Page 61 of No First Kisses

I close out of the messaging app and open my voicemail only to find that I was, indeed, an asshole. There are two voicemails from Poppy and one from her brother.

Lo: I’m an asshole.

P: I know. Bring tacos. I’m almost done.

Lo: Have them check to make sure it’s not twins.

P: Freakin’ Parker.

Lo: How’d you know?

P: She texted me right before my appt. with a gif of two babies.

I put my phone away and go all the way across town to Taco Bell, which is definitely out of the way since the hospital is two minutes from the police station, and order Poppy a bunch of tacos and something called a Mexican pizza which stands out on the menu. Then I add in a few churros and some sort of Cinnabon thing. Just in case I do something to piss her off.

Yep. Good plan.

After driving back across town to the hospital, I pull into a spot right in front and get out, leaving the food on the front seat. I know better than to take a feast of terrible food into the one office in the building where everyone is likely to kill me for bringing something they may not be able to have.

Lo: I’m here. You want me to come into the office?

P: Yeah. Radiologist had a delay, so it’ll be a few minutes before I get to see the baby. Bring my tacos?

Lo: I don’t want pregnant people to kill me.

P: If you don’t bring my tacos, I’m gonna kill you.

Lo: Okay, crazy pants. Be there soon.

On my way back from grabbing her taco bag out of the front seat of my truck, I have a smile on my face. That, and I sneak one of the churros out of the bag to munch on in the lobby.

“Why are you smilin’? Did your baby mama send you a tittie pic or somethin’?”

That voice has me freezing in my tracks, and the fast-food bag almost slips out of my hand.

“Ortega.” I keep my eyes locked on him as I shift the bag from my right hand to my left. “What are you doing here?”

The man, whose name actually is Ortega, Ortega Grimes, stares at me with his pasty-white complexion and beady black eyes. Besides the massive scar that runs down the side of his face next to his ear and down his neck, he looks exactly the same as he had the day I found him. Well, Sam found him. I just took the information and did what was necessary with it.

“I found him.” Sam sat down next to me in the only booth I ever used at Lucy’s.

I looked down and saw Lettie and Poppy’s names carved into the wood, and I fought the urge to cry again. One of the worst weeks in my entire life was the result of Lettie’s death and I thought about asking if I could have the tabletop… as a reminder of the good times.

“I’m leaving for basic in a few weeks,” I told him quietly. “I know you wanted to join, too. Are you sure you can give that up?”

Sam stared at me with haunted eyes. “I wanted to join because Lettie asked me to make sure you stayed safe. She’s gone, and with you gone, I’m gonna need to watch over Poppy. I’m gonna join the club with my dad. He said they’d be happy to have me prospect.” He tapped his side of the table where our names were carved. “She and your brothers and sisters… Sister,” he corrected himself. “Fuck. It hurts, Logan.” He looked back toward the door. “But I found him, Lo. I found the bastard who gave her the drugs. I didn’t even need to ask the club for help, either. Lettie left a note he wrote her in her room.”

Lettie didn’t use drugs. She never touched them, and that wasn’t me being ignorant about my sister. She wasn’t an addict. She wasn’t depressed or hiding anything.

The day before her sixteenth birthday, someone asked her out. And she said yes to make Sam jealous. To get him to ask her out. To get his attention.

“She died because she wanted me to love her.” Sam lowered his voice. “If you don’t do something about it, I’m going to.”

He slid a piece of paper across the table to me, and I gripped it, my knuckles turning white. I gripped it until I was sure that I’d squeezed it back into the pulp that paper was created from. Long after Sam slid out of the booth and walked away, I sat there without moving, without really breathing.

My phone vibrated more than once in my pocket, but I made no move to answer. I knew who it was. Who it always was.

I couldn’t talk to Poppy. Not until I did something about the rage pouring through my veins.

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