Sherry Ficklin - Losing Logan

I swallow. Carlos is different. He’s like…family.

“No promises. Now get out of my bed so I can sleep.”

Logan gets up and heads for the chair.

“No, like out of my room.”

He looks back at me, his eyes sad.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go. My parents packed up my room today. It’s just boxes now.”

And in that moment, I feel like the biggest bitch alive.

“Okay.”I say, lying back down. Then, as I watch him fold himself into my chair, I realize he’s going to spend all night there. Just like that, staring off into the dark. Reaching over I grab the tiny remote off my night stand and flick the TV on.

“What channel?”

He looks up appreciatively. “Try USA. They have decent shows usually.”

I set the remote back down, roll over so my back is to the TV and curl up in a ball, pulling the covers over my head.

The light is already streaming in my window when I finally stretch and sit up in bed. Logan is gone, but probably not for long. I’m halfway through a bowl of Cheerios by the time he reappears.

“Sleep okay?” he asks sitting beside me at the kitchen table.

I answer with my mouth full. “Yep. Thanks.”

“Good. You needed your beauty sleep.”

I frown around my spoon. “What are you trying to say?”

He holds up his hands in surrender.

“Nothing. I meant nothing. You look quite rejuvenated today. That’s all.”

He’s probably right. I didn’t have any bad dreams last night, for the first time in as long as I can remember. Though I hate to admit it, I think having him there helped. Made me feel…safe somehow. Which is stupid because, well, it’s Logan.

“What time are tryouts today?”

“Four,” he answers, eyeballing my bowl.

“Hungry?”

He cocks his head to the side. “I don’t know. I can’t tell if I’m actually hungry, or if I’m just remembering what it feels like to be hungry.”

I pick a cheerio out of the bowl and motion for him to open his mouth, which he does. I toss the tiny O and it lands right in his mouth, then flies out the back of his head and sticks to the wall behind him.

He turns to look at it and we both burst into hysterical laughter until my sides hurt and I can’t breathe.

Finally we calm ourselves and he waits in the bedroom while I shower and dress. I choose a soft yellow skirt and my new black ballet flats. Logan picks out a deep green ruffled shirt which I slide on over my yellow tank top. I carefully pull my hair back into a loose, casual braid. When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror.

“Wow, invasion of the body snatchers,” I murmur.

“You look great,” Logan assures me.

I have to admit, I do look pretty good. It’s not what I’m used to, but it isn’t bad either. As a matter of fact, I really like the new look. For the insane amounts of cash I dropped, I sure as hell better.

“So,” I begin hesitantly. “I was thinking maybe we should go to The Tower.”

He folds his arms across his chest, his face tightening into a scowl.

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking the same thing. Maybe I can jog my memory.”

I nod. The old Apple Mountain Radio Tower is a solid half hour drive into the woods. I’ve only been once but I remember it not being terribly hard to get to. It used to be a pretty popular party spot, but a few years back some drunk kid wandered off and got attacked by a mountain lion. Since then, few people go up there. The Tower is mostly overgrown with brush now, and the old foot bridge is in tatters with lots of missing boards and stuff. I’d gone up with a volunteer group last year to put up warning signs and rope off the entrance to the bridge. Part of my community service for my college application. The Tower would be the perfect place to kill someone.

“Any idea why you might go up there?” I ask, wondering if Logan made frequent visits to the place.

He rubs the side of his face. “Well, Kaylee and I used to drive up there sometimes. You know. To be alone.”

I should have guessed.

“But when we went up together, we always took her Jeep. I didn’t want to scratch up my car,” He adds thoughtfully.

“That’s weird. You sure you never went up there alone? Or with anyone else?”

“Not that I remember. Why?”

I walk out to the garage and dig through the recycle bin. There, buried under a week’s worth of newspaper, is what I’m looking for. I pull it out and bring it inside, holding up the front page. There, in grainy black and white, is a photo of police standing around the entrance to the bridge, wrapping it with crime scene tape. And in the upper left corner, is the unmistakable hood of Logan’s new Dodge Charger, complete with the medal from last year’s Lacrosse championship hanging from his rear view mirror.

“Because they found your car at the scene. When you went missing, they used the low jack on your car to find you. I remember reading about it.”

He leans forward, examining the image. Then he shakes his head.

“I just don’t remember.”

“It’s okay,” I say, folding up the paper and stuffing it in my purse. “Let’s go have a look. Maybe something will jog your memory.”

I grab my keys off the counter and we head out to my car. As soon as the garage door opens he looks over his shoulder and almost screams.

“Wait.”

I slam on the brakes and follow his gaze. I don’t see anything but empty sidewalk behind us.

“What?”

For a second I’m afraid I’ve almost hit Brim or something terrible.

He blinks, rubs his eyes with his thumbs, then looks back again.

“I thought I saw something.”

My eyes widen. He shakes his head.

“Never mind. It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

He nods, not looking entirely convinced. I grab my sunglasses off the console and slip them over my eyes as I drop it back in reverse and pull out. Logan doesn’t say anything the whole way up the mountain except occasionally pointing me in the right direction when I come to a fork in the road. He just rests his head against the window and stares off. I’m busy looking at him and not paying attention to the increasingly bumpy dirt road and I hit a rut, making the car jump and Logan’s head bounces off the glass with a thud.

“Ouch,” he mutters, rubbing his forehead. I slam on the breaks, reach out and try to touch him, but my hand passes right through feeling nothing but cold air where he should be.

“What are you doing?” he demands, looking at me like I’ve totally lost my mind.

“You felt that.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So? You felt that. Like, you felt it.”

His face falls into a surprised expression. “Oh, yeah I did.” He experimentally raises a clenched fist and tries to tap on the window, but just passes through it. “Weird. I wonder why.”

I pucker my mouth and resume the drive. A vague theory is forming in my head, but now is not the time to test it. A few more yards and I pull into a narrow gravel parking area and stop the car. Climbing out, I can see the bright sun directly overhead, but I can’t see The Tower. The trees are taller and fuller than I remember and I have no idea which way to go from here.

Curse my naturally poor sense of direction.

Logan steps out of the car and walks forward. “This way.”

He walks through the trees without hesitation. I however, have to push through the foliage like I’m on safari.

“Why do I never have a good machete when I need one?” I mutter, making Logan chuckle ahead of me.

Soon I can hear the rushing water of the river, though it’s still a few hundred yards before I can see it. Then, suddenly, the trees are behind us and the tall iron tower appears in the middle of the woods. There are bushes and tall grass growing along the bottom, with vines of ivy climbing up its monstrous legs. The once silver metal has corroded to a rusty patina and in places it’s covered with a living carpet of spongy looking green moss.