Page 30 of Liam

I lied.

And I don’t even know why I lied, but it hadalwaysbeen me and Linc versus the world, and I often said I agreed with him even when I didn’t. The day we found out the truth about Logan’s past was the day I started separating whoIam and who Linc is.

I’m not mad about Linc having those initial feelings—he’s just as entitled to them as anyone. But that doesn’t mean I have to agree with himalways.

Logan raises his eyebrows now, still waiting for a response.Do I want to do something with him?Maybe. But first—“Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

I lift the CD player between us. “Did you steal this for me?”

He chuckles. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “It was at one of Old Lady Laura’s garage sales. It was in a box with other—oh, wait. Yeah, I did steal it. But not for you.”

My laughter is quiet, unfamiliar, and Logan finally moves, going farther into the garage to drag another camp chair beside me. He sits, matching my position, saying, “The battery compartment was all rusted, anyway. I had to deep-clean it. She wanted two bucks for it. Can you believe that shit?”

“Scammer.” I peer at his profile as he stares ahead. There’s nothing to see out there besides green grass and tall trees, but the way he’s looking at it, all relaxed—maybe evencontent—this might be all he needs.This, to him, might bring him the peace I’m endlessly chasing. Too bad it doesn’t have the same effect on me.

The view hadn’t changed much since the last time Logan and I sat together like this. Only, back then, it wasn’t just us. It was all the Preston boys. Even Dad.

“You remember the last time we did this?” he asks, and maybe Lincoln isn’t the only one who can read my thoughts. I don’t respond, and so he continues, “You and Linc wanted a new dirt bike, and Dad said he’d buy you one if you cleared out this space.” He glances behind him at the mess of boxes still pushed to the back. “You never got that dirt bike, did you?”

“No,” I chuckle, shaking my head.

“Damn, how long ago was that?” Logan muses.

Without hesitating, I answer, “Seven years.”

He was fifteen, and we were twelve, and like most twelve-year-old boys on a mission, Linc and I started off strong with the cleanup. But, like most boys, we lost focus pretty damn quick. For Linc, it was a bag of old coins he swore were worth millions. For me, it was Mom and Dad’s old CD collection.

There was an old stereo amongst all the junk, the wires nothing but a pile of tangled mess. Even if we could untangle them, I had no idea how to connect it all. I remember glancing at Lincoln, questioning, and he said, “Ten bucks says he’ll tell you to fuck off.”

Of all of us, Logan was the most capable with electronics, and so I found him in his room and told him the situation. Surprisingly, he didn’t tell me to fuck off. Not only did he connect the stereo and get it to work, but he talked me through it all, showing me step by step where things go andwhy. It was the first time I recall Logan willingly spending time with me.

This, right now, is the second.

The weather’s similar on both occasions—just warm enough to tingle your flesh, but not enough to irritate it. That day, we went through our parents’ music collection, playing songafter song, sometimes appreciating them, but most of the time, laughing at them.

Dad must’ve heard us from inside the house, because he came out to see what we were doing. Then, slowly, the rest of my brothers joined in. We all gathered in the garage, sitting on camp chairs, facing the open door while Dad played DJ. Occasionally, he’d share a memory of a song, most of them having to do with our mother. “Wonderwall” by Oasis played four times in a row before he moved on. But what he played next wasn’t much better. I remember all of us sitting quietly still as “Tears in Heaven” by Eric Clapton played through the speakers. The quality was low, filled with pops of static, but we all understood the lyrics.

We allfeltthem.

For a long time after the song ended, none of us moved. None of us made a sound. Then Lucas, my oldest brother, turned to Dad and said, “We all miss her, Dad.”

Dad shook his head. “It’s not about a man losing his wife. It’s about a dad losing his son…”

I clear the emotion from my throat now, pushing away the memories, but not far enough that they disappear completely. “Remember how Dad played us all these sad fucking songs and told us their meanings, their backstories?”

“Jesus,” Logan murmurs, shaking his head. “I’ve never been able to listen to ‘Wonderwall’ since.”

I remove the CD from the Discman Logan stole and get up for the first time since I sat down. Logan watches me make my way to the stereo, insert the disc, and hit play. “You remember what he told us about this one?”

Logan waits for the intro to play through, then nods a few seconds into the poppy tune. “I know the song, but I can’t remember the story behind it.”

I lower the volume on “The Way” by Fastball and sit down beside him again.

And then I tell him.

The lyrics of “The Way” are about an older couple who ditch their lives, driving off before dawn to chase an endless summer. They drink, talk, enjoy each other’s company, and when their car breaks down, they continue on foot. The chorus paints a picture of a golden road free of hunger, cold, and aging—the dream, some might say.

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