Paving Memory Lane

After

The scene at the top of the stairs is ominous: Ashley has a white-knuckled grip on her handgun, pointing it at Clair's door as Sam tries, in vain, to jiggle it open. Little whimpers escape from under the door as Sam jerks the knob.
               "What happened," my voice strains as I stare, wide-eyed, at the shining barrel.
               Tossing Sam the key hidden under the ping pong table, Ashley explains, "Clair's mystery man?" Images of the ravishing, masked gangster from earlier this evening resurface. "It's our friendly neighborhood boy-gone-wrong, Wyatt. He's preying on her beliefs of his goodwill, so we're trying to save her." Memories of her childhood crush, soured by a life on the streets, plays like a mental movie. The faint sounds of music evaporating through the floor act as a soundtrack, matching the escalating beat of my heart as the door flies open.
               "Clair," screams Sam, his voice cracking much like my heart.
                Her back is shoved against the wall, her feet scrambling to get her impossibly closer. Clair's body is folded in on itself, trembling as if she has hypothermia from the coldness of Wyatt's heart.
                Wyatt himself, in all of his five-o'clock-shadow glory, hunches over her, boxing her in with tensed arms and a leer. It's eerie to see his unchanged childhood looks portrayed in such a manner.
                 Without hesitation, Sam hurtles his form at Wyatt, as if shocked by the spark in his eyes.
Coming out of her stupor first, Ashley gently guides Clair away from the wall and out of her room. I can do nothing but grab her a comfy change of clothes and concentrate on drowning out the sickening cracks coming from the boys' tussle.
I crack the door to Ashley's room, peering inside at (description- mention the shadows boldening the redness from crying).
Padding inside, I lay the outfit on her desk and join her consolation session. Ashley strokes Clair's hair and holds her hand, kneeling before her on the bed. I perch beside Clair, rubbing small circles on her lower back. Cassidy slips inside as well, whispering words of well-meaning in her ear.
                 Once her tears have dried up, Clair sniffles, "I'm sorry for ruining the party for you guys. If it weren't for me..."
                 We all start chattering simultaneously, eager to prove her incorrect. This makes her giggle gently, a sight for sore eyes.
                  "What makes you think the party's stopping? Sam brought a crap ton of alcohol, and everyone downstairs is still dancing the night away. Let's be gracious hosts," I ask, meeting the gaze of each girl. Cassidy's creased forehead conveys her unsureness, and Ashley's thin lips reveal her opposition. Clair, on the other hand, is contemplative.
                Reading Cassidy and Ashley as if books, Clair pleads. "Can we? I'd hate for everyone to go home." Upon seeing their unchanged expressions, she asks, "For me?"
              Sighing, Ashley breaks eye contact with her, agreeing with us. Cassidy hesitantly follows suit.
Traipsing down the steps, we leave Clair with a sanitized, albeit knocked around, Sam so we can continue to make rounds and supervise.
I don't know what became of Wyatt; I don't want to, either.
-–—•—–-
I idle by the trash can, fiddling with my phone, when Logan approaches me.
"Hey, can we talk?" I nod, walking with him to the empty kitchen. Our fingers hover next to each other, barely brushing as we stroll. He begins to slow his pace as we cross over onto the hardwood, but I guide him to our deck.
                  The October air sweeps goosebumps over my exposed arms, bringing with it the scent of roasted marshmallows. The lanterns are off, the only light coming from houses and stars; our willow tree looms, a hulking silhouette. All of the children that ventured out tonight have already been tucked into bed, leaving the streets full of phantom laughter; I drink the silence. Neither one of us can see the other, but no matter which direction I turn, I'm staring at him.
Logan's fingertips hesitantly prod me, searching for his companion. Uncertain of himself, he rests his palm on my knee.
"Why did you say yes," Logan whispers, tensing his muscles. "You don't have to...," he trails off, saying the last sentence as though to himself.
                  "I fail to see the cons of this. I get someone I can steal hoodies from, that will stroke my hair when my eyelids flutter. Besides, how can you go wrong with emerald eyes and blonde hair?" I nudge him with my body, sensing his suppressed smile.
                   I know it's not enough by the tightness of his muscles and emotions; nothing will pan out if his history is ignored.
                  To occupy my nerves, I dance my fingers through his.
"I know you're not naïve. I know you deserve more than empty words. But I can't give you anything until there is something.
"I know what you did, too. I can't possibly know how you feel, but I can imagine how tangled up you are about this. Taught like a rubber band, ancient hatred about the past one hand, the promise of a better future the other.
                   "I'm not excusing you for what happened. Raping your girlfriend, no matter how drunk you were or how long ago it occurred, is not acceptable.
                     "But I believe you've changed. I trust you, whether or not I should. I want to explore with you; I want to explore you."
                      I bite my lip, turning my body towards him so I can read his thoughts. He remains motionless, staring straight ahead but looking at his composition.
                    Logan must make up his mind, for his hand untwines itself from mine, sliding up my thigh. The skin he exposes flares with goosebumps from the autumn air, but his palm presents a warm beacon signaling my heart.
I slip my wings off of my back, tossing the flower crown on top so I have free reign as my fingertips skid across his stubbled jaw.
It seems like with every move, every touch, we knock over another domino, spark another nerve.
The instant Logan's remaining hand slides underneath my shirt, I know I'm in and not getting out. But who said I wanted to escape in the first place?
Fingers tango around my torso, working shivers down my spine. My body subconsciously leans towards him as my fingertips twirl his shadowed locks.
                    We rise as one, standing but a heartbeat away from each other. I certainly hear mine as I boldly bring my lips to his.
                    Nothing is dormant. Logan's skin tingles, mine flares. His smell is everywhere, in the encouraging wind and the resilient grass our feet whirl over. The willow tree branches rustle with our bubbly energy.
                     I lean against the calloused tree trunk, catching my breath as he does the same.
In my peripheral, I observe the absence of cars on our street and the familiar silhouettes walking through the house.
Logan braces himself against the bark, hunching over me. I swat him away, feeling guilty about neglecting to clean up the party.
                     He snatches me from behind as I stride towards the house, resting his head on my shoulder. I ignore his eyes, bringing him back to reality by telling him it's time to clean up.
                    Logan stares at our backlit friends, clearly unaware of his other surroundings until now.
                    "The fun's only just begun," he pouts, allowing me to replace my crown and wings and try to straighten my rumpled outfit.
                      "They'll think we had even more if we don't come back soon," I point out. "Come in a few minutes after me so we can possibly fool their suspicions."
                Cracking open the French doors, I glide inside the emptied kitchen as nonchalantly as possible. Of course, Logan doesn't listen, stepping up behind me. I shoot his boyish grin a glare.
A suggestive whistle pierces the air, long and low. Bless it.
I pivot my glare to Nick. He leans against the wall, invitingly waggling his eyebrows. I swiftly lower my gaze from his mahogany eyes, more foreboding than normal. Color weaves through my cheeks, much like my finger in a strand of hair.
              This should be interesting.