Page 36 of Logan

I was ruining Jason’s perfect home. Soon enough, he was going to decide I wasn’t worth the trouble and kick me out, assuming he wasn’t already packing my bags.

I wrapped my arms around my knees and focused on my breathing. My heart beat a rapid pulse in my ears, drowning outthe rest of the world around me. I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I wanted to just stop existing for a while.

Slipping into the Midnight Zone was as easy as breathing at that point. I hovered in the air, looking down at the sad figure of Clay Dahler huddled below me. He created such a pathetic sight, hiding in a bedroom that wasn’t really his. I couldn’t stand to look at him for long.

So, I left. I rose higher and higher in the air until I was floating among the clouds and the city below me was just a glittering pattern of lights. It was a full moon that night, and I entertained myself dancing between moonbeams as I let the world keep turning without me.

Vibration along my skin dragged me back into my body. I was still in the exact same position, huddled in a ball on the floor, but now someone was knocking on the door behind me. The room was dark, giving no indication of the time. I was pretty sure it was the same day, but other than that, time was meaningless.

“Clay?” Jason spoke from the other side of the door.

I tried to respond, but my throat was constricted, and I couldn’t make more than a strange croaking sound.

That seemed to be enough for Jason, however, because he kept talking as if I’d answered him properly.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. And… you’re right. I have been avoiding talking about… about how those monsters hurt you. I just didn’t know what to say.”

He sighed, and there was a thump against the door that sounded suspiciously like a human skull hitting wood.

“I’m fucking this up, and I feel like no matter what I do I’m just going to make it worse. So… here.”

Something slipped under the door, and I picked it up to find it was Jason’s phone. The screen showed a video call already in progress, and Logan’s face stared up at me.

“You don’t trust me,” Jason explained. “I had hoped… well, that doesn’t matter. I noticed that you did seem to trust Logan, so maybe he can help where I can’t.”

The sound of footsteps leading away from the door followed his words, and I realized he’d left.

Part of me felt extremely guilty for making my brother worry so much, but I was also so relieved to see Logan that I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. I’d missed him a lot more than I realized, and my fingers shook as I unmuted the video call.

“Hey, Clay,” Logan’s voice greeted me through the phone. “How’re you doing?”

All at once, I explained everything that happened that evening in one long ramble. I barely stopped to take a breath as the words poured out of me. I even tried to describe the flashback memory I’d experienced when Jason grabbed me. My description probably didn’t make much sense, but I trusted that Logan would understand anyway.

“Flashbacks like that are common,” he assured me when I was done.

“But, why? I’m safe now. Those memories shouldn’t matter anymore.”

“It’s because you’re safe that your mind is trying to process those memories. Your brother is right. Therapy would help.”

“I’m not crazy.”

Logan quickly cut me off. “I’m not saying you’re crazy. That’s not what therapy is about. I’m not even saying you have to do it. That’s your decision in the end. But I’m going to send over a list of resources that might help you, and I’d like you to at least consider them. All right?”

I scowled, but I didn’t have the energy to keep protesting. “Fine. I’m sick of talking about this now. Talk about something else.”

He thought for a moment, and even through the small screen, I could see the way his cheeks dimpled when he pursed his lips. For most people, dimples were attached to smiles, but Logan smiled so much that his dimples only appeared when he was deep in thought.

“I recently started listening to Tibetan flute music.”

I snorted. “Tibetan flute music? Really?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s pretty good.”

We spent several hours talking about different things, from music, to movies, and even the books I’d tried reading. In all that time, we never came back to the topic of my most recent panic attack or the suggestion of therapy.

Yet, when I finally ended the call, I found myself seriously considering it with a more open mind.

Maybe therapy wasn’t such a bad idea.

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