“Son of a bitch!” I say through gritted teeth, fighting against B and Smooth. Big P knocks me over the back of my head, and I fall to my knees, unable to control my emotions. There’s nothing I can do to help Chloe, and they’re going to make me stand here and watch.
Ice rips Chloe’s shirt clean down the middle, buttons flying everywhere. She continues screaming and trying to fight him. With a couple of swift moves, Ice shoves her shorts down to her ankles. Then, the unthinkable. When I see what he does with his fingers, the way he laughs about it, I want to vomit fireballs in his direction. I want to chop his fucking head off with a guillotine. I want to kill him. Red surrounds the edges of my vision.
But this time around, I don’t twist free of Smooth’s grip when he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette. Nor do I grab his gun and shoot. No, this time, I can’t free myself from their clutches. I can’t summon the strength to fight them. I can’t do anything, except fall to my knees and grit my teeth, as Chloe’s screams carry into the night.
Chloe looks directly into my eyes when Ice presses himself on top of her, showing no more fear, and says, “It’s okay, Logan. We’re going to get through this, baby.”
But we’re not going to make it, Chloe, I think. They’re going to be the death of us.
Twenty-four • Chloe
Logan’s head writhes back and forth, and he mumbles incoherently. I lay one hand on the side of his face, hoping it’ll sooth whatever nightmare he’s living in.
“No,” he murmurs. “No, no, no.” The sound of his voice, as if he’s in unforeseeable agony, tugs at my heartstrings.
I don’t know if he can hear me, but I speak up anyway. “It’s okay, Logan. We’re going to get through this, baby.”
He bursts into tears, eyes still closed, and I immediately wipe them from his face. Just seeing him this way causes an unexpected clenching of my gut, and I cry with him. Whatever horrendous dream he’s having, I want to erase it from his mind.
Over the next hour, Logan is fitfully in and out of consciousness. The nurses explain that the high doses of pain medication they’re pumping into his veins make him lethargic, but he should be awake soon. How soon is “soon,” I’m not sure.
“Why don’t you take a break, honey?” Mom says, standing up from one of the chairs in the room and walking to the end of Logan’s hospital bed. “You’ve been here for over two hours and he hasn’t awoken. We can grab some lunch and stop by later.”
I shake my head. “I want to be here when he wakes up. I want to be the first thing he sees, so he knows I’m okay.”
She nods, understanding. “Want me to bring you something?”
I smile. “That’d be nice.”
“I think we’ll join you,” says Phil. He and Marcie have been quietly sitting next to my mom all morning. I don’t know if they got any sleep; they’ve been here all night. Lucas naps on the other empty cot in the room. Marcie gently rubs his back, waking him. He’s reluctant, at first, but he sits up, wiping his eyes.
“C’mon, baby. Let’s get some food, okay?” she coos.
“I don’t wanna,” he says. His hair sticks straight up at the crown of his head. “I want to stay with Logan.”
“Logan’s sleeping. He needs his rest.”
“Mama,” he says, looking up at her as he slides off the bed, “is Logan going to be sick forever?” Phil and Marcie explained to Lucas last night that Logan was ill. They didn’t want to frighten the poor kid with what really happened to his brother.
She laughs kindly. “No, baby. He’s not. But we have to leave him alone for a little while so he can get better.”
“Okay,” he says, satisfied with her response. He turns toward me. “Are you going to watch over him, Chloe?”
“Yep,” I reply.
He nods his head once, swiftly. “’Kay.” As he and the rest of the family exit, I hear him ask, “Can we go to McDonald’s?”
Marcie laughs. “Whatever you want, sweetie.”
Mom follows them closely, closing the door behind her, but not before she winks at me. Whatever that’s for.
Ten to fifteen minutes later, Logan begins mumbling again, his head twisting back and forth. “Chloe,” I hear him say. “Chloe.”
“I’m here, baby. I’m here.” I squeeze his hand and resume caressing his face with my other.
Leisurely, he opens his eyes and blinks a few times, as he figures out where he is. He squints at the fluorescent lighting and groans. Licking his lips, he gulps once, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Chloe,” he rasps, gradually turning his head to face me.
Oh, thank God! I might seriously scream from excitement right now.
“I’m here, Logan. I’m here. You’re safe.”
“I’m . . . alive?”
Fresh tears puddle in my eyes, and I can’t stop them from rolling down my cheeks. “Yes,” I say, nearly choking on my sobs. “Yes, baby, you’re alive.”
He moans and rubs his face with his other hand. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“You? I thought I was the one who’d never see you again.”
He swallows hard. “Big P . . . is he?”
“He’s dead.”
Tension leaves Logan’s body. “Good. I’m glad we’ve seen the last of him.” He looks at me then, panic hitting him. “Did he do anything to you?”
I know he’s thinking about Ice, about what a close call that was. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “Nothing like that, anyway.”
Logan grips my hand tighter. “What’d he do?”
“Does it matter? I’m here. You’re here. We’re together again, miraculously.”
“I want to know,” he presses.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I remember the gun aimed at my head, the determination in Big P’s eyes. When I visualize him pulling the trigger, I recoil.
“Chloe?” Logan’s voice drags me out of my reverie. “What’d he do? Tell me.” He tugs at our entwined fingers, and keeps tugging until I crawl onto the bed, lying by his side, head resting against his chest.
“He pointed the gun at me, pulled the trigger, and . . . it jammed.”
Logan flinches. “What?”
“Your dad shot him,” I add, as if that might lighten the moment.
“He pulled the fucking—” Logan’s jaw clenches as he grinds his teeth in annoyance. “If he weren’t dead already, I swear to God I’d kill him myself. I should’ve when I had the chance.”
Lightly, I graze my fingertips over his jaw line and watch his muscles relax. “Ssh. Enough of that. No more thoughts of killing anybody. No more fighting. No more wasting away on hate. Got it?”
He gives me a sidelong glance, then mumbles, “Yeah. Got it.”
“It’s over. It’s done with. Let the past be the past. We can’t change any of it, and in a way, I wouldn’t want to, because we both made it out. Alive.”
Shaking his head in agitation, he says, “I can’t believe he—”
I place my index finger over his lips, silencing him. “Shut up and kiss me.”
He obliges as I rise up, carefully brushing his mouth over mine, slowly tracing my lips with his tongue. He intensifies the kiss as I roll over, on top of him. Both of our mouths move in a measured, agonizing rhythm, and I feel as if my heart will fly out of my chest. Logan cradles my head with one hand, and tilts my chin up even more with the other. With my neck outstretched, he breaks away and trails soft kisses across my skin. Lower, lower, lower. God, I want him to go lower, but he stops just above the hemline of my shirt.
Lifting his head to glance at me, he smirks and says, “We’ll continue this later.”
I hoarsely respond, “Okay.”
He chuckles. “You might want to hop down in case one of the nurses comes in here and catches you in my bed.” He kisses my forehead. “I wouldn’t want them to kick you out of here.”
I slide off the side, a little put out. He’s right, though. These beds were made for one patient and one patient only.
“Plus, o
ur parents will be back soon, with food,” I add.
Logan’s stomach growls in response, and he rubs it. “I could use some food.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I could use you, too,” he says, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
I try not to grin. “I think you need food even more.”
“I don’t think so,” he says, his voice dropping an octave; it’s throaty and gruff and I’m doing everything I can not to jump back in bed with him. I think he feels the same way, because he doesn’t break eye contact with me for a second. There’s an electrical charge in the room, one that wasn’t there before. “Chloe . . .”
“Yeah?” I squeak.
He extends one hand, and I take it in mine. “Chloe, there’s something I’ve wanted to say for a while, but I was too chicken shit to admit it to myself, let alone say it out loud.”
My throat dries up, like the heat from the sun outside has found its way through the hospital window and sucked away the fluid in my mouth. Wide-eyed, I feel as if my eyeballs might escape from their sockets. I know what he’s about to say; I just can’t believe he’s going to really say it.
“I love you,” he blurts, throwing his head backward against the stack of pillows behind him and sighing. “I think I would love you even if we never met. If we lived separate lives in some alternate reality, where I was never homeless or a drug addict, I would’ve never truly been happy, because all the other girls in that world wouldn’t have been you.”
He clutches my hand with such strength, it’s as if he’s afraid I’ll slip away. “I think I would’ve searched for you, even though I wouldn’t have known what I was searching for. But I like to think that, when I found you, I’d be like a blind person seeing for the first time. The world would open up, be colorful, magical, and infinite—and I would conquer it all, as long as I could have you.”
I can’t see through my tears. “I love you, too,” are the only words I can push out of my throat.
“Come here,” he whispers, pulling me closer to the edge of the bed. I lean over and lay my head on his chest. For a while, the only present sounds are that of my sobs and his heartbeat thrumming against my ear. “We’re going to get through this,” he says, now taking on the role of emotional supporter, which is what I’ve been for the last two months.
“Yes, we are,” I agree, wiping away the last of my tears. “But first, you need to rest up.”
“For what? I’ve been resting.”
I smirk. “For that sensational, over-the-moon girlfriend of yours, named Chloe. I heard she’s made of awesomesauce.”
“I heard she’s the icing to my cake.”
“The butter to your bread, too?”
Logan attempts to hide his grin. “The banana to my split.”
I giggle. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Okay, fine, then,” he says, pretending to be offended. “I heard she’s the apple to my apple tree, the hamburger bun to my hamburger patty—”
“Oh, my God.” I burst into laughter. “Why are all of the comparisons food-related?”
Logan raises one eyebrow. “Probably because I’m hungry.”
“Mom’s bringing me some food, so you can have mine.”
“But until then . . .” Logan trails off, pinning me with his eyes.
I shake my head. “Until then, you get some rest.”
“How about we just make out instead?” One corner of his mouth curves into a wicked leer.
“It wouldn’t surprise me, Logan Andrews, if you said you wanted to make out, but then you had something else in mind.”
He presses one hand over his heart, faking insult. “Chloe Sullivan, you offend me. I would never taint the good graces of a lady.”
I begin tugging on the privacy curtain around the bed, the metal clinking as it gradually closes us in, creating a thin veil between us and the outside. “Too bad I’m not much of a lady. Besides, your muscles haven’t been limbered up for a couple of days. Don’t you think it’s time we fix that?”
Epilogue
One Year Later
“Is that the last of them, babe?” I ask.
Logan carries five grocery bags on each arm, setting them on the counter. He nods. “Yep. That’s it.”
“Our first groceries,” I say with a smile.
He kisses the side of my head as he slides both arms around my waist. With his forehead pressed against mine, he admits, “I have a feeling there will be many more firsts with you.”
“Mmm. I think you might be right.”
“Of course I am,” he says, pulling away to help me sort through five-hundred-dollars worth of food and household items.
Since the move to California with my mom, Logan and I stayed in touch, making a point to speak to each other every day, at least once. But that was never really enough. Three months later, Logan came to visit for a couple of weeks, decided he liked California, and planned on moving once he found a job and a place to live. Eight months after that, he found both: a job at a local rehabilitation center, counseling those who are trying to cope with their addiction, and, as for a place to live, well, he found that with me. We signed the rental agreement just last week. The place is undecorated, but we decided we’ll furniture shop this weekend. Food, however, was a must.
“So I’ve been thinking,” I begin, glancing over our kitchen bar to the naked living room. “What if we get a purple couch? Or blue? I like blue; it’d go with the beach vibe around here. Then we can hang some mementos on the wall, maybe a few pictures of us.”
Deadpan, Logan says, “Um, babe? Just because we live near a beach doesn’t mean we have to decorate the place with seashells and mermaids.”
I shrug. “It’s just an idea. What about a yellow theme? Yellow reminds me of the sun.”
“Chloe . . .”
“Or maybe a mixture of burnt orange and hot pink, like a sunset.”
“I swear to God, if you start decorating in that pink frilly shit, I’ll throw it out the window.”
I gasp dramatically, pretending to be offended. “You wouldn’t dare!”
Logan cracks a smile. “You already know the answer to that.”
We were lucky enough to find an apartment only a few blocks from the beach, though it’s a little on the pricey side. But we’ll manage.
“So I’ve been thinking . . .” Logan mimics.
I roll my eyes. “What is it?”
“Hang out at the beach until it gets dark?” His face lights up when he talks about the ocean, like he’s seven years old again. “Pleeease?”
“Okay.” I scan our tiny kitchen. “We can’t exactly bring drinks or food with us, though.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “That’s fine. I’ll cook us something when we get back. I just want to enjoy another sunset with you.”
My cheeks ache from beaming. “Sometimes you’re the cutest romantic I know, and other times I still want to punch you like I did the second time we met.”
He throws his head back, laughing. “I’m surprised you haven’t hit me again.”
Narrowing my eyes and holding up my fist, I say, “I only reserve this for pissed-off moments.”
“Trust me, I know,” he says, rubbing his face at the memory of the time I hit him in the cottage.
“But I highly doubt we’ll have one of those moments again,” I concede. “You’re not as much of an asshole as you were back then.” I stick my tongue out.
His eyebrows cinch and his features lose amusement, like he’s falling into one of his dark places again. “No, I’m not.”
My hands instinctively move to cup his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that.”
Months ago, we had a minor setback when we hit the town one night to eat dinner and there was a homeless man quietly sitting nearby. One glance at him and Logan relapsed into his shadowy space. It took me almost a
week to pull him out of that void, and it’s taken even longer to convince him he won’t ever live that way again; at least, not if I’m around to see my promise through of staying with him forever. I don’t think Logan will ever fully recover from what he’s lived through, but he’s better off than he was, and he has a small network of family and friends who will support him.
“Let’s go to the beach.”
“’Kay,” he murmurs.
I stand on my tiptoes and kiss him. As I pull back, his hands grip my waist, rendering me unable to move. His leans in and his lips cover mine, igniting a gradual ache in my body. The kiss deepens, becomes forceful, even, as if he’s claiming what’s his. Even after all this time, I’m still surprised at the adoration I feel for Logan. I admire him on so many levels; the closeness he has to his family and his brother, respect for manning up and overcoming his drug addiction, and the affection he displays to me each and every day.
He severs our connection. “God, I love you,” he says, kissing my nose, forehead, cheeks, and lips again.
“I love you, too,” I murmur against his mouth.
“Now we can go to the beach.” He grins.
I wink at him as I saunter by, grabbing my purse and keys off the counter.
There aren’t too many people soaking up the sun, sand, and surf at this hour. Within a couple of weeks, they’ll be out in full force. Logan and I find a quieter spot amid the rows of lawn chairs, sandcastles, and colorful towels. On the horizon, the sun relaxes, providing spectators with the illusion of sinking into the ocean. Half of the bright sphere has already disappeared; the other half is hanging out, either sad it’s leaving until tomorrow or extending the moment for us all. I haven’t decided which.
Logan stands behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. You know that, right?” he whispers in my ear.
Despite the warm weather, I shiver. “Logan . . .”
“I’m serious.”
“Yes,” I say, “I know.”
“And you know I’d do anything for you.”
“Yes, I know that, too.”
Last Summer Page 16