If You're Out There(56)

“Oh.” I clear my throat. “Do you? Feel better?”

He smiles. “A little.”

“So that was your mom.” It sounds so useless and obvious as it tumbles from my mouth. I tug at the drawstring of my hoodie. “Is she always—” I recoil. “I mean, is that why you guys had to move here?” He winces and a tide of regret rises up in me. “We don’t have to get into it if you don’t want.”

“It’s fine,” he says. A car drives by, its moving headlights drowning out the fireflies. But the little orbs return soon enough, the engine’s rumble fading.

I clear my throat. “Is she . . .”

“An addict?”

I look at him, startled by his directness, and he nods.

“It’s been like that for a while.”

“How long is a while?”

He laughs ruefully. “Since I was little. But it was getting worse. Or at least harder to ignore.”

“Like how?” I ask, as gently as I can manage. He looks a little dazed. “Sorry,” I say. “Too many questions?”

“No. I’m just . . . not sure where to start. I guess . . . It kind of crept up on me. The rough patches got closer and closer together. There were nights my mom wouldn’t make it home. She’d go out for a walk and wouldn’t come back. I’d have to make Bee stay behind, get out the flashlight, and go looking for her. I never liked leaving my sister with her for long stretches, but I had to go to work. My mom would usually get herself back together eventually. She’d go out and get another job after the one she’d lost. She’d get energized, and start making plans for the future. And then we’d be good for a while. We were always a little on edge, but”—he shrugs—“I felt like I could keep it under control.”

“So.” I swallow. “What happened?”

He lets out a breath. “One night she borrowed my car and crashed it into a neighbor’s tree.”

My stomach drops. “Jesus.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t great.”

“Was she okay?”

“She split the skin of her forehead. Hurt her arm. She was freaking out, crying. Wouldn’t let me dial an ambulance.”

“Wait. You were with her?”

“No, but she called me all upset so I came and found her. But then a neighbor must have called 911, because we heard sirens and she started panicking. She ran home and I sat behind the wheel until they came. Figured it would save her from the DUI.”

“So . . . No one ever found out she crashed the car?”

“Nope. But that wasn’t really the important part.”

“What do you mean?”

He studies his hands a moment, his expression lost in the shadows. “When the cops got there, they found a bag of oxy in the glove compartment. It was a big one.” My eyes shoot up to his. “It was . . . pretty bad. But my aunt came down to fight the charges, hired the best lawyers she could find. I barely skirted serving time, which I know was extremely lucky. Not every kid has someone fighting in their corner like that. I got off with community service and probation. But then my school found out—my old teammate from that party at Northwestern made sure of it. I lost my scholarship, my art studio.” He looks at me and shrugs. “Eventually I came here.”

“So that’s why . . .” My shoulders sink. “The rumors.”

He nods. “I don’t know how it’s getting out.”

“What is it,” I say, “six degrees of separation? A girl I know from soccer may have mentioned a source.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding his head. “Well. It probably comes up if you Google hard enough anyway. But yeah. Kids keep coming up to me and asking if I can get them drugs.” His laugh makes me relax a little. “I’ve been disappointing people left and right.”

I let out a big breath, and we’re quiet for a while. I move up a step to sit beside him. “I guess I still don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell the cops the pills weren’t yours? Why didn’t your mom tell them?”

Logan considers this a moment. “I think my mom and I both knew it would be the end. DCFS had already been making home visits after a report from Bee’s teacher. And my aunt wanted us out of there. All she needed was the proof, but I wouldn’t give it to her for some reason.”

I watch him closely, the way he’s looking so intently at a point off in the street. “What do you think was stopping you?”

“I guess . . .” He looks at me, cutting through the space between us. “I told myself I was doing it for Bee. I couldn’t make her leave her home, her friends. But really, I think I couldn’t leave my mom. I was scared of what might happen to her.”

“What made you change your mind?”

His eyes drift back to the street. “Nothing. It wasn’t up to me.” His stare seems more deliberate now, the muscle of his jaw twitching. “A few weeks later my mom’s friend OD’d at our house.”

“Like . . .” I blink. “As in . . .”

“Died?” The little shake to his voice makes me think I might be sick. “Right there on our living room floor. I was out and my mom was too messed up to handle it. Bee had to call 911.”

I can’t quite bring myself speak. When I do, it comes out like a whisper: “Fuck.” Logan watches the fireflies and I look down at the space between us, surprised to find that I’m squeezing his hand.