“Mom’s probably worried I’ll never return,” says Logan. After we took a shower together, I fixed my hair and make-up, and we dressed. Now, we’re about five minutes away from his home.
“I think she trusts you more than you give her credit for. It may not seem like it, but I saw the love she has for you and Lucas.”
Logan squeezes my thigh; his hand has been resting on it for the entire car ride. “Thanks, babe.” A minute passes before he speaks again. “I just hope they have dinner cooked.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because that’s the only time I can reason with them. Why are you giggling at me?” He grins as he sneaks a glance in my direction. “I’m serious! They won’t listen to me any other time, except at dinner. I know it’s weird, but that’s my family for ya.”
“So, if we walk in and get situated, and they haven’t offered dinner, maybe we should suggest it,” I say, raising one eyebrow and waiting for him to agree.
Logan nods his head a couple of times and narrows his eyes at the road. “Good idea.”
Five minutes later, we park on the curb outside Logan’s home. There’s a police car parked in lieu of the car we’re in, directly beside the truck. Is this about Jake? Did the cops find out about Logan’s involvement? This can’t be good.
As we enter the house, the man in uniform is speaking to Marcie as Lucas runs wild through the house.
“Logan, you’re back!” screams Lucas. He runs directly to Logan and leaps into his arms.
Logan laughs. “Of course I am, buddy.”
“Mom said she was afraid you wouldn’t return and we’d have to go look for you again,” Lucas goes on. “She said she thought you might run off.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Lucas turns to his mom. “See! I told you!”
“Calm down, Luke,” says the cop. He seems tired—exhausted, even—as if his lack of sleep is taking its toll on his mind and body. Dark circles stain the skin under his eyes, and he has gray patches of hair on either side of his head, just above his ears.
“Lucas, honey, why don’t you go wash up for dinner?” Marcie says, urging Lucas toward the hallway. Lucas takes off, full speed ahead, rounding the corner from the living room and barely stopping long enough to turn into the bathroom.
“Chloe and I were just wondering if you guys would be eating,” says Logan.
The police officer stares at me. I feel like he’s tacking me to a wooden board with six-inch nails. Why is this so unnerving?
“So you’re the Chloe I owe thanks to,” says the man. “You look mighty small, young lady, to do such considerable repair on Logan.”
Marcie swats his arm. “Oh, Phil, don’t scare the poor girl.”
He chuckles and extends his hand. “I’m Phil, by the way. Logan’s dad.”
His dad is a freaking cop? No wonder they kicked him out; it would’ve looked horrible on his father’s reputation as a police officer, not to mention the fact that his dad can’t exactly support a drug user when he’s out fighting crime every day.
I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Andrews.”
He makes a dismissive gesture. “Please, call me Phil. And come on in. Have a seat.”
We all sit down; Logan and I on the loveseat, Phil and Marcie on the couch. Seconds tick by without a single word. I wonder if this would’ve gone better had I not been here, then Logan and his parents could’ve chatted about whatever family problems they need to work on without feeling awkward.
Marcie clears her throat. “I’ll just . . . finish dinner.” She goes to the kitchen, which has a small nook for the six-seat dining table, and fishes out the dinnerware.
Phil turns his attention to Logan. “It’s good to see you, son.”
“Yeah, you too,” Logan returns.
“I can’t say it hasn’t been rough on all of us, but we’ve gotten through each day, mostly for Luke’s sake. He didn’t know what really happened. We told him you were visiting family members out west, and that was that.”
Logan nods. “It’s best he doesn’t know. At least, not for a little while, until he’s older.”
Feeling awkward, I stand up. “I’m going to see if Marcie needs help with anything.” Before Logan or Phil can protest, I make a break for it. Marcie finishes laying out the last of the silverware on the table as I arrive. “Can I help with anything?”
“Oh, no, dear. I think I have it all covered.”
“Okay,” I say, still lingering around. I don’t really want to go back to the living room because Logan and Phil are mostly likely having a heart to heart. It’s not my place to listen in. It just feels . . . invasive. They might be having a special moment, so who am I to ruin that?
Lucas comes bounding back into the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
“Chicken pot pie casserole,” says Marcie. “It’ll be ready in about five minutes. Why don’t you sit at the table until it’s ready?”
Lucas obediently sits down, facing us. “What are Logan and Dad doing?”
“They’re talking, sweetie. They’ll join us for dinner when they’re through, okay?”
“’Kay.”
“Chloe, why don’t you have a seat, too?” Marcie says as she wipes off the counter. “By the way, I feel I should apologize for earlier. It wasn’t my intent to start drama between you, Logan, and Audrey. I didn’t know they weren’t . . .” she trails off without looking me in the eyes. I didn’t know they weren’t together anymore is probably what she meant to say. But the way she mentions it, it’s as if she never wanted them to break up in the first place.
I just nod and take a seat across from Lucas. He smiles at me, and I smile back.
“You’re a lot nicer than Audrey,” he whispers.
I lean forward and so does he, like we’re sharing our deepest, darkest secrets. “You think so?”
“I know so. She was mean to me. But you seem nice.”
Grinning, I add, “That’s because I am.” I wink at him, which only elongates his smile.
“And I think Logan likes you, too,” he says.
“Oh, really?”
“Uh-huh.” He bobs his head up and down with each syllable. “Annnd I think you guys should get married.”
Whoa, little buddy. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
He actually seems offended. “Why not?”
“Well, it’s too soon. Maybe if we last a couple of years.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Marcie asks, almost causing me to jump out of my skin.
“Nothing, Mom!” says Lucas.
Just as Marcie takes the casserole out of the oven, Logan and Phil walk in, looking as glum as ever. I guess whatever they discussed didn’t go so well; the withered expression behind Logan’s eyes is enough to make me question whether his parents will help. He softens his expression with a half-smile and sits down next to me, grasping my hand in his.
Logan whispers in my ear, “I told him about Jake.”
I shoot him a look. “And?”
“I have to go down to the station first thing tomorrow.”
I nod. That’s understandable. At least he’ll be able to put this behind him once and for all.
Phil sits at the head of the table, while Marcie places a trivet at the center, with the casserole on top.
“Looks good, honey,” Phil says, rubbing his hands together.
Marcie adds the final touch—a ladle—to the dish and takes her seat at the opposite end of the table. “Eat up.” She grabs Lucas’s plate first and scoops a spoonful of the casserole onto it. “Careful, baby, it’s hot.”
Lucas licks his lips and his eyes grow round. “Mmm!”
She picks up my plate next, then Logan’s, and, finally, Phil’s. When everyone else is taken care of, she fixes her own plate. We all sit in awkward silence for the first couple of minutes before Lucas takes the plunge.
“Why’s everybody so quiet?” he asks.
Gotta love twelve-year-olds.
&
nbsp; “Everyone’s enjoying their food,” says Marcie.
For the entire meal, Phil and Marcie chat about nothing but what their lives have been like since Logan’s absence; Phil took on extra hours at the police station, and Marcie is a stay-at-home mom, who manages to find time to create jewelry and sell it online in a craft shop. Lucas has been busy with middle-school baseball, which uses up a lot of Marcie’s time by running him and his friends to practice. She and Sally rotate the trips with their boys.
After the table is cleared, and Lucas has taken his shower and gone to bed, Logan and I sit down with Phil and Marcie to discuss why we’re really here. I can almost feel Logan’s heartbeat hammering through his chest, his palms dewy with sweat. I’m anxious for him. This is big. Huge. And if they can’t help him, who will?
“I’m not going to bullshit with you guys,” says Logan. “I need your help.”
Phil leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and forms a steeple with his hands above his mouth. “What kind of help?”
Marcie rests her hand on Phil’s thigh—a sign of concern, I think—and says, “Logan, honey, you know we’ll help you with whatever it is you need, as long as we are going forward. We don’t want you to revert to your recent past.”
Logan’s eyes roll upward. “Mom, please. This isn’t about me relapsing.” He inhales deeply, and, in one gust, says, “I need money so I can pay off my drug dealers.”
Phil and Marcie swap a quick glance.
“Honey—” Marcie begins.
“How much?” Phil interrupts.
“Five thousand.” Before either one of them can refuse, Logan adds, “I know you two started college funds for Lucas and me. If you want, take it out of mine so it won’t make a dent in your pockets.”
Phil rubs his forehead, and Marcie looks like Logan just told her he’s dying and only has two weeks to live. What would my parents have done if the situation were reversed? Would my mom have given me the same expression, one that’s fearful and distressed? Would my dad have said no? Would they both have said no? My gut tightens at the thought of putting my parents in a corner and asking them to make a decision on such short notice. Knowing my dad, though, he would’ve said something along the lines of, “Just give her the damn money.” My mom would’ve listened, because she always obeyed him, loyal wife that she was. But now that they aren’t truly together? I think they’d disagree.
“That’s, uh . . . that’s a lot, son,” says Phil. He stops massaging his brows long enough to stare pointedly at Logan. “What’ll happen if you don’t give them the money?”
“They’ll do to me what they did to Jake—or worse.”
Marcie gasps. “That poor boy who was murdered in Sandy Shores?”
“He was one of my friends,” Logan says. “He died because of me.”
I clasp his arm and rub my thumb over his skin. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened to him.”
He hangs his head, crushed. “I blame myself every day.”
“Son, this wasn’t your doing,” Phil assures. “What happened to Jake was misfortunate, but you can’t blame yourself. This money obviously means a lot to you, so—”
“It means everything to me. If I don’t get them paid off, they could find out where you guys live. Mom could be home alone with Lucas one day and they’d break in. God, I don’t even want to think about it.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, thinking about losing his mom and brother. “The point is,” he continues, “I just want to move on with my life, and they’re only holding me back. I want to be done with the bad and focus on the good.”
“And we’ll support you every step of the way,” says Marcie.
Phil nods in agreement. “Of course. I’ll go to the bank tomorrow—”
“No! I need the money tonight. I want to be done with all of this.”
“Okay,” Phil says. “I’ll just go now, then.” He checks his watch. “We only have a thirty-minute window before they close, so I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thank you,” Logan says, his voice nearly a whisper.
Phil grabs his keys from the round bowl by the front door. “Marcie, you coming?”
Marcie replies, “Yes. Let me just get my things.” She flurries around the living room and kitchen, picking up her purse, cell phone, and wallet, which was hidden in one of the kitchen drawers.
“We’ll be back soon,” says Phil, closing the door behind him.
Logan and I sit in the quiet room, fingers entwined, nerve endings on fire. Before he started the conversation with his parents, I had hoped they’d see his side, and I’m glad they did. I had been worried they wouldn’t see clearly, only blinded by key words such as “drugs,” “drug dealers,” and “five thousand dollars.” Now, we have nothing to be anxious about. My stomach can stop flopping over, my palms can stop sweating, and my heart can stop rapidly pounding against my chest. It’s over. Well, almost over. Logan has to actually get the money to Big P, and then we can be rid of the past, like it was all a bad dream.
As if he can read my thoughts, Logan says, “I’m going to call him. Big P. I’ll tell him to meet me tonight.” He looks at me, then. “When we wake up together tomorrow morning, it’ll be like we started a brand new life.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him we’ve pretty much done that already. He changed everything when he decided to stop using drugs and infuse integrity into his life once again. He’s made up with his family for good, and he’ll be a role model for Lucas.
“Okay,” I say, smiling.
Logan fishes an older-model cell phone out of the dish by the front door. He waves it around. “My old cell phone,” he says. “I’ve got Big P’s number stored in the contacts.”
“Don’t forget to block your home phone before you call.”
“Our number is private, because of my dad’s line of work, and we’re unlisted in the white pages. Ah, here it is.” He meanders back into the kitchen, picking up the corded phone attached to the wall. As he dials the Big P’s number, I sense both his nervousness and relief. Soon, all of this will be behind us. “I’ve got your money,” he says, voice cracking. “Yeah, tonight . . . I’ll meet you there.” And then he hangs up. “Well, that was easy. Now for the hard part—meeting him face to face.”
I just want to kiss him and hug him and tell him everything will work out, because I truly believe it will, but my gut twitches when I think of Logan meeting Big P, alone, at night. After what Big P did to Jake, and the incident at Bernie’s, where Logan barely escaped, I won’t put it past him to have something up his sleeve. Something disgustingly malicious.
Twenty minutes later, Phil and Marcie return with the money—cash, of all things, which is exactly what Big P wants. I highly doubt drug dealers take personal or cashier’s checks.
“It’s all here,” says Phil, opening a deposit bag full of one-hundred-dollar bills. My eyes bulge. I’ve never seen so much money in my life! “Do you need me to come with you?” Phil asks.
“No, I’ve got this, but thanks. I’m just going to run Chloe home, and then I’ll meet up with them.”
Phil hands over the bag. He and Logan briefly hug, and then Marcie plants a swift, motherly kiss on Logan’s cheek.
“Be safe,” she says. “I don’t want to lose you again.”
Her words cause a chill to ripple up my spine.
Eighteen • Chloe
Logan and I pile into his parents’ car. Before we get to the end of the street, I say, “I’m not going home, you know. I’m not going to leave you to this by yourself. What if they try something?”
He snorts. “No offense, baby, but how are you going to stop them?” Turning his head toward me, he raises one eyebrow.
I shake my head and pay attention to the houses we pass. “I can’t, but I can try. Maybe they won’t pull anything if a girl is around. Guys are like that sometimes.”
“Chloe,” he says, sighing, “these guys don’t give a damn. They wouldn’t give a damn if their own mothers we
re with them, I don’t think.”
Well, that’s reassuring. “I’m not going home,” I reiterate. “I refuse to get out of this car.”
“So, you’re going to make this hard on me? I’ll drag you out of here if I have to.”
I snap my head around. “No, you won’t.”
He chuckles. “You don’t think so, huh?”
“I know so. You wouldn’t harm me.”
A serious expression falls upon his face, like a dark shadow. “No, I wouldn’t, and I don’t want them to harm you, either.”
“Please, Logan? I won’t be a bother, but I can have my phone ready, in case something happens. I’ll call 9-1-1, or your dad.”
“Fine,” he says nonchalantly.
“That’s it? No fight?”
“No fight, but that’s as long as you stay in the car. Understand?”
I nod. “I understand.”
Logan veers the car in the opposite direction of Sandy Shores. We follow the main road, pass through neighborhoods, and end up on a different side of town—the rundown side. Buildings are sealed like iron cages, cars are from a separate decade, and nobody strolls along on the sidewalks. It looks like the neighborhood doesn’t have the time or funding to maintain the properties, and with all the tourists flocking to Sandy Shores, they’re probably hard-pressed for the government to provide spending money. I think every county in America has at least one area like this. My theory? If the community pitched in and worked together to clean up, this would be a cute town, with tiny shops and restaurants.
Turning left at a light, Logan drives us down a side street and over railroad tracks. “Should be up ahead,” he says.
The sun sets on the horizon, and the street lights have flickered to life, illuminating the dark road. We drive underneath an overpass with very little traffic, and Logan parks the car to the side, killing the headlights. Both of us get out for a brief moment of fresh air, and I glance around, evaluating the setting and whether or not anyone will hear our cries for help if something goes wrong. Absolutely nothing surrounds us, except shrubbery and trees. There’s no housing, no pedestrians, nothing. We might as well be in the middle of a desert, with vultures swarming us, eagerly waiting their turn to pluck the flesh from our corpses.
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