e used to watch it together on VHS.
“You were pretty close to your Dad?” Logan stated as a question, drawing his brows together.
This is it, girl. Keep him talking.
“Yes, I was close to him. He was a character,” I offered, fighting off tears I knew would come if I said too much about my father.
“It must have really shocked you to learn about Reese,” he lamented, regarding me apologetically.
His mention of the subject startled me.
“Yes, it did, but everyone makes mistakes,” I admitted, my answer hopefully causing him to think about his own actions, rather than those of my father.
“I’m not very close to my dad. He’s kind of an asshole,” he claimed angrily. I noticed the vein in his neck popping out.
“I’m sorry, that’s awful, Logan,” I said kindly. “What about your mom? What’s she like?”
His expression softened. I noticed a hint of a smile.
“My mom is the sweetest, most loving woman I’ve ever known. But, she’s stupid.” He tossed that last bit out hotly.
“Logan!” I scolded.
“Sorry, I don’t mean it. It’s just hard. My dad drinks way too much. He hits my mom and calls her horrible names. I’ve tried to get her to leave him. I can take care of her but she won’t leave. She says she can’t because she loves him,” Logan grumbled, shaking his head back and forth, frustration creasing his forehead.
Sadness filled my heart. Logan was turning out just like the man he despised.
“Logan, I’m so sorry,” I consoled him, reaching for his hand.
He pulled his hand away, glaring at me with anguish on his face.
“Don’t! I don’t want your goddam pity, Claire,” he barked, breaking my heart further. No one had ever listened to Logan before, or cared to understand him. I wanted too.
I grabbed his hand again, holding firmly, not allowing him to pull it away this time.
“No, of course not, Logan. I don’t pity you. I only want you to know I’m here for you,” I coaxed and his expression softened.
He smiled appreciatively with my words and squeezed my hand, pulling it to his chest and holding it there while he spoke. “He tells her he wishes I was never born. He was happy with her until I came along and took up all her time.”
The desperation in Logan’s voice was too strong to ignore. I released our hands, grabbing his face, making him look at me. I wanted him to see my eyes when I spoke.
“Logan, look at me. It’s not your fault, okay? It’s not,” I insisted. Everything made sense. Logan felt responsible for the torturous life bestowed on his mother.
Logan continued his confession.
“He hits me sometimes. It’s gotten worse the last couple of years since I started fighting back. When I stand up to him, he sees it as a challenge. Like he has to remind me he can kick my ass. My mom always takes his side and tells me to get out,” he cried, the confession taking a toll on his emotions.
“Oh, Logan,” I whispered.
“I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry,” he screamed through tears, his body swaying back and forth.
I reached around Logan, folding him in my arms. How could his parents have been so selfish? Did they not see what they were doing to him? I was angry, and I had to help him somehow. I rocked him in my arms for a long while thinking how so many kids at school were jealous of Logan. He had all the material things kids our age wanted – the latest iPhone, expensive clothing, and a new truck. In turn, Logan was jealous of all of us because we had the one thing he wanted most in the world – unconditional love.
When Logan finally released my hold I expected him to be embarrassed but instead he stroked my cheek with the back of his hand and thanked me for listening. His conscience was buried deeply, just coming to the surface, warm and kind. I had every intention of bringing it out for him. I kissed him gently on the side of his head.
He stood up swiftly, wiping away tears from his cheeks.
“I have to go Claire. I’ll be back in the morning,” he told me, handing me a bag with water and cannolis from the same restaurant we had eaten from earlier. His expression told his story –the two Logan’s were battling for control. Taking the bag from him I thanked him.