Losing Logan

by Sherry Ficklin

  “Where to now?” I ask, dusting off my hands on my jeans.

  He shrugs and starts walking. Not sure what else to do, I follow him. We wander past the old, battered headstones toward the newer part of the cemetery which is in the very back. The paths are all old cobblestone, giant obelisks and weeping angels looking down on us as we walk. We pass by a small crypt and I shine the flashlight on the entrance. Over the gate, carved in stone is the phrase, Verum non est in morte.

  “What does it say?” Logan asks from behind me.

  I know the translation, not because I can read Latin, but because I’d asked my mother the same question as we were leaving my father’s funeral.

  “It says, In death there is truth.”

  Lowering my light, I shine it around, over the headstones. “Do you see anything?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

  I sigh, defeated. We walk on until we see a big yellow back hoe parked next to a fresh grave. Logan freezes but I walk closer, shining the light on the name etched into the stone.

  Logan Wayne Cooper.

  I turn, shining the light on Logan. “Wayne, really?”

  He looks away, “My dad likes old westerns.”

  “Huh.” I step around the grave, careful not to disturb the freshly mounded dirt or the stacks of fresh flowers. “I hear they take these flowers and give them to the old people at the nursing home,” I say, desperate to break the silence. He doesn’t answer. When I glance up his back is to me. The moonlight is hitting him at an odd angle, making him almost glow. It’s so beautiful that for a moment I’m transfixed by it. He looks over his shoulder at me and all I can think is how beautiful he is. Like an angel.

  Then he opens his mouth.

  “What are you staring at?”

  I roll my eyes. “Just wondering if you’re going to do something or just stand there sparkling like an idiot.”

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks, throwing his hands in the air.

  I inhale slowly. “You said you thought of me, and then you were just there, in my room, right?”

  “Yeah.” He turns, walking toward me.

  I shift from one foot to the other. “Well, maybe you should think of…I dunno…heaven. Or whatever.”

  “Heaven?” He snorts.

  “Don’t get an attitude with me, there buddy. I’m standing in a cemetery at five in the morning next to a fresh grave talking to a dead guy. My tolerance has its limits.”

  “Fine.” He grumbles. He closes his eyes takes a deep breath and…

  Nothing.

  He opens one eye. Then his face falls. “This was a stupid idea.”

  “Your face is stupid.”

  He stomps away, tugging on his hair. Then he spins back, pointing at me. “You know, you are such a joy to be around. I can’t imagine why you don’t have any friends.”

  That hurts. “I have friends,” I whisper.

  “Oh, I forgot. Gay Carlos tolerates you. That doesn’t make you his friend. It makes you his hag.”

  The pain from his words is so quick and so sharp it feels like he slapped me in the face. I recover quickly, the pain feeding my already growing anger.

  “Listen up you pompous ass waffle. Number one, don’t you ever talk about Carlos that way again. He’s worth ten of you. And two, you can take your afterlife drama and shove it. Don’t come to my house, don’t ever bother me again. I mean it. You are on your own.” Turning my back on him I march out of the cemetery, scale the wall, and drive home, fighting back tears of rage the whole way.

  By the time I’m settling into bed the sun is rising, casting a red-orange glow into my room. I grab the curtains and pull them closed, falling into bed still in my clothes. A knock at my door wakes me.

  “Hey Zoe Bowie. You up yet?”

  I glance at the alarm. 8:46 Am. Son of a—

  “Come on in Carlos.”

  He pokes his head around the door, his eyes covered by his hand. “You decent?”

  I shrug, “As decent as I ever am.”

  He laughs and walks in. He’s holding a drink carrier with two tall Starbucks cups and has a bag of croissants tucked under his arm.

  “I brought fuel.” He hands me the cup. I can tell from the smell its Earl Grey tea with honey and cream.

  “Bless you, kind sir.” I murmur and take a sip. It’s hot enough to burn the tip of my tongue a little—just how I like it.

  “Oh honey, what did you get up to last night?”

  I arch an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  He waves his hand over me, “Well, you look like you’ve been held in a basement for three days and you have bags under your eyes the size of cantaloupes.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t sleep much.” I play with the lid on my drink, unsure what to say. No way in hell am I going to admit that I’ve been seeing Logan. As much as I love Carlos, it just feels too crazy to admit out loud. Still, I kind of need to talk to someone about it.

  “I’ve been thinking about Logan.”

  He looks surprised. Pulling off his grey canvas jacket he scoots down beside me.

  “I thought you didn’t care about all that.”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t. It’s just… I dunno. Maybe it’s bringing up old feelings…of when dad died.”

  Carlos lays a hand on my knee sympathetically. He came into my life just a few months after Dad’s funeral. He moved in down the block and my mom made me take over a welcome to the neighborhood pie. I remember how scared he was, how freaked out about being in a new town, at a new school. But Carlos is braver than me. He stepped in on day one and made himself known. He never hid who he was or what he wanted. I wish I had that kind of courage.

  I take another drink. My head is writhing with questions, questions I know Carlos can’t answer.

  His face lights up, “I know what you need.”

  Yeah, a nice long vacation somewhere with padded rooms and happy pills.

  “That makes one of us,” I mumble.

  “How about we take a drive up Skyline, have a picnic, then go down to the Tea Room?”

  I feel the sides of my mouth turn up slowly. “That actually sounds really nice.”

  He grins, looking quite pleased with himself. “I know.” Then he lowers his gaze at me, pointing up and down. “But first you shower and change. I’m not taking you anywhere looking like that.”

  I agree and he goes off to the kitchen to scavenge some food for our picnic. Knowing what’s in my cabinets, we might be dining on mustard and old soda crackers.

  Forty five minutes later I’m clean and dressed in my soft tan cargo pants and a black tank top and Carlos has plaited my hair into a long French braid.

  The drive up Skyline is a soothing one, even with Carlos’s indie rock blasting through the speakers of his dad’s Four Runner. The sky is clear and blue—the shade of blue you can’t find anywhere else on earth—and the sun is bright and warm on my arm as it dangles out the window. We drive until we hit the very top of the mountain, a place called the Garden of the Gods. It’s a large field filled with trees as big around as a truck. I spread out a plaid blanket while he retrieves the picnic basket and a bottle of sparkling wine from his trunk.

  “Fancy,” I say realizing that this day’s events weren’t as spur of the moment as he’d led me to believe.

  “It’s a celebration. To the first day of the rest of our lives.”

  He twists off the top and bubbles ooze out, sliding down the side of the bottle, which he hands me. “Sorry, I forgot to pack glasses.”

  I shrug and take a small sip. It’s smooth and tastes vaguely like apples. “Not bad.”

  He winks and takes the bottle from me.

  “You sure you should be drinking?” I ask, knowing that the drive down will be a windy one.

  “I’ll just have a touch. Besides, I’m used to it.” He takes a small sip and hands it back to me before opening the basket. His family is one of those European types who have wine with every meal, even the ki
ds, so his tolerance is pretty high.

  As it turns out, he was able to make quite a little feast with leftovers and creativity. By the time the food was gone we’d drank about a third of the bottle and were lying back, relaxing in the sun.

  “Do you think people can haunt you?” I ask quietly.

  Carlos rolls onto his side, propping his head on his elbow so he’s practically pressed against me. With anyone else the closeness would feel intimate, but with Carlos it just feels comforting.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I think sometimes we hold onto people so tightly, we can feel them around us all the time.”

  I sigh. That’s not quite what I meant.

  “What about, like ghosts?”

  “Ghosts?” his tone is concerned.

  Ah, crap.

  “Yeah, I mean, do you think that sometimes when people die, they can just, sort of…I dunno. Still be here?”

  He rolls onto his back, clasping his hands behind his head.

  “If the Sci-fi channel has taught us anything, it’s that ghosts are everywhere.” He chuckles. “All those poor souls and their unfinished business.”

  I look over at him. “Unfinished business?”

  “Yeah, that’s what keeps them here, at least according those guys on the ghost hunting show. They have stuff they still need to do or something.”

  “I didn’t know you watched that crap,” I joke lightly, letting his words roll around in my head.

  “Don’t judge me.” He chuckles. “Why do you ask anyway? You feeling haunted?”

  I decide to be as honest as I can. “I feel like, sometimes, I can still hear him. Logan I mean. Or I see him out the corner of my eye.”

  “I was that way when my little brother died. For the first little while, it was like I could feel him in the house. Every once in a while, I was sure I’d seen him, but it was always just my mind playing tricks.”

  I remember the feeling. That had happened when my dad died too. Rolling over I nuzzle my head into his chest and let him rub my back until I fall asleep.

  I’m dreaming of the cemetery, of Logan’s face as I screamed at him. Behind him, one of the stone angels was walking forward, sword in hand. She stopped behind him and lifted the sword over his head like she was going to cut him in half.

  The crash of thunder wakes me an instant before the now dark sky opens up and begins to pour. I grab the basket as Carlos grabs the blanket and we race for the car, laughing. As soon as I’m in and buckled I look out the window and see Logan standing on the side of the road, staring at me. The smile falls off my face.

  By the time we make it to the Tea Room I’m mostly dry. We pull into the narrow lot and park. Carlos reaches into the back seat and pulls out his guitar.

  “Open mic?” I ask hopefully.

  He smiles widely.

  Inside, beyond the initial sitting room that’s all decked out in long red velvet couches and high backed Victorian chairs, the space opens into an area stuffed with small round bistro tables. The walls are covered in gold and bronze gilded mirrors and shelves that are overflowing with ornate vases, candle sticks, and other antiques. I head straight for the table in the back corner, the dimmest corner of the room. On the table, a single candle flickers in a frosted glass mason jar. Out of nowhere Lana ,the owner and resident tea expert, appears. Lana is about four and a half feet tall, with her long raven hair rolled along her hairline in a 1950’s style wave. Her skin is creased with age, her eyes narrow and warm brown. She throws her arms around me—something she does to all the regulars—and the smell of her thick lavender perfume sticks to me even after she moves on to embrace Carlos.

  “I’m so glad to see you!” she says warmly, just a hint of a Korean accent in her voice. “Sit, sit.”

  We slide into our chairs and she gently takes the guitar out of Carlos’s hand.

  “I’ll put this by the stage for you.”

  Taking her free hand to her chin she squints at me.

  “You’ll try the mango ginger tonight, I think. And you, raspberry and honey?”

  We both nod and smile. The first time we came I made the mistake of asking for a menu and she just rambled off about fifty teas before telling me what I would have. Since then we never actually get to order for ourselves, she just sort of chooses for us. I don’t really mind. Three years of coming here and she has yet to serve me something I don’t like.

  Carlos watches her carefully lean his guitar next to the old jukebox near the stage. The stage is little more than a four foot square of tile with a microphone plugged into an old amp and a faded red stool on it. But this is Carlos’s favorite place to play. It’s quiet and intimate and the acoustics are somehow perfect.

  Turning back quickly, he jerks his head over his shoulder. “He’s here.”

  My head snaps to attention. For one idiotic second I think he means Logan. I glance around and don’t see him. “Who?” I ask, confused.

  “Behind me to the left. No, my left.”

  I glance over. The hot guy from Bloomingdales is here with two friends.

  “Did you…?”

  He bristles. “I may have mentioned that I come here to play sometimes. But I certainly didn’t invite him.”

  “Why not?”

  He tugs the front of his grey vest. “If I’d known he was coming, I would have—“

  “Chickened out?”

  He raises a shoulder, touching it to his chin in a sassy gesture, “Worn my good blue shirt.”

  “Are you still going to sing?” I ask, sitting forward with my elbows on the table.

  He rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Of course I am. Maybe. After my tea.”

  No sooner does he say the words than Lana comes tottering over with a silver tray. She carefully sets two empty cups on the table in front of us, places a copper tea ball in each one, then lays out the cream, sugar, spoons, and a small plate of fresh lavender scones.

  “Let them steep five minutes,” she orders before turning around and heading to another table to deliver a ticket.

  We add the hot water from the small white kettle and wait, knowing full well not obeying her recommended steep time will earn us sharp looks from her later.

  Stirring a spoon of sugar into his tea Carlos begins telling me about his audition for Rhett in this year’s production. He wants me to run lines. I smile and agree, knowing that for the third year in a row he will end up as Ashley. Not masculine enough for Rhett is what they tell him. I think they’re just assholes.

  “So I was thinking of growing out a beard,” he says, finally taking a sip. “Not a weird hillbilly beard, but one of those, oh I just didn’t have time to shave this week beards.”

  I’m only half listening. Part of my brain is still thinking about what he said earlier, about unfinished business. Could that really be what’s holding Logan here? And if so, what does he need to do to resolve it? I must be staring off into space because the next thing I know, Carlos is snapping his fingers in my face.

  “Hello, earth to Zoe?”

  “What? Sorry.”

  “I asked if you had a back to school entrance strategy.”

  I take a long sip of my tea only to pucker when I realize I’ve forgotten to put any sugar in it. “You make it sound like we’re planning a military invasion.”

  He sits back, resting his chin in one hand. “Oh, Zoe. You are so sweet. That’s exactly what it is. An invasion of a hostile country. You can try for diplomacy, or you can just go in with guns blazing.” He pauses, giving me a pointed look. “You realize that you could have your pick of any guy in school, right?”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Did someone spike your tea?”

  “I’m serious. Honey, listen. You have this sort of shell of bitchiness that you hide behind. If you would just open up and let the rest of the world see you the way that I do…”

  He trails off. I make a face and stick out my tongue.

  “Okay, maybe not exactly how I see
you, but you get my drift. I mean, you’re smart, funny, pretty. If it weren’t for your acidic mouth you could be the most popular girl in school.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “He’s right.” Logan chimes in and I nearly drop my teacup in my lap, choking on the hot liquid.

  “You alright there Zoe?” Carlos asks.

  I cough into my napkin. He stands to pat my back but I wave him off.

  “I’m fine. Wrong pipe. Sorry.”

  “You sure you’re ok? I could Heimlich you if you want.”

  He sits back down, his eyes are glinting mischievously.

  “Thanks but I’ll pass.” I nod to the table up front. “Maybe Bloomie Hottie will choke and you can Heimlich him.”

  Carlos sighs wistfully. “We can only hope.”

  Logan takes a seat in the empty chair beside me, passing through the table to get to it. I try not to look at him.

  “Ignoring me now?” he says lightly.

  I frown but don’t answer.

  “Blink once if you can hear me,” he says with a chuckle.

  I scratch the side of my head with my middle finger. He laughs harder.

  This is getting old fast.

  I nod to the stage, “Alright, enough stalling. Go sing for me.”

  With a wide grin Carlos gets up, leaning over the table to press a quick kiss on my forehead before heading for the stage. He sits down and settles himself in. As soon as he plucks the first chord I’m transfixed. The entire room falls into silence, the only sound is the melody he plays. Closing his eyes he sings one of my favorite songs, a cover of All We Are We Are by Matt Nathanson.

  I take a deep breath and let the sound of his voice wash over me.

  “He’s really good,” Logan says.

  I don’t even look at him.

  “Ok, you are still pissed. I get it. And…I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean any of it.”

  I take my last sip of tea and slide my cup back.

  “Come on, Zoe. Please don’t shut me out. I was upset. I didn’t mean it.”

  I shift in my seat, letting my hair fall forward into my face as I whisper.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I really didn’t. Carlos is a good guy, and he’s lucky to have a friend like you.”