“Alyssa,” he said, stern.
“Ass-Crack didn’t call me back. I called him twenty times this week, and he didn’t call me back.” Ass-Crack was the name we’d graced my dad with after he walked out on our family. He and I had been extremely close, the two musicians of the family, and when he left, a part of me floated away with him. I didn’t talk about him a lot, but even though I never said the words, Logan always knew that it bothered me.
“Forget about him. He’s a piece of trash.”
“I have the biggest summer piano recital of my career coming up, and I don’t know if I can do it without him there.” I tried my best to keep my emotions in check. I tried my best not to cry, but I was losing the fight that night. I worried about him more than Mom and Erika did. Maybe because they never really understood who he was, as an artist, as a performer. The two of them had very reality-based minds that came with a lot of stability—Dad and I were kind of floating spirits, dancing in the wildfires.
But lately he hadn’t called. And I was so, so worried.
“Alyssa,” Logan started.
“Lo,” I whispered, a light tremble in my voice. He heard the sniffles through the receiver, and I sat up more. “When I was little, thunderstorms used to freak me out really bad. And I’d run into my parents’ bedroom and beg them to let me sleep with them. Mom never let me because she said I had to learn that storms wouldn’t hurt me. Ass-Crack would always agree with her, too. So I’d go back to my bedroom, huddle under my blankets, listen to the thunder and try my hardest not to see the lightning. Within a minute, my bedroom door would open, he’d have his keyboard in his hands, and he’d play music beside my bed until I fell asleep. Most days, I’m strong. I’m okay. But tonight with the storm, and all of the ignored calls… He’s breaking me tonight.”
“Don’t let him, Alyssa. Don’t let him win.”
“I just…” I began to cry over the line and I started to break down. “I’m just having a sad moment, that’s all.”
“I’m coming over.”
“What? No. It’s late.”
“I’m coming.”
“The buses stopped running at two, Logan. Plus, my mom closed the gate to the property and locked up. You couldn’t get in anyway. It’s fine.” Mom was a hot shot lawyer and had money—a lot of money. We lived at the top of the hill, with a huge gate around our property. It was pretty impossible to get into after Mom locked up at night. “I’m fine,” I promised. “I just needed to hear your voice, and for you to remind me that I’m better off without him.”
“Because you are,” he explained.
“Yeah.”
“No, Alyssa. Really. You are better than Ass-Crack.”
My sobbing grew heavier, and I had to cover my mouth with one hand just so he wouldn’t hear how hard I was crying. My body shook in bed, and I fell apart, tears falling against my pillowcase, my thoughts making me even more anxious.
What if something happened to him? What if he was drinking again? What if…
“I’m coming over.”
“No.”
“Alyssa. Please.” He almost sounded like he was begging.
“Are you high?” I asked.
He hesitated, which was enough of an answer for me. I could always tell when he was high, mainly because he almost always was stoned. He knew it bothered me, but he always said he was a hamster on the wheel, unable to change his ways.
We were so different in so many ways. There wasn’t much that I’ve ever done. I pretty much went to work, played the piano, and hung out with Logan. He had a lot more experience in things than I could’ve ever imagined. He used drugs that I couldn’t even name. He lost himself almost weekly, usually after crossing paths with his father or dealing with his mom, but somehow he always found his way home to me.
I tried my best to pretend that it didn’t bother me, but sometimes it did.
“Goodnight, best friend,” I softly spoke.
“Goodnight, best friend,” he replied, sighing.
***
His hands were tucked behind his back, and he was soaked from head to toe. His normally wavy brown hair was lying flat against his head, strands covering his eyes. He was wearing his favorite red hoodie, and his black jeans that had more rips than any pair of pants should’ve ever had. And he had a goofy grin on his face.
“Logan, it’s three thirty in the morning,” I whispered, hoping not to wake my mom.
“You were crying,” he said, standing in my front doorway. “And the storm wasn’t stopping.”
“You walked here?” I asked.
He sneezed. “It wasn’t that far.”
“You climbed the gate?”
He twisted a little, showing me the rip in his jeans. “I climbed the gate, plus,” He pulled his hands from behind his back, showcasing a pie pan, wrapped in aluminum foil. “I made you a pie.”
“You made a pie?”
“I watched a documentary on pie earlier today. Did you know that pie has been around since the ancient Egyptians? The first documented pie was created by the Romans, and it was a rye-crusted—”
“Goat cheese and honey pie?” I cut in.