Last Summer (11 page)

“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 planning 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

I
t’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.

Oh, Chloe, Chloe, Chloe. What am I going to
do with you? Do you really want to help me, or is this all just a
pity party?

I want to fight against my
conscience, but after the way I acted toward her the other day,
part of me seriously doubts whether she’ll continue to fight for
me, the
recovered
me. Even though I
still have a long ways to go in that department, I’m slowly getting
there. I was a fool to run off like that and search for my
drugs—drugs I told her to hide. Then, I had to shrug her off,
basically telling her to get lost, after she took the time to
search for me.

If this is her approach toward quitting, I
don’t blame her; I’ve been a selfish asshole all along, and she
doesn’t deserve my antics. She doesn’t deserve any of me.

I pass through the alleyway beside Bernie’s,
strutting toward the rear parking lot—the last resting place of
Jake. I glance up at the clear, blue sky, as if he might be
hovering somewhere up there, watching. I hope not. I hope he’s
moved on to bigger and better things.

“Rest in peace, buddy,” I say, stopping long
enough to stare at the yellow tape sectioning off the crime scene.
The horrible memory of his dead body, stabbed and bleeding, will
stay with me forever. And God knows I should’ve come forward, I
should’ve told the police I had a general idea of who did this so
his family would’ve had some closure. But I didn’t. I’m a coward.
Had that been me—and it very well may be by the time all is said
and done—I think Jake would’ve told the cops he knew who my killer
was.

“You did this to him,” says an
all-too-familiar voice from the alley.

Big P’s voice.

I turn to run off the opposite way, but stop
short of Ice and B. A third, scrawnier man steps forward, too. I’ve
never seen him before.

Big P laughs, and the others follow his
lead, like puppets. “Not this time, Logan. I’ve given you plenty of
warning, but you avoided me at all costs.” He points toward the
scene of the crime and says, “See what happens when I don’t get
what I want?”

“You didn’t have to do that to him. He
didn’t deserve it. This is between you and me,” I tell him.

Big P’s face is wiped clean of sarcasm, and
he takes a few steps forward. “Listen here, you little shit.
Anybody who lies to me is as good as dead. This kid knew where you
were and he wouldn’t tell us, so guess what? He paid the price. Now
it’s your turn.” With a simple nod of his head to B, Ice, and the
new guy, my body is restrained. Big P is so close I can smell his
nasty breath. He glares, but I don’t break eye contact with him.
Then, he hauls off and punches me. My jaw crunches from the impact,
and my head twists to the side. I spit out blood.

It takes me a moment to regain my senses, as
they’ve been knocked out completely. “You hit like a pussy,” I say
with a smile that stings, blood dripping from one corner of my
mouth.

I encounter another punch from the opposite
side, harder than before. Nobody’s lying when they talk about
seeing stars, because I’m definitely experiencing those bright,
tiny dots right now. Plus, there’s darkness around my vision. This
time, I’m not so quick to recover.

“What, no more smartass comments?” he jests.
“That’s too bad, because I think I just figured out a way to shut
you up.” He pummels me again and again and again. I can’t even
stand on my own anymore. My head hangs, and there are so many blood
splatters on the concrete. Then, with an enthusiastic laugh, he
kicks me in the stomach.
Hard.
I wheeze and cough up more
blood. I think, if I vomit right now, it’ll be nothing but warm,
red fluid.