If You're Out There(44)

I close my eyes a moment. “Reggie, I’m telling you . . .”

When he sighs down at me, I can see it’s no use. “Get some rest,” he says, gentler now. “You look like hell, kiddo.”

I’m sitting on the bench outside the restaurant when the bell above the door rings. I’ve been staring at the streetlamp, willing myself not to fall apart.

Logan has my backpack with him, his face falling a little when he sees me. “It didn’t look like you were coming back inside. Thought you might want this.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking it.

He pulls off his apron and lowers himself beside me. “Did I miss something?”

“I was just talking to a friend,” I say. “Reggie. He’s a police officer. I tried to tell him what’s been going on—the weird posts, the note at Priya’s house . . .”

Logan stares. “Wait. You told a cop we broke into Priya’s house?”

“It’s fine,” I say.

He scoffs. “Oh, is that right? Christ, Zan. Did you use my name?”

His eyes are worried, hands wringing. I’m exhausted, and fed up, and it dawns on me. He’s really hiding something. “Why didn’t you want to report it?” I ask. “What we saw back at the house?”

“There was nothing to report.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble, Logan?”

For a moment he just blinks. “What makes you say that?”

“You were so . . . skittish at Priya’s house. Like you were so sure we’d get caught. Worried about missing class, about starting over. And you should have seen your face just now when I mentioned Reggie. I’m not dumb, okay? I’ve only heard bits and pieces, and it’s hard to know what to believe. But, well, people have been . . .” I brace myself. “Talking.”

Something in his expression shifts, his jaw tightening. “And I guess now you’re someone who cares what ‘people’ have to say?”

“You’re not exactly an open book, Logan. If you’ve done nothing wrong, why dodge everything I ask?”

He furrows his brow, like he’s just uncovered something fascinating. “You don’t trust me.”

I sigh. “I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. But hey, why should I be any different? You don’t trust anybody, Zan.”

“That is not true,” I say, straightening up in defense. “I trust people. I mean I obviously trusted—”

“Let me guess,” he says coolly. “Priya?” Something in the air changes, and I suddenly can’t look at him. “As in one friend? Out of everybody? It’s a lot to put on one person, don’t you think?” His laughter actually stings. “You know, maybe all this digging really is crazy of us. Maybe it’s simple. Maybe the poor girl just needed a break from you.”

It would have been better if he’d punched me in the gut.

It’s quiet for a minute, and when I glance over, I can tell he knows he’s gone too far. “I shouldn’t have . . .” He stands. “Look, I should get back inside, but how about I come by later? We should . . . probably talk.”

As he reaches for the door I feel the hurt, the rage and frustration, all rising up inside my throat. “Don’t bother,” I say to his back. “You know, Logan, I may be sad and pathetic, but at least I’m not a liar. Or some kind of fucking criminal.”

“Really?” he says, turning around. “It’s like that?”

But I’m already running down the sidewalk as fast as I can.

Dad’s at my house when I walk in. I close the door, confused. “She’s here,” he says into his phone. He’s got a serious look on his face, all hunched over the receiver like he’s handling something delicate.

Harrison walks straight to me, his hands balled up in tight fists. “I can’t believe you forgot me!”

“Oh no.” My backpack drops to the ground, as does my stomach, and Harr crosses his angry little arms. “Shit—I mean shoot! Oh, buddy, I really am so sorry. I completely—”

“I was stuck there for twenty-eight minutes!” His cheeks are turning red, his plump bottom lip jutting out. My heart always breaks when his lip does that.

I crouch down to Harr’s level, but he refuses to meet my eyes. “Hey. Buddy. Really, I am so, so sorry.”

He takes in a choppy inhale, trying not to cry. “The after-school teacher got all annoyed and made me wait in the cafeteria while the janitor mopped, and all the other kids went home. A bunch of girls made fun of me. Even Matilda laughed.”

I pout and try to hug him, but Harrison rips himself away.

“No, no,” Dad grumbles into the phone. “Really, we’re okay here. Go enjoy your dinner.” He hangs up and looks at my brother. “Harrison, could you go watch some TV?” My brother pauses dubiously for a moment, then scampers off, ever the opportunist.

“What’s going on with you?” asks Dad once Harr is settled on the couch and out of earshot.

I lean into the counter. “I’m sorry. It’s been a shit day. I got caught up, and I forgot.” I realize my stomach is growling. “Are we staying here or going to your place? I’m starving.”

“We’ll go back to my place in a little while,” he says, clearly thrown by the deviation. “I wasn’t sure when you’d get here, so I ordered delivery. Leftovers are in the fridge. But . . . Zan, what happened today can’t ever happen again.”