Logan
Weak Flesh
Lex Silvas
14/07/25
No, I’m not in love, I’m sorry, stupid heart, love isn’t for me.
So why am I standing here on this street, under this rain, waiting for Toby Matthews to come out of his house? Simple, I just want to return his things that he left back at work when he quit or got fired, I don’t know anymore. Me, Logan Frye, all of twenty-two years old, five foot ten, blue eyes and blond hair, just want to make sure my mother raised me right. I’m not here to see him or say anything out of the ordinary, I’m not going to tell him I spent the whole night breathing in the scent of his T-shirt that was among the things he left behind, or that I slept hugging his baseball cap. No, I’ll keep that to myself, he doesn’t need to know. Besides, I only did that because he won’t be there on Monday when I go in, and I won’t be able to stare at his skinny little ass anymore or look away before he or anyone else notices I’m staring at those beautiful brown eyes of his that look amazing when he smiles, when he’s having lunch with his friends laughing at some stupid thing they said. I’ll just miss him, that’s all. I can miss him, I can miss anyone, that doesn’t mean I’m in any way, shape or form in love—love is something else entirely, it’s stupid of me to even think it. I’m just doing my civic duty as a good citizen and dropping his things off before someone throws them out.
Oh, shit, he’s coming out. What do I do? I’ll follow him so I can catch up. I start walking behind him and only cross the street right then. The rain’s let up a little, but he’s still pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up, hiding that beautiful long brown hair of his. And God, I’d love to breathe in those strands. I’m walking behind him and just need to work up the nerve to call out. Fine, I’ll just walk up and say a casual hello, like I was just passing by. Now, right behind him, I lift my hand and I’m about to rest it on his shoulder. He turns around and punches me square in the face, sending me straight to the ground. I’m lying there on the wet pavement, clutching my nose in agony.
— What’s your problem? — he says. — Gonna jump me, freak?
— Holy shit, man — I say. — I think you broke my nose, dammit.
— Logan. Is that you? — he asks, staring at me confused. — Why the hell are you following me?
— Jesus, Toby — I say, writhing in pain. — Who’d you think it was?
— Beats me, some fucking thief — he says.
He helps me up and then we walk back to his place, where he leads me to the kitchen. While he makes us tea, he tends to my nose—it’s only a little swollen, nothing serious, apart from the pain, obviously. He hands me a bag of frozen peas and tells me to hold it to my face.
— You’ll live — he says.
— You really think so? — I ask, annoyed.
— Dude, you scared the hell out of me — he says, laughing as he sits down and pours the tea. — I thought you were one of those nutjobs you see on TV.
— Glad it’s just me — I say.
— What are you doing over here anyway? I thought you lived downtown.
— Just passing through — I say. — Visiting someone.
— Cool — he says. — Girlfriend?
— No!
— Boyfriend then? — he asks. — No judgment here, by the way.
— Neither — I say, flustered. — Just a friend. Since you live nearby, I figured I’d bring these over — I say, unzipping my backpack and handing him his things.
— My cap — he says, brightening. — I thought I’d never see any of this stuff again. Thanks, man.
— I just figured you’d want it back — I say. — After they cleared out your locker.
— Pricks — he says.
— Why’d you leave anyway? — I ask, quiet. — I’ve heard stories.
— What kind of stories?
— That you walked out after punching the afternoon manager? — I say. — Is that true?
— Oh, yeah — he says. — Had to put that asshole in his place. Way too full of himself if you ask me.
— And you just… hit him? — I ask. — Over that?
— No, we argued too — he says, laughing. — And then I punched him — he says, throwing a right hook through the air.
Just then the living-room door opens and a guy who looks exactly like Toby walks in—only a little older, his brother, I guess. He steps in wiping his boots on the rug and running a hand through his hair, which is dark brown too, just shorter.
— Fucking rain — he mutters.
— Hey, Asher — Toby says. — Come say hi to my friend.
He walks into the kitchen complaining about the weather picking up again, then shakes my hand without really looking at me.
— Why are you still home? — he asks his brother. — Thought you were heading out to find a new job today?
— I was leaving, but then I ran into Logan and accidentally punched him — Toby says, laughing.
— Like you punched your old boss? — he says, flat.
— Go to hell — Toby says.
— I’m going to my room — Asher says. — Keep it down, will you? I worked all night, I’m beat.
He heads upstairs and Toby and I stay sitting there in the kitchen talking a while longer, and once we finish the tea I decide it’s time to go. Honestly, what was I even hoping to find here?
