Z does something in the game—I can’t tell what ’cuz I’m not facing the TV—but Logan elbows him so hard in retaliation that he almost falls off the arm of the couch. Z responds by putting my brother in a headlock and giving him a noogie.
Logan squirms away, or at least he tries to. But it’s not like he can go very far when he’s paralyzed from the waist down. Cam makes a show of grabbing his legs, pretending to keep him in place, but I know what she’s really doing. Making sure he doesn’t fall again. And while I’m grateful to her, grateful to all of my friends for the way they’ve come through for me and Logan these last six months, I hate that it’s come to this.
Hate the fact Logan’s paralyzed.
Hate that my parents are dead.
Hate the guilt that’s wrapped around my throat like a noose, suffocating me a little more with each day—each minute—that passes.
Hate even more that I’m such a loser at this whole thing that my friends constantly have to come to my rescue.
But I can’t let them see that, can’t let Logan see just how fucked up I am about everything. I mean, what the hell right do I have to be fucked up? He’s paralyzed. Mom and Dad are dead. And I’m just … nothing. I’m nothing. Nothing to worry about, nothing to complain about, nothing to—
Fuck the self-pity.
“Who’s winning?” I ask, walking over to Logan and deliberately ruffling his hair as I call their attention to me for the first time.
“Dude!” Logan yelps, nearly dropping his controller in his efforts to protect his quiff. “How many times do I have to tell you guys? Not the hair!”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I dig my hands into his too-long strands, make an even bigger disaster out of them. “Am I messing with your perfect style? I’m just checking for bumps and bruises. Can’t be too careful with head injuries.”
“Aaaaaaash!” he whines, batting at me. “I don’t have a head injury!”
“Are you sure?” I poke at the Band-Aid, hard enough to sting but not enough to really hurt him. “Because this looks to me like—”
“Get away!” He hits me a little harder, this time, but he’s laughing like a hyena, so I figure it’s all good.
But I still want to talk to Sarah. She called me after the Urgent Care visit, assured me everything was fine, but I want to hear what she has to say again. Preferably face-to-face, so I can read her facial expressions. Logan’s aide has a history of trying to smooth things over so as not to upset me, especially when I’m at work.
“Where’s Sarah?” I ask, as Z pulls a couple sick tricks on his board, ratcheting up the points.
“In the kitchen with Luc,” Cam says, and there’s something in my best friend’s voice that has me lifting an eyebrow. “She’s helping him make dinner.”
“Luc’s cooking?”
“Apparently. Says he’s tired of takeout,” Z says, right before he crows triumphantly. “Got you, sucker!”
“Hey!” Logan squawks indignantly as he squints at the video game. “Seriously? How is that even possible?”
“Watch and learn, young padawan. Watch and learn.”
“Whatever.” Logan looks hurt. “I can’t believe you’d beat up on a cripple.”
My heart turns to ice, lodges somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. But Z just laughs, low and evil-sounding. “Dude, you can only use that so many times before it gets old.”
I start to jump down his throat—I can’t believe he just said that to Logan after everything he’s been through—but Cam catches my eye. Shakes her head just a little. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make me look, really look, at the scene before me.
Z’s taunting Logan, who is giving it back just as good as he gets. Logan’s not hurt, he’s not upset. In fact, he looks happy. Normal. Like the kid he was before the accident.
Jesus, when am I going to get this whole big brother/par
enting thing right with him? It feels like everyone else is better at it than I am.
I nod at Cam, to let her know I understand, then go in search of Luc and Sarah. They’re in the kitchen, cooking all right, but I’m not sure it has anything to do with dinner. I clear my throat, loudly, and they jump apart, looking guilty and dazed and like they’ve been kissing for quite some time. Sarah’s cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen and Luc looks like he’s about one step away from taking her to the floor.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, crossing to the fridge and pulling out a can of Coke. I really want a beer, but I don’t drink when I’m around Logan anymore. What if something happens—like he falls out of his wheelchair playing basketball or something—and I need to get him to the hospital? Or if his catheter comes out? Or if any number of a million other things that can happen, happen? I have to be sober enough to help him if he needs it.
Of course, there’s also the fear that if I start drinking I’ll never stop. I’ll drown in the stuff, drown in the horror and the sorrow and the pain that keep trying to pull me down. Pull me under.