When One Door Opens (28 page)

After making his way upstairs, Logan rapped his knuckles against Caleb’s door. He heard the squeak of the floorboards under the thin carpet, but the door didn’t open. Placing his palm against the wood he said, “Caleb?” More squeaking. As he was digging his cell phone out of his pocket, he heard the scraping sound of the chain being unlocked. The door creaked open by itself, eerily similar to a horror movie. He half expected a monstrous cat to come flying at his head as he pushed the door open and entered.

“What the…?” At first glance, the living room looked like it had been ransacked. Couch cushions tossed on the floor. Books pulled from the bookcases and dumped in piles on the cream carpet. DVDs were stacked precariously on the coffee table in a crooked column. There seemed to be stuff heaped on every available surface. Looking carefully, he noticed that nothing appeared to be broken or damaged. It likely wasn’t vandalism then since the TV wasn’t smashed and they hadn’t made off with the stereo. It looked more as if someone had been searching for something. He spotted Caleb standing in the kitchen. A wave of déjà vu moved through him at the sight. Caleb’s arms were wrapped around himself as if his grip was the only thing holding him together. After everything that had happened today, Logan wouldn’t be surprised for it to end in a panic attack. He’d witnessed three attacks since Caleb had been getting treatment, and had read the literature the therapist gave him. But none of that explained the state of the apartment.

“What’s going on, Caleb?” Logan asked softly. The kitchen was in worse shape than the living room. Dishes, food storage containers, pots, and cooking paraphernalia he couldn’t begin to identify were stacked haphazardly on the countertop and floor. What looked like the contents of the pantry were in and around the sink.

Caleb looked at the clock on the stove that read 6:02 p.m. “You’re off work early,” he said, his voice sounding flat.

“Klass let me go home early,” Logan said, leaving the “so I could check on you” left unspoken. “Did you lose something?” he asked, gesturing to the chaos around them.

Caleb’s green eyes studied him for what seemed like hours, and then to Logan’s surprise his expression shifted, shedding the assessing gaze and edging into something that looked astonishingly like grief. “No, but I found something.”

“What di—” Logan started to say before his brain snatched the words from his mouth and smacked him over the head with them. He hadn’t thought about that bottle in weeks since he’d shoved it in the bathroom cabinet. He’d meant to go back and get rid of it once he had better control of himself.
How could I have forgotten?

Caleb threw his arms up, fists balled. “Have you been drinking this whole time? Is that why you got together with me?” He grabbed the minibottle of scotch off the counter that Logan hadn’t noticed amongst all the other stuff. “So you’d have a convenient place to stash your booze that your PO can’t search?”

“You know that ain’t true.” Logan pointed at the bottle. “Check the seal. I never drank from that bottle or any other bottle.”

“I don’t know what to think, Logan.” Leaning against the fridge, he slid down until he was sitting on the linoleum floor. “Whether you drank it or not doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been hiding it from me. That you didn’t trust me enough to tell me what you were going through.”

Logan followed Caleb’s lead and sat on the floor. A wall of Tupperware and cooking pots stood between them. “I shoved the bottle in the cabinet to get it away from me because I didn’t trust myself not to drink it. And then I just put it out of my head.”

“Why not ask me to throw it out for you? Or talk to me about what you were going through?”

Caleb made a frustrated noise when Logan offered no explanation. “You know every humiliating detail about my panic attacks and you’ve shared almost nothing about your struggles with alcohol now or in the past. I’ve meet with your sponsor, Stacy, but she can only give me general information about alcoholics, nothing specific to you. And today was the first time I’d heard Michael’s name, let alone that you apparently have him investigating Karen.”

“It’s not the same damn thing,” Logan said. “You have trouble leaving your apartment and I nearly beat a man to death with my bare hands.” He paused, taking a deep breath. He’d seen the similarities between addiction and agoraphobia right from the beginning. On the surface, Caleb was more likely to hurt himself than others, but there were more ways to hurt than physical. Seeing Caleb look so still and lifeless on the bed had taken ten years off Logan’s life, bringing back memories he’d just as soon forget. He could remember hesitating before walking into his father’s bedroom each morning, wondering if today would be the day he’d find a corpse buried under the covers. Caleb had thrust him straight back to that hell by disabling the phone instead of calling for help. But that was a long way from the damage Logan could do to Caleb if he went back to drinking.

“I walked into this relationship with my eyes wide open. John Dabb made sure of that.” Dropping the bottle, he drew his knees tight against his chest. “So either you don’t think I could handle hearing about it or you don’t think I could help.”

Even though he knew it was true, Logan still couldn’t believe Caleb had seen the crime photos. How could he see those and not be afraid? Michael hadn’t been afraid to love him even when he should have been. Logan didn’t remember fracturing Michael’s wrist, but he’d heard the snap in his dreams too many times to count. “If you were smart, you’d have nothing to do with me, but that don’t stop me from lo… wanting you. I want to become the kind of man you deserve, but I’m not there yet.” He felt something in his jaw start to throb. “I don’t like reminding you of that.”

“I love you,” Caleb said, proving again how fucking brave he was. “But I’ve spent too much time feeling helpless, and I won’t go back to that life. You have to be able to talk to me and to let me help you. If you can’t, then there’s no point in us being together.”

Logan realized he’d asked the same thing of Caleb. It couldn’t have been easy for Caleb to talk about the panic attacks. Hell, Caleb had confessed to pissing in the kitchen sink the first day of his accident, because he was too afraid to go back into the bathroom. For a neat freak, that was right up there with causing an apocalypse. He’d solved the problem by not eating or drinking anything the rest of the weekend, adding dehydration and low blood sugar to his broken wrist and concussion. He’d trusted Logan not to mock or judge him when he talked about it.

“Michael has been my best friend since we were in the sixth grade. He and me always looked after each other, because our parents sure as hell weren’t going to do it. But the booze twisted that and made things worse. I’d blow my grocery money at the liquor store and he’d sneak food into my fridge or offer to pay for pizza. I’d call him up too drunk to remember my own address and he’d crawl out of bed to come pick me up. He’d threaten to never speak to me again if I didn’t get help, but in a couple of days he’d be back to sitting on that barstool next to me, feeling completely helpless. I hurt him in every way possible.”

“Do you regret hurting him?”

“Now? Hell, yes. But back then… I didn’t care, Caleb. The only thing I cared about was getting my next drink. He’d been like a brother to me for so long, but none of that mattered. If I go back to drinking, you won’t matter either.”

Caleb shook his head. “I don’t believe that. You’re not the same man you were a year ago. That man didn’t know what it felt like to lose everything and have to start over.”

Caleb looked at the single-serving bottle of scotch whiskey on the floor, forcing Logan to remember that his idea of a serving of booze used to be about the equivalent of ten of those minibottles.

“When did you buy it?”

“Weeks ago from a guy selling on the street.”

“You mean six weeks ago, right? When I broke my wrist?”

“I didn’t lie to you, Caleb. I didn’t get drunk because you didn’t answer the door or answer the phone when I called.”

Caleb nodded. “It’s one of the things I’ve been working on with my therapist. I can feel bad about making you worry or upsetting you, but I’m not responsible for how you choose to react to those emotions.” He shrugged. “It’s still a work in progress.” Uncurling his body, he crawled over the items on the floor and sat cross-legged in front of Logan. “Tell me what you were thinking when you bought it.”

Logan paused, trying to remember what was going through his head at the time. “Whenever I used to try and quit drinking, I’d do okay for a while. But then something would happen and I’d end up bingeing, drinking twice as much as I usually did. I hadn’t had a drink in three days when I walked into the bar the night of the fight. As I was sitting in the holding cell, I remember thinking I should’ve had some booze on hand, just in case things got too bad. I wouldn’t have gone out to the bar that night if I had.”

Caleb traced the side of Logan’s face, the skin of his fingers impossibly soft against Logan’s stubbled jaw. “Do you still believe that?”

Logan sighed, leaning into the touch. “No, I woulda drunk it and then gone looking for more. The booze makes you a liar and the lies you tell yourself are the biggest.”

Caleb could be naive about a lot of things, but he knew too much about denial and the damage it could wreak. He wouldn’t be fooled by Logan’s attempts to avoid the problem if he started drinking again, if he learned about the signs. “Michael has been going to Al-Anon meetings, for friends and family of alcoholics. Would you….” He swallowed the baseball lodged in his throat. “Would you go with him sometime? You don’t have to keep going if—”

Caleb scrambled on top of his lap until they were face to face, peppering Logan with kisses. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Logan wrapped his arms around Caleb, burying his face against his neck. “Love you too,” he whispered against his cheek. Hearing a hitch in Caleb’s breathing, Logan tightened his hold.

After a few minutes, they untangled and Logan’s eyes were drawn to the clock. “I’m not working tomorrow. Why don’t you put off cleaning this place until tomorrow morning and I’ll come by and help you?”

“I could make bacon pancakes,” Caleb said, smiling so sweetly Logan nearly missed the evasion.

Caleb had to have been searching for hours, and Logan didn’t doubt he’d spend all night cleaning it. He could understand the impulse, not wanting to wake up with the apartment still torn apart. Taking out his cell phone, Logan punched in Dabb’s number. Dabb picked up after only one ring as if he’d been expecting the call.

“I’m at Caleb’s and I was hoping to stay,” Logan said, only just then realizing it sounded like he was asking for permission for a booty call.

“Is he okay?”

Logan took a deep breath, not realizing until now what he intended to do. “I fucked up,” he said, and Caleb gripped his bicep hard enough to bruise. “I stashed a minibottle of booze here weeks ago and Caleb found it.”

The silence that followed was deafening, but the warmth of Caleb’s body pressed close was comforting.

“You didn’t have to tell me that,” Dabb said, sounding both in awe and annoyed at the same time.

“You said being that man was a choice. I’m making mine. I don’t want to be that man again.”

“Let me talk to Caleb.”

Reluctantly, Logan held out the phone to Caleb. “He wants to talk to you.”

Logan moved into the living room and started replacing the books on the shelves. He tried not to listen to the conversation, but it was pretty obvious Dabb was making sure Caleb wasn’t traumatized by going to the PO office alone, being interviewed by detectives, and finding alcohol hidden in his apartment. Jesus, it had been a long fucking day. Logan put another dust-free (how is that even possible?) book on the shelf. After a few minutes, Caleb gave him back the cell phone.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Dabb said. “You will go back to contacting me weekly instead of once every three weeks. And you will talk to your sponsor and share at your next AA meeting about what happened.”

Logan winced. Stacy was going to be pissed that he hadn’t told her about buying the booze. “I didn’t drink it.”

“You don’t need to drink to act like a drunk.”

Logan rubbed his forehead. A dry drunk. That was what they called it in AA, and Stacy had alluded to it when they’d talked in the cafe. It wasn’t enough to be sober. You’d end up right back where you started if you didn’t deal with the shit that had you picking up the bottle in the first place.

“Are we clear?”

“Yeah.” Logan ended the call. “It’ll be okay,” he told Caleb, towing him forward and wrapping his arms around him. Caleb relaxed into the embrace with a weary sigh, and Logan kissed the top of his head. “Let’s put this place back together.”

Logan finished replacing the books on the shelves and moved on to the TV cabinet. Caleb likely had some system for sorting the DVDs like alphabetical by genre or something, but at least Logan could give him the appearance of order. After replacing the couch cushions, he entered the bedroom. It wasn’t in bad shape. Not surprising considering how few clothes Caleb seemed to own. It only took a few minutes to clean up, leaving the scene of the crime remaining.

The bathroom looked like it had exploded. Packages of soap, cleaning products, toilet paper, and an assortment of grooming products littered the floor and filled the sink. The toilet tank cover was balanced on the seat. Caleb could give Dabb a few pointers. He’d thought to look in places Logan had never even considered. And he’d had plenty of experience hiding booze from Michael. Caleb had unscrewed the grid panel on the air vents and even taken apart the wall sconces. Thinking about what Caleb must have been going through as he searched made the muscles under Logan’s skin jump.

C
ALEB
took a seat on an island stool, exhaustion battling with his jangled nerves. The kitchen was restored. His hands were red and wrinkled from scrubbing. That he had been rattled enough to put dishes on the
floor
unnerved him. Slumping forward, he propped his head up with his elbow. The frantic searching had seemed eerily similar to a panic attack. His mind had felt thick and disjointed, unable to focus on anything but the search.