angry, red rims. “I made a
mistake. Can I
please
have it back?”

“No,” I state with finality, then wrench my
arm free of him. I take off running out of the cottage, headed for
my house. I don’t know why I run, other than the fact that he’s
completely off his rocker right now and I’m uncertain what he’s
capable of.

He catches up, though, snatching me around
my waist and pulling me to the ground. When he flips me over on my
back, I flail and kick, trying to push him off. We wrestle for a
matter of minutes, neither one of us truly gaining control over the
other, until my limbs become weak and strained. I slap him once
across the face and he growls in response, clasping my wrists and
pinning them above my head as he looms over me. This brings back
sore memories of my dad, which are all too recent. Of course, the
experience with my dad never went far, thanks to Mom, but this is
still pretty damn close.

“Get off!” I scream.

“Tell. Me. Where. You. Hid. It,” he
articulates through gritted teeth.

I turn my head away and, pressing my eyes
shut, hold on to a tiny shard of hope that Logan will return to his
former self. “Please stop,” I whisper. “Don’t do this.”

Logan doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything; he
freezes.

I roll my head so I look up at him once
more. His eyes fume, like all the anger of the world is seething
behind them, unrestrained.

“Please,
please
,” I plea. “I’m doing
this for your own good, Logan. You have to trust me.”

Something in him shifts, like he’s finally
aware of his surroundings, aware of me. The fury and wrath I
witnessed just a moment ago is now gone, and is replaced by fright.
“Jesus, Chloe. I’m sorry.” Freeing my wrists, he tugs me into his
arms, onto his lap. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he rubs my
back. “I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t . . . I wasn’t thinking. I’m not
me
.”

“I know,” I choke out, letting a tear
descend. For the first time since the incident with my dad, I want
to talk to somebody about how it made me feel, about how it made me
irate. “My dad attacked me the other night, so I sort of . . .
froze up. I thought you might do the same.”

Logan pushes me backward so he can look at
me. “He fucking attacked you? How?”

Shaking my head, I glance away. “He was
drunk. I pissed him off. Luckily, my mom was there to stop him.” I
shrug. “And that’s that.”

“Hell no it’s not. Is that how you got the
bruises on your knees?” His hands immediately slide to the bend in
my legs, lightly brushing his fingertips across my skin, searing my
flesh with his touch. I shiver and close my eyes, savoring the
sensation. “Tell me, damn it!” He literally shakes me out of my
musing.

Hoarsely, I respond, “Yes.”

Pressing his lips to my forehead, he makes a
gruff, throaty sound. “I’m sorry that happened to you. If I could
find a way to fix it, if I could knock some sense into him, I’d do
it.”

I swallow back the burning lump in my
throat. “I’ll be fine. It was just . . . unexpected. He’s never
done something like that before.”

“Well, he should’ve never crossed the line,
no matter how much he’d been drinking.”

“If my mom hadn’t been there, I don’t know
what would’ve happened.”

He pulls me to his chest. “I’m glad she
was.” Wrapping one arm around my waist, he resumes languorous loops
across my back with his fingers. “Do you know what you do to me?”
he whispers against my ear, catching me by surprise.

My heart speeds up, and my mind isn’t within
reason. So, I shake my head.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he goes
on, “but I know if I become attached, you’ll be taken from me.
Like, this is too good to be true.” He takes a few ragged breaths,
and then presses his brow to mine. “Everything I’ve ever cared
about has disappeared from my life. I don’t want the same to happen
with you.”

“It won’t,” I say, but I can’t make
promises. Truth: he’s right. In a couple of months, I’ll be
leaving, heading back home, and I’m not sure what will happen to
Logan, or
us
.

He groans. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Chloe.
I’m serious. I don’t want to lose you. You’re the first good thing
to happen to me in a long, long time.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Logan,” I say. “Not
about something like this.”

A gleam sparks in his eyes at my response.
He murmurs, “What do we do now? Where do we go from here?”

“Well, first, we can go back to my place,
where you’ll be staying until we can figure something out. Your
friend’s murderer is still out there, somewhere, and I don’t want
you all alone.”

His thumb grazes my cheek. “I’m capable of
defending myself.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I reply, “but I
worry when you’re out here. You need food and a roof over your head
and . . . me.” I blatantly grin.

“You, huh?”

“Yes, me.”

“Yes, you,” he agrees.

“So it’s settled, then?” I raise my eyebrows
and cross my arms, challenging him to say he can’t stay at my
house.

He takes the bait. “All right. I’ll sleep in
your closet.”

After Logan gathers his backpack, we amble
to the lake house. I enter through the sliding glass doors at the
rear, and Logan climbs up to the second floor, to my bedroom
window.

“I’m going to run to the grocery store
tomorrow. Is there anything you want?” Mom asks as I pass by the
living room on my way upstairs.

“Uhhh,” I stammer, stepping back one stair,
“nothing I can think of right now. I’ll let you know?”

She nods. “Oh, and Chloe,” she says,
stopping me again. “I’ve thought about it, and if you want to go to
the police station and file a restraining order, let me know.”

“Restraining order? For what?”

“For your father, of course.” She narrows
her eyes. “Why else?”

I let my shoulders fall. “Mom, I understand
you’re looking out for me, but Dad was drunk. It was a one-time
thing in the eighteen years I’ve been alive, and I just don’t see
him as a threat.”

She purses her lips. “Fine. But if you
change your mind . . .”

“I know.”

She returns to the TV, and I return to my
room, which I haven’t been more excited to see than now. If the
butterflies in my stomach are any indication, then Logan is the
only positive thing to come out of this summer. He may also be the
most destructive.

I close the bedroom door behind me,
sprinting across my room to flip the latch and open my window.
“Sorry, got sidetracked by my mom.”

“No worries,” he says, sliding one leg, then
another, through the opening.

“I’m going to grab some extra sheets and
pillows so you can fix your bed.” I add, “I wish we had an air
mattress.”

“That’s okay,” says Logan. “This is better
than rotted wooden boards, bugs crawling across my body, and
mustiness.” He smiles genuinely.

Searching our linen closet in the hallway
upstairs, I find a couple of extra sets of sheets, as well as one
extra pillow—not two like I had hoped for, but it’s better than
nothing. Logan creates his spare bed, while I manage to sneak more
food from the kitchen.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says when I
return. He sits on the edge of my bed, flipping through channels on
my television. “It’s just . . . I don’t remember the last time I
watched TV.”

“Of course I don’t mind. Watch whatever you
want to.”

He settles down, with his back against the
wall, selecting an action flick. I double check that my bedroom
door is locked, and then curl up next to him, smelling a mixture of
both mold and laundry detergent on his clothes.

“I like this,” Logan says, rubbing his hand
up and down my arm. His touch spreads tingling warmth under my skin
and into my abdomen. “It reminds me of home.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s clean and safe.”

Okay, there’s really nothing to say to that.
He’s been bouncing from abandoned houses to empty alleyways for
months now and this is bringing back memories. Good memories. Maybe
I underestimated myself when I took him on as a project. I mean, if
I’m being honest, the guy isn’t some drone from an alien planet;
he’s a human being, with feelings. So all of this homeliness may be
exactly what he needs for his rehabilitation process.