Tailspin (Better Than You) (26 page)

              She lets out a harsh breath. “God, I thought you’d never ask.”

              Grabbing Logan’s hand, I help her stand, pausing to throw a few twenties on the table for the food we ordered but won’t be eating. She squeezes my hand with a smile on her face, following close behind as we weave through tables and chairs.

              Walking outside is like walking into a sauna, despite the fact that it’s December. Winter doesn’t exist in Miami. The moon is full, casting everything in a white light that’s almost blinding. I glance at my car, then at the water behind us, and pull Logan towards the waves. She follows without question. She always has.

              When we get to the docks, I help Logan walk up the steps. She looks out at the boats moored and finally asks, “Where are we going?”

              Facing her, I step close enough that her chest brushes against mine as she breathes. I can smell her lip gloss. “Do you trust me?”

              “Yes.” No hesitation.

              “Come on.” I lead her to the end of the dock, away from the artificial lights of the lamps and towards the shimmering water. Her hand is soft in mine, her feet following willingly. There aren’t many visible stars in the sky, which makes it seem all the more infinite.

              I step onto the last boat on the deck, and turn around to help Logan. She gathers the length of her dress in one hand and steps up, leaning against my chest for support once she’s landed. I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer, the boat rocking gently underneath us.

              “Can we get in trouble for this?” she asks, her voice breathy and uneven.

              “Yeah,” I say, bending to run the tip of my nose underneath her ear. Her hand tightens around my bicep, head tilting back and to the side as if someone’s cut the strings on her control.

              “Is this all we are?” I can feel the vibrations of her voice through the thin skin of her neck.

              “I don’t know what we are,” I answer honestly. “Is this enough?”

              “Yeah,” she responds, her hand trailing up my arm to wrap around my neck. “It is.”

              I pull back enough to look into her eyes, almost black in the shadows cast across her face. “For how long?”

              “However long it takes us to figure it out,” she says simply.

              Without another word, I turn and lead her to the front of the boat. We lie side by side on the deck, our hands the only parts of us that are touching.

              “My mom used to say that a full moon brought out the crazies,” Logan says. “That people could feel the gravitational pull to the dark side of it.”

              I smile. “Pink Floyd.”

              “She tried killing herself three full moons in a row. I was eleven.”

              I don’t know what to say, whether I should tell her I’m sorry or pretend it’s not a big deal, just as she seems to be doing. “What did you do?” I finally ask.

              “The first time, I called an ambulance. After she was taken away, I searched the house for all of the pill bottles and kept count of them. The second time, I knew she didn’t take enough to actually kill herself. The third time,” Logan says with a laugh, but it’s humorless, dry. “I had already replaced the pills with tic tacs. She was already so high she didn’t even notice.”

              “That’s not really something an eleven year old should have to deal with.”

              “Yeah. Probably not.” She shifts so that she’s facing me, her body curled over. “I just can’t forget. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face, or Dave’s, or Danny’s or Sam’s. Sometimes yours.” She lifts a hand to touch my cheek, so lightly it barely exists.

             
I have dreams
, I want to tell her, but instead swallow the words, keep them locked tight in the box with the rest of the things I know I shouldn’t say. “I don’t even know what parts of my memories are real,” she adds.

              “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” I finally say.

              She’s silent a moment, her eyes growing glassy. “You tried. You were the only one who tried, and I pushed you away. I was lost, you offered me a compass, and I denied it. Who does that?” She smiles now, playful.

              “If it makes you feel any better, the compass was broken. You were better off without it.”

              “I’m never better off without you,” she says, cupping my face in her small hand, intense and serious. “I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you.”

              Shifting so that her head is underneath my arm, I pull her close, noting how her hand fists the fabric of my shirt as if she’s afraid I’ll float away. “What are you doing for Christmas?” I ask, my lips against her hair, breathing her in. “I know it’s kinda far away, but-”

              “Amelia tells me you’re an amazing cook,” she interrupts, sarcasm in her voice.

              I laugh quietly, Logan’s body jostling with mine. “If you call heating up Boston Market cooking. It’s becoming a tradition.”

              “Well I personally can’t wait to taste it.”

              The first thing on my to-do list: Buy a bigger dining room table.

34

December 8, 2010

              “A table?”

              “Yeah. A dining room table.”

              “You want me to help you pick out a dinner table?”

              “Fuck, Derek, I just need a few minutes. Are you coming in or not?”

              Derek sighs loud, dramatically. “I guess.”

He parks the car and we step out, gathering looks as we walk through the parking lot. They probably think something’s about to go down, considering that both of us are in full uniform.

The minute we step inside, a sales associate approaches us, warily eyeing our badges and holsters. “Can I help you, officers?” she asks politely.

Derek points his thumb at me. “He needs a dinner table.”

“A dining room table,” I correct.

Throwing his hands in the air, he faces me. “What’s the difference?”

“It’s called a dining room table. Not a dinner table. A dinner table sounds like one of those little TV tables or something-”

“It sounds like a table where you eat dinner and-”

“Yeah, in the
dining
room, dipshit.”

“Um, excuse me?”

Derek and I turn towards the sales woman, who looks flustered and timid, like two officers arguing is the world’s scariest thing.

“Can you just point us to your tables, please?” I ask nicely. She extends her arm to the right and without another word, turns and walks away.

“You scared her.” Derek walks in the direction she pointed.

“Right.
I
scared her, with my baby blue eyes and luscious blonde locks. Not you and your Hispanic giant self.”

“That’s racist, man. Just because I’m Hispanic doesn’t mean that-”

Before he finishes his sentence, I catch sight of long brown hair and slender shoulders and I know that it’s Logan. Even from behind. I could pick her out of a crowd from a mile away if I had to. She’s standing in front of a bedroom set with Melissa, looking as if she’s in a deep discussion.

“Wow,” Derek says, appearing next to me out of nowhere. “She looks good when she’s not on drugs.”

I nudge him away from me. “She looked good before, asshole. And that’s exactly the kind of shit you aren’t supposed to say to a woman.”

He covers his mouth with a hand, a surprised expression widening his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you finally admitting to being a woman?”

Because I can’t help it, I laugh and nudge him again. A little too hard, I guess, because he loses his balance and backs up into a lamp. It hits the ground hard and fast, glass bits flying across the floor and ensuring that every person in the room is looking our way. Including Logan and Melissa.

Backing away, Derek adjusts his uniform and puts on his business face. “Nice one,
dipshit
,” he whispers out of the side of his mouth.

The same woman from before comes rushing towards us, her hands shooing us out of the way as someone else brings a vacuum cleaner over. Scratching my head, trying to hide my face and the embarrassment I hope isn’t noticeable, I head towards Logan and Melissa.

Derek ducks his head towards mine. “Is that Sam?”

“No. Melissa.” I can see the mix up, since they both have blonde hair. But where Sam looked worn and dull, Melissa is shiny and new. Everything about her is put together and cheery. I’m not sure how she and Logan are friends, but it seems to work out pretty well.

When we finally reach them, Melissa is the first one to speak. “What are you guys doing here? Besides breaking stuff.”

“We came to look at dining room tables,” I say at the same time Derek says, “We’re looking for a dinner table.”

Instead of starting another argument, I roll my eyes and point at him. “This is Derek, by the way.”

While Derek and Melissa introduce themselves to each other, I take a step towards Logan. She hasn’t said a word since we approached them, and I’m not sure why. Her eyes keep skimming over me, jumping from my badge to the gun on my side to my nametag and then to my eyes.

“Everything okay?” I ask in a whisper.

She swallows, a little ball forming and disappearing under the skin of her throat. “Yeah.” But she won’t meet my eyes when she says it.

As I open my mouth to demand the truth, Derek’s phone rings. I look behind me just as he answers it and steps away. It’s a quick call, with only a few head nods from his side. When he returns to our little circle, his jaw muscles are flexed and his hands are opening and closing to a rhythm. Fist, relax, fist, relax, but he puts on a smile and rejoins the conversation.

“Anyway, we should get going,” Melissa says, glancing at Logan and grabbing her arm loosely.

Logan’s eyes shift over Derek and I quickly, a tight, fake smile on her face. “See ya,” she says, and then they’re walking away so quickly you’d think they were being chased.

“What just happened?” I ask no one in particular, but of course Derek takes it upon himself to answer.

“Beats me. Logan looked like she saw a ghost or something.”

Or something
. “Who was on the phone?”

“Uh, yeah, about that.”

Derek always does this. He has to lead into his bad news, like dipping a toe into the shallow end of a cold pool. He’s nothing if not thorough and careful, which makes him a good cop but a terrible friend, in my opinion. Most of the time I just want to punch him in the face.

“Derek-”

He puts his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know. It was Chief, alright?”

“And?” Two more seconds and I swear to God-

“Danny’s up for parole.”

Fuck.
That’s not what I was expecting.

“How is that even possible?”

“He has a good lawyer. And he has some good behavior shit under his belt.”

“He’s a fucking drug dealer and woman abuser. I don’t care if he’s the fucking pope.” I stalk out of the store, drawing the attention of everyone once again. Once outside, I look up at the sky and take big, deep breaths. Derek stands next to me. “When?” I ask, trying not to hit him in the face just because he’s closest.

              As if sensing that, he backs up. “This week. Friday, to be exact.”

             
Fuck
. “What are the odds he’ll get it?”

              “Pretty high.”

             
Fuck fuck fuck.
“I’ll kill him, Derek. I swear to God if he-”

“Nathan, calm down,” he says, stepping closer again. A couple walks out of the store behind us and he lowers his voice. “We’ll be ready if he makes a move.”

“Yeah.” I rub my hands over my face and take one final, deep breath. “Yeah, I know.”

~~

              I’m mid knock when the door flies open, Melissa’s somber face on the other side. Without a word, she walks away towards the kitchen, leaving the door open. Assuming it’s an invite, I step in and kick it shut. The first thing I notice is that Logan is nowhere to be seen. The second thing is the smell in the air; sugar cookies.

              “What’s the occasion?”

              Melissa emerges from below the counter with a pan of fresh cookies in hand. “No occasion.” Her answer is short, final.

              “Where’s Logan?”

              “In her room.”

              Silence, except for the shuffle of cookies from pan to plate. “Mind if I go knock on her door?” I don’t know why I’m asking for permission. Probably because Melissa is kind of scary and it feels like she might be mad at me.

              “Be my guest,” she says, still fixated on scraping cookies off the pan.

              Not needing any further pushing, I turn and walk towards Logan’s room. Before I knock, I press my ear against the cold wood, listening for I don’t know what. It’s quiet, just the creaking of the fan every so often. I knock lightly, but there’s no answer. Raising my hand to knock again, I jump a little when the door opens, revealing a sleep rumpled Logan. Even half-awake she’s beautiful.

              “Hey.”

              “Hey. Come in.”

              As I walk by, my arm brushes against her chest. An accidental boob graze. Usually I would make a joke, but it doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. The curtains are closed on her window, the only light coming from a small desk lamp. The sheets on her bed are still made, but there’s a dent in the middle where it looks like she was lying.

              “Is everything okay?” I ask, my eyes searching the room.

              “You ask that a lot.” She sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her knees to her chest.

              I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

              “You’re the one who’s here randomly, so you tell me.”

             
Shit
. She’s right. For the first time, I understand Derek and why he beats around the bad news bush. I want to start out slow, soften the blow a bit. But how do you soften a literal blast from the past? I sit next to her, the bed dipping with my weight and forcing Logan to lean on me for support. Maybe it’s better this way.