Chasing Impossible

by Katie McGarry

  “Pissed. He’s mad I won’t tell him anything on you. Spent last night slamming near everything around here. Stomping his feet like a two-year-old. It would be funny if I didn’t like him.”

  A sickening sensation sloshes around inside me. Denny and West have a messed-up relationship to begin with and I don’t like being in the middle of something Denny thought he lost years ago when West was in diapers.

  I push around my food and try to ignore the pain and the desperate need to ask if Denny has heard anything from Logan. Not that they know each other, not that I think Logan would think to stop by here, but maybe Denny overhead West talking to him or just...dammit...I’ve heard nothing from Logan since he left my room last week and that’s not okay. It is, but it isn’t and I understand that girls are confusing.

  “I’ll stop coming around here if it will help. The only time West can work with you is at night.” It’s a seriously empty offer, but if Denny agreed, I’d do it.

  It’s funny, I had been on my own for so long that I was used to being alone. Fine with just having Isaiah and Denny around on occasion in case I needed decent human interaction, but after making friends then dumping my friends...alone just feels so sickening...lonely.

  “Not an option.” Denny could kill with the look he shoots me. “West’s got a lot to learn how this neighborhood works, but he’s smart. Won’t take long for him to figure it out.”

  I squish my lips to the side and pick at my pancakes with the plastic fork wondering if West needs to be schooled on this way of life. He’s here because he’s curious about Denny, a man he recently found out he’s related to. West will start college this fall and then will move a long way away from here and on to having a very, very decent life.

  “Kid, if you don’t eat, your dad’s going to be pissed and that’s going to make me pissed. No one likes it when I’m angry.”

  I roll my eyes. “No one thinks you’re scary. You might as well be running a day care for border collies instead of a halfway house for drunks with a criminal record.”

  “Everyone thinks I’m scary.” A shadow falls over his face and I do spot the demons in him that everyone else senses, but considering Satan hangs with me on a daily basis all I see are kittens bathing in sunlight.

  I force the food into my mouth and down my throat, not because he’s scary but because I’ll seriously hate being hungry later when I skip dinner for the eighth time in a row to avoid my former friends. Sure, I make money, but I need it all to pay for the nurses, my grandmother’s medical bills that aren’t covered by Medicare and upkeep of the house. Acting adult and responsible sucks and it’s also expensive.

  Because Denny and Dad were best friends, non blood brothers, and cared for each other in the way it counted as they grew up in this neighborhood, Denny feeds me and because I love my dad, I let Denny buy the food and I show. It makes Dad feel good that I’m relying on at least one person not related to drugs.

  “I want to see him.”

  Denny balls his fist, and with a deep breath, the white on his knuckles returns to pink as he releases his grip. “You’ve already seen him once this year.”

  “Well, I hadn’t been shot then and I have now and that seems like something we can bond over.” Seeing my dad is the equivalent to a toddler hugging a beloved blanket during the dark of night and I’ve earned this visit.

  “Visitors fuck him up. Especially you. He’s got to keep his head in the game in there.”

  My throat burns and I drink to hide any of the emotion on my face. I pretend Dad’s away on business. He left a lot as I grew up. He’d be there one day, gone the next, but he’d always return. Each day when I wake up, I reset my mind to believe he’s gone for the day and he’ll be home tomorrow. “Does he know I was shot?”

  Denny rests his elbows on the bar and dips his head for a minute before lifting it to look at me. “He knows. Why do you think you’re getting pancakes today?”

  The breath rushes out of me because yeah—that hurt. The same way a hot piece of steel felt entering my body.

  Dad used to make pancakes for me before every big school event. Today—I was supposed to go to some sort of stupid summer school for smart people.

  “That look right there, kid, that’s why I’m not in favor of you visiting your dad. You’re strong, Abigail. Stronger than most and that’s what your dad needs to see when you walk in. Gotta admit, you don’t look good. Your color’s off. You’re slow. You don’t seem to be healing right, and I can spot emotion in your eyes. That shit right there—in the world you’re dancing in—that’s got to stop. I can’t let you visit him like this. He’ll be pissed you’re hurting, and in return he’ll make somebody bleed and cause all sorts of problems for himself.”

  It’s as if his words made all that I have been battling more than true, and I lay my head on the bar using my arms as a pillow. Nate says I’m not resting enough. Nadia thinks the wound on my back is getting infected. Peggy thinks I’m suffering from a broken heart.

  Ricky and my bank account of a cubby demand that I make up for lost time. The latter of all that leads me to ignore all the medical advice.

  “Linus thinks we might have a traitor. He thinks that person could be related to who shot me.” Which means one of the guys who is supposed to have my back might stick a knife in it and considering I already have an angry, raw wound there, I’m not overly excited about adding another.

  Denny freezes and the temperature in the room drops twenty degrees. “Why the fuck are you just telling me this now?”

  My shrug the pathetic response. Denny’s not connected to my career and I shouldn’t be telling him this now, but he’s the gatekeeper between me and Dad. The admission is desperate, it’s manipulative, it’s low, but hey—Dad taught me well. “Can I see him now?”

  Denny doesn’t answer but he kicks a box of liquor bottles on his way to his office. Satisfied with myself, I straighten, swivel in my seat and finish the rest of my pancakes. I may be down, but I still got game.

  Logan

  Isaiah: Off to be smart?

  I pause midstride to answer and the guy walking behind me almost runs into me, but then goes around and enters the school building. The kid walks too damn fast with too short of a space between strides and looks like something was shoved up his ass.

  I’m always smart. I’m off to be around other people who get off on proving their smart to others. I don’t have to prove shit.

  Have fun with that. We hunting again tonight?

  Isaiah can have a funny way with words, yet still call it straight. The past few nights, we’ve been driving around, going to places where Isaiah knows people from Eric’s side can gather. In other words, we’ve been hunting for Abby’s shooter.

  Yeah. I feel like we’re running out of time.

  Me too, but we’re going to need solid info to convince Abby to change. Taking Rachel out first tonight. I’ll text you when I’m done.

  Since Abby pushed us all away a week ago, we’ve decided to grant Abby her space while we solved the problem. Abby’s scared that I saw her shooter and she’s going deeper into a world she needs out of to protect me. Linus can’t use the bastard who shot her against her when it comes to me if the shooter is behind bars.

  I pocket my cell and enter Eastwick High. I’ve been here before, to play ball, but I’ve never been in the building. I’m slow as I take it all in and try to gauge where the hell I’m heading. Paperwork they sent said to gather in the auditorium. I follow the kid with the stick up his butt. Odds are we’re heading in the same direction.

  Two girls exit a bathroom and give me a mixed-up assessment. Spark in their eyes explains that they like what they see, especially my arms. The confusion is due to my jeans, red collared polo, and Bullitt County High baseball cap on with the bill down low. Everyone else here looks the same—cows in black and white, s
ometimes gray, all pressed from the mold of the boring business meeting they’re about to attend.

  I’d rather plug two bullets into my own brain than sit in business meetings for the rest of my life. Don’t plan on dressing for that part later, why the hell would I play the part now?

  A roar of voices echoes into the hallway and when I enter the auditorium it’s a herd of them down toward the stage. Black pants or skirts. White shirts. The individuality of the beasts being moved from one field to another and eventually to the butcher.

  Moo.

  I drop into the first wooden folding seat in the back and when I glance down the row a smile stretches across my face. It’s long dark hair, devilish lips meant to kiss, jeans that no doubt hug her ass in a way that causes my blood to turn hot, and a girl oblivious to the world as she scrolls on her phone.

  I stand, stride down four more seats and then plop into the seat next to her. Abby’s head snaps up like she’s about to explain Revelations to me using her fists and instead her mouth pops open without sound escaping.

  “So you weren’t shitting on the smart,” I say.

  Abby recovers quickly and powers off her phone. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. You see the guy down there?” She wiggles her fingers toward the herd. “Older guy? Looks like he should be filed away in one of those old-school card catalogs in a library? The one everyone is falling all over?”

  The lone adult loving being in charge. “Yeah.”

  “I’m blackmailing him.”

  Abby’s hazel eyes give nothing away and this is one of the million reasons why I love being around her. A puzzle that’s always switching shape. I’m trying to gauge the lie or the truth because she’s capable of anything at any time. “With what?”

  She glances around as if she cares people are listening and when she leans into me, I can’t help but narrow my gaze on her lips. “He watches cat porn.”

  The chuckle rumbles up and out from my chest. “Cat porn?”

  Abby straightens back in her seat and winks. “Look it up. It’s totally a thing.”

  “This mean you’re talking to me again?”

  “No. I’m currently not talking to you. This is all in your imagination. I’m not talking to you, you’re not talking to me, in fact, I’m not even here. You should get your head checked, Logan. Hallucinations are so nineteen sixties.”

  “What if I’m not here, either?” I join the game. “What if neither of us are here? I’m home. You’re home. This is all some messed-up dream.”

  Abby smiles—a soft tip of the ends of that gorgeous mouth.

  We don’t need to have the conversation. She’s not changing her mind. I’m not changing mine, but Abby’s here, I’m here and we’ve got a few minutes where Abby’s going to do what she loves to do best—pretend.

  I bump my knee into hers, and I recall the night in her room and the feel of her legs tangled with mine. “I miss you.”

  Abby releases a breath while flipping her cell in her hand. “Yeah...well...” She places her arm on our shared armrest. Her smooth skin touches mine and I become hyperaware.

  She scowls and slumps in her seat like she’s lost and continues to flip her cell. Her fingers are there, next to mine and my heart picks up speed at the thought of taking them. Shouldn’t be hard. Shouldn’t be difficult. I’ve kissed Abby. In ways that if circumstances had been different clothes would have been shed.

  Holding hands—that means something. That says something. And putting myself out there with the chance of her withdrawing shakes my world more than I’d care to admit. But time with Abby is a premium and I hate being a wuss.

  The old guy claps his hands as if we’re young enough to be lead into circle time and everyone settles into seats. He goes on to explain what an honor it is to be chosen for today. How the people in this room are the best of the best. Scored higher and out performed. That the people in this room are the solutions to problems in our future.

  Abby and I glance over at each other as the entire room applauds. Neither one of us do because we share the same thoughts. A drug dealer and a kid always bent for an adrenaline high. God help us all if the world rests on our backs.

  The guy continues to drone on and on about the exciting things we’ll tackle today. Science labs, advanced math, problem solving, and new technologies. All lead by people from visiting universities. For a few lucky souls, there will be interviews for scholarships and admissions.

  Abby’s cell buzzes. With her arm remaining on the rest, she checks the text and doesn’t seem to care that I watch as she sets up a drug deal. If there’s anyone in this room that could be a tycoon for business later in life, it’d be Abby. She’d eat up anyone who stood in the path of whatever she wanted.

  She turns off her cell and returns her attention to the guy up front. The room goes dark and he cues up a PowerPoint presentation. Her arm is still there. So’s mine. The heat building between us is starting a fire in my blood.

  Abby sighs. “I should go.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I don’t belong here.”

  I shift in my seat. “Did you get a letter inviting you to this thing?”

  She nods.

  “Any interviews?”

  She shakes her head no. “My letter explained the university reps were bothered by my lack of extracurricular activities and job experience. Evidently no one believes a person of my age has several years’ experience in conflict management and aggressive pharmaceutical sales.”

  I snort and Abby smirks.

  “Take one of mine,” I suggest.

  Abby glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What?”

  “I got three interviews. Take one of mine.”

  “I think they’ll catch on that I’m not you. If the lack of a penis doesn’t tip them off, my breasts might or my lack of knowledge of which direction I should run if I magically hit a ball with a stick. That might come up in conversation.”

  “Bat, not a stick, and you run to the right. You want to go in pretending to be me, do it. But I think it would be better if you went in and sold yourself.”

  “Because drug dealer is a well-sought-after commodity in an applicant.”

  “You’re more than that.” I meet Abby’s eyes and she blinks like my words soaked in further than her ears. “The way I see it, you still owe me a dare and I’m calling you out.”

  Abby laughs and several people turn around and give us death glares as if we’re dancing at a funeral. Abby offers them that smile that promises a detour through hell and they quickly return to being part of the herd.

  “Are you telling me you’re chicken? Is a guy in a suit from a college your kryptonite?”

  Abby flips her cell around a few more times in her hand. “I’m only staying because they’re offering lunch and I hear they’re ordering Geno’s Pizza. I’ll be pissed though if they don’t have the breadsticks. They have orgasmic breadsticks.”

  “This means you’re taking my last interview?”

  “Your funeral,” she sings.

  Maybe it is. No doubt, this is going to piss plenty of people off, but Abby’s staying. If anyone is Harvard material, it’s her and if she has enough courage to waltz into a room where she isn’t expected, then I can own up to the man I claim I am.

  With a deep breath, I link my fingers with Abby’s and she jolts as if she’s experiencing the same electricity zapping through my veins. Talk about a rush. My heart races, my blood pumps harder, and when Abby sinks her fingers tighter in my grasp, I’m a man that’s flying.

  She skims her finger along mine and the sensation is one I’ve never experienced. A tingle in my bloodstream, a recognition of my skin and her softness and when I inhale, it’s the sweet smell of honeysuckle.

  There’s satisfaction in knowing I’m not the only one
affected. Abby’s face is flushed and there’s a gentleness not often found in her eyes.

  “Since you’re not here,” she says, “and I’m not here and none of this is happening, I should mention I’ve never held a guy’s hand before.”

  The admission causes me to hold on to her like I’d never let go. “That’s okay. I’ve never held a girl’s hand before, either.”

  Abby’s eyes flicker to mine and I rock our combined hands. She moves, just a centimeter, toward me. Her shoulder brushing mine, her knee making contact in a way that causes me to close my eyes, and then because this is the best damn day, Abby rests her head on my shoulder.

  Like the two of us are normal. Like the two of us are seventeen and belong in this room and don’t have a care in the world. Like how life should be.

  Abby’s pretending this isn’t real, but it is and I’m dead set on having more moments like this... a lot more.

  Abby

  Harvard. I’m sitting across from a bastard from Harvard. I’m going to drop kick Logan the next time I see him. Fucking Harvard.

  Me and Mr. Harvard have been in the library conference room for thirty minutes though, way past the maximum of fifteen allowed per student. His tie is loosened, the first button of his white shirt undone, and he’s grinning because he doesn’t know what the hell to think of me.

  He leans forward in his seat and rests his arms on his thighs. “Let me get this straight, you’re able to create an 80-percent markup on the items you sell, most are aware of this, and none of your fifty-plus client base care?”

  This guy is going back to my opening line of: I have my own business with an 80-percent markup. I have a client base where I have to turn people away and I have sales that on average triple yearly and I possibly make more than most college grads do so wow me on why I should attend your school.

  He forgot Logan pretty quickly.

  I shrug. “I’m sure they care, but the key is to act like I don’t care. That’s wrong. I’m all about customer service, but people often mistake customer service with people pleasing and that’s not the same thing. My customers ask, I provide. They tell me when to show, I do. I keep my word, which is important, but at the end of the day, I have a product they want and the beauty of capitalism is all about supply and demand. I’ve got the supply and I demand the price. Succeeding in capitalism is not for people pleasers. It’s about my clients receiving what they want and it’s about me making money.”