The Fire Between High & Lo (Elements 2)
“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.
 
; His face dropped with shock. “How did you know?!”
“You told me yesterday.”
He grew a bit bashful. “Oh. Right.”