Tailspin (Better Than You)

by Raquel Valldeperas

  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.

  “Danny’s up for parole,” I finally say. I’m expecting tears, or for her to turn into my chest and cling to me like she needs me, but there’s no reaction. She just stares into the distance as if she hasn’t even heard me.

  “The hearing is on Friday.”

  Still, no reaction.

  “It’ll probably be granted.”

  Finally, she turns and looks at me, eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  “Just that you should be careful,” I say, confused. Why is she acting like this isn’t a big deal?

  “I’m not scared of him.”

  Is she serious? “You should be, Lo.”

  “Why?” she says, voice raised. “I’ve been scared of him my whole life. I’m tired of being afraid of him, Nathan. I’m tired of being afraid.”

  Mouth open, I stare at her, unsure of what to say because I know she’s right. Being afraid doesn’t solve anything, but I don’t want her to be caught off guard, thinking that she’s safe when she really isn’t. “Just be careful, okay?”

  “I’m always careful.” The way she says it, full of resentment, worries me. Is she talking about more than Danny? I’m afraid to ask.

  One of the straps on her shirt slides off her shoulder, catching my attention as it slips free. She sees my eyes flicker towards it and uncurls herself from the self-saving ball she was wrapped in, slowly moving her body so that she’s straddling me. I’m surprised, but not so much that I don’t take the opportunity to run my lips along her bare shoulder.

  “You’re always afraid,” she whispers as her head falls back, opening herself to me. With a finger, I slip the other strap off of her shoulder and pull down her whole top in one quick motion. She isn’t wearing a bra which I somehow didn’t notice, but instead of letting myself get wrapped up in the surprise of that, I press my cheek into her bare chest, listening to her heart beat wildly.

  She continues talking, her voice vibrating against my ear. “You’re afraid for Emily and Joshua, for me. You’re afraid of Danny. And you’re afraid of me, too. Maybe even yourself.”

  This isn’t what I want to be talking about right now, but her words sting. They hit too close to the wound. “I’m not afraid of you,” I insist.

  She pulls away and stands so quickly that I almost fall off the bed, pulling her shirt up in the process. “You are. You’re afraid that I’ll fall apart. You’re afraid of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. You treat me like a piece of blown glass. Like the tiniest push might destroy me.”

  “Am I wrong? Is it so bad that I’m trying to protect you? Maybe you’re having a hard time remembering, but I’m not. I remember everything.”

  Logan backs away, and I suddenly realize that I’m standing over her. I step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-”

  “Jesus, Nathan, that’s what I’m talking about! I’m not going to fucking break just because you raised your voice! You wanna know what’s killing me?”

  She pauses, as if waiting for an answer, but when I open my mouth to respond, she speaks over me. “This is killing me. You over there and me over here. There’s this line and you won’t cross it.”

  “And that’s a bad thing, how?” I’m frustrated. Annoyed. Angry. I don’t even know what’s going on.

  “Because I’m over here!” she yells. “I’m on the other side of the fucking line!”

  We stare at each other, at least three feet of floor separating us, Logan breathing heavy and a finality seeping into the crevices of this moment.

  “Why couldn’t you look at me today? In the furniture store.”

  She continues to stare at me, eyes wide, defiant. I asked the question sincerely, but the answer is slowly appearing, forming in my mind as I fit the pieces together. “It was my uniform, wasn’t it? Does it bring back memories? Do I bring back memories?”

  “Of course you do,” she says dismissively. “How could you not?”

  “You can’t even look me in the eye right now, and you want me to believe that you won’t break?” My asshole streak is emerging again. It happens when I’m frustrated, confused, and I’ve never felt more of either than right now. “How long have you been in here sleeping?”


  “What the fuck does it matter?”

  “How long!” I yell.

  Her head snaps back in surprise, but then she retaliates, spitting back poison. “Since this morning, okay? It’s either sleeping or getting fucking high.” She stalks forward again, points a finger at my chest. “You’re right. I’m weak. I’m faking it. Are you happy now?”

  A tear slips out of her eye, the first I’ve ever seen. “No, Logan. I’m not happy,” I say softly, bringing my hands up to cup her face. She lets me, her chin shaking from the effort of keeping more tears at bay.

  “I thought it would be different,” she says, burying her face in my chest.

  Me too. Wrapping my arms around her, I take a deep breath, fill my nose with the scent of her. Again the image of her dancing through a field of burned flowers flashes through my mind. I wish I could make it disappear. “What do you need from me?” I finally ask.

  “I just need you to be here,” she mumbles into my shirt.

  I squeeze her tight. “I can do that.”

  I hope.

  35

  December 13, 2010

  Just as we thought, Danny was granted parole, with a few conditions and probation, but free none the less. I took the necessary steps to put a restraining order on him in my name and Logan’s, but I know it won’t be enough. When someone wants revenge, a piece of paper can’t keep anyone safe.

  Logan and I are lying on top of my bed, both of us quiet and staring at the ceiling. Times like this is when I wish I could read her mind, find out what’s going on in there and how I can help. Even though she’s better about being honest since the fight last week, she’s still hard to read and somewhat closed off. Most of the time I’m debating whether I should pry it out of her or wait until she speaks willingly. The other times I’m wondering why she’s still so unwilling to talk.

  Swallowing my pride, I turn to her and ask, “What are you thinking about?”

  She bites her lip, opens her mouth but says nothing. Then: “Have you ever wondered what it would have been like if we’d met under normal circumstances? Like a chance meeting in a coffee shop, or a run in on a college campus.”