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“You’re a good thing, Alyssa. You’ve done everything to be a good daughter to him. You went above and beyond with this dick and then he doesn’t even have the balls to break up with you in person?! I mean, come on. Who breaks up with their daughter via snail mail?!” he hollered. “What kind of parent breaks up with their kid at all?”
“You see why I told you to break up with Shay in person, instead of via text?” I tried to joke. He didn’t laugh. “Logan, come on. It’s okay.”
“You know what? Screw him, High. You’re going to do great things. You’re going to change the world without him. You’re going to succeed beyond his wildest expectations. You don’t need him.”
“Why are you so upset?”
“Because how could he do that? How could he turn his back on you? On you, High. You’re the most beautiful, genuine, gentle person I’ve ever met. And he left you. For what? For music? For money? Fame? It’s crap, because none of that adds up.” He sat back down beside me, his breaths still heavy with irritation. “I’m just trying to understand, that’s all,” he said, hanging his legs off of the edge of the billboard as we stared out into the distance.
“Understand what?”
“How anyone could ever give you up.”
***
That night it finally hit me. Dad wasn’t coming back. He didn’t want to be a part of my life. He gave me up for music, which was ironic because to me, he was my music. I spent the whole afternoon sick, wanting nothing more than for the empty feeling inside of me to leave.
Me: Can you come over?
Logan showed up to my house around eleven that night. I gave him a tight smile as he stared my way, wrapping me into a tight hug.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Lie?”
“Lie.”
“Truth?”
I shrugged, my eyes watering over. “Can you just hold me?”
He grew extremely concerned, pulling back a little to study every inch of me. “High… What’s going on?”
“He really left me.” I swallowed hard. “He didn’t want me.”
He led me to my bedroom, closing the door behind us. As I climbed into bed, he moved over to my vinyl record collection and thumbed through each record. When he found one, he put it on, making my eyes water even more.
As Sam Smith’s song “Life Support” began to play, Logan shut off the light and crawled into the bed and wrapped his arms around me. As he pulled me closer, making me curve into him, I began to shake as he began softly singing the lyrics into my ear.
I began to cry. As he continued to sing, my body kept trembling against his. He pulled me closer, he held me tighter. The song played on a loop, over and over again. He kept singing against me, into my soul, taming the wild fire, making me ache.
His voice put me to sleep, his arms kept me safe.
When I woke in the middle of the night, crying from a nightmare, Logan was fast asleep. His arms had fallen to his sides, his breaths fell through his mouth, and I stared at him, tears still falling down my cheeks.
“Lo,” I whispered. He stirred.
“Yeah?”
“I had a bad dream. Can you hold me?”
He didn’t hesitate. He pulled me close once more, allowing me to rest my head against his chest, feeling his heartbeats.
“You’re okay, Alyssa Marie Walters,” he sighed against my skin.
I cried more, pulling him closer. “I’m okay, Logan Francis Silverstone.”
