Page 12 of Attractive Forces
I sit there in the driveway, watching Jake go inside. I replay the feel of his hand on my arm. Replay his smile.
Shit.
I know I’m flying too close to the sun, but I can’t help myself.
I’m Logan Madison. I can get everything I want, right?
That’s the theory, anyway.
5
Jake
Why does it always happen that when one part of your life starts to go well, other stuff screws up? It’s like the universe keeps a big fat balance sheet somewhere, with accountants hunched over it going, “Okay, we’ll let Jake make a new friend, but we’ll take away peace in his family for a while. That ought to even it up.”
Because the last few months of getting to know Logan have been awesome. But today, I come home after spending an afternoon hanging out with Logan to find World War Three in progress between my mum and Aaron. Actually, it’s been happening all the time now, so it’s more like World War Five Hundred and Fifty-Six.
Mum shouting. Aaron yelling. Mum’s voice raising even higher, to the point that probably only the dogs in the neighborhood can fully tune in to what she’s saying. Aaron’s thudding footsteps as he stomps up the stairs. Aaron slamming his bedroom door, shaking the walls. It appears crappy rental houses weren’t built to withstand the hurricane of a twelve-year-old boy’s rage.
Mum stands in the kitchen, rubbing her forehead. She’s still in her uniform from the diner, which has a dribble of tomato sauce down the front.
As she pours a glass of water from the faucet, I study her for the first time in ages, noticing she’s got lines scored on her forehead and around her eyes.
“You okay?” I ask.
She takes a gulp of the water while raising one eyebrow in a mocking expression that she’s trademarked.
I have a flashback to her giving me that look a year ago when I’d hit her up for some cash to go to the movies. Then, I’d interrupted her on the patio surrounded by her friends, our swimming pool sparkling in the background. She would be sipping gin, and the lines around her eyes deepened only with laughter, not tiredness.
“Do you think I’m okay?” she answers my question, and I blink, returning to the present.
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” She heaves a sigh. “That’s part of the problem. None of this”—she gestures vaguely to encompass the house and Aaron upstairs—“is our fault. Yet here we are.”
My phone beeps, and I grab it, glad for the distraction.
I’m even more glad when I see it’s from Logan.
forgot to ask if you’re coming to the game?
what game? is there a sporting occasion happening soon?
I snort to myself as I send my reply. Because the whole week, all everyone has been talking about is the big rugby game tomorrow afternoon between Heath Valley and one of their main rivals, St Kilda Boys.
apparently a whole lot of jocks are going to throw around an oval-shaped ball and use it as an excuse to smash into each other
His reply makes me chuckle.
wouldn’t want to miss that
“Who are you messaging?” Mum asks.
“Logan.”
“You’ve been hanging out with him quite a bit recently.”
“Yeah. He’s a good guy. We’re friends.”
