Page 46 of Somewhere Without You
He shifted, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her in six years.”
“What?” I blinked. “Why? Is she okay?”
He shrugged, still avoiding my gaze. “She’s probably fine. We were never close. . . you remember.”
I did. He and his mom were like oil and water—always clashing. But Logan had a habit of shutting people out when things got hard. And for him, things were almost always hard.
I followed Logan out onto the porch, the rain still falling steadily from angry gray clouds. He stepped down onto the front steps and pried at a warped board. A loud crack split the air as the wood gave way.
“When I got back, she was in rough shape,” he said, shaking his head. Another sharp crack echoed between us as he wrenched loose a second board. “The bank was days from foreclosing, and she couldn’t stay sober long enough to give a damn.” He paused, gripping a third board tightly in his hands, the rain running in thin rivulets down his back. “I didn’t know what else to do. I took what little I’d managed to save and brought the mortgage current. On one condition. . . she had to go to rehab.”
His voice trembled, and I watched him blink rapidly, trying to hold back tears. Or rain. Or both.
“She went,” he continued. “And for a while, things were great. She even managed to get a job over at Connie’s.”
“The truck stop diner off 59?” I asked, surprised.
Logan gave abittersweet laugh. “Yeah. That’s the one. Started in the back washing dishes, then moved up to waiting tables. She was proud of herself, hell, I was proud of her.” His smile faded as quickly as it had come. “But then she met this guy. A long-haul trucker who loved Oxy more than she did.”
My stomach knotted as I stood in silence, watching Logan methodically replace the old boards with the new ones he’d brought.
“After that, she started missing shifts,” he said, his voice growing more distant. “And then one day, I found her in the cab of his truck—high as a fucking kite and barely able to stand. Turns out, she never really quit, she just got better at hiding it.”
He went quiet again, his brow furrowed, sleeves rolled to his elbows as his hammer met the wood in steady rhythm. The scent of fresh pine mingled with the cool mountain air, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the creak of the porch and the sharp clink of nails.
I stood by, unsure if I should offer help or just stay quiet—the silence between us stretching taut like a rope neither of us was ready to pull.
I didn’t know what to say. The image of his mother, slumped in some stranger’s truck, eyes glazed over, lost to a haze she’d chosen over everything else, including her own son—made me sick.
Finally, Logan took a step back, admiring his work. “That was the last time I tried to save her. After that, I stopped showing up. I figured. . . if she didn’t want it, why should I keep wanting it for her?”
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them back.I wanted to reach for him, to comfort him—to be there for him the way I should have been this whole time but I remained frozen, stiff with guilt and aching with regret.
“She lost the house after that,” he said, ashamed. “It all happened so fast—like watching a building crumble into dust, only the building was our life.” He turned to me then, and the raw, hollow look in his eyes was something I’d never seen before. “I couldn’t do it anymore, Em,” he confessed. “I couldn’t keep fixing things.”
“Logan. . .” I began, then stopped. What could I say?
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, swiping a hand across his face as if to erase everything he’d just shared. He glanced down at his watch. “It’s already after eleven,” he mumbled, changing the subject, “and I haven’t eaten yet. Do you want to grab some lunch?”
“Yeah. . . sure,” I said, though the idea of food made my stomach turn.
“Meet you at Connie’s in twenty?” he asked, tossing his jacket over his shoulder.
I stared at him. “Seriously? After everything you just told me, you still want to eat there?”
Logan gave a half-smile and shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for their burgers.”
Twenty Seven
Fromit’sgrimywindows,toits peeling paint, Connie’s Diner wasn’t much to look at. The faded neon sign flickered intermittently, casting a weak glow over the cracked pavement. The parking lot out front was littered with eighteen-wheelers and a few scattered cars, their hoods dusted with remnants of the afternoon rain. It was the kind of place people passed by without a second thought—quiet and forgotten. Another pit stop along a road that never really seemed to go anywhere.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, underscored by the clatter of silverware and thelowhum of conversation.
Across the table, Logan licked grease from his fingers before devouring another bite of his burger. I nudged a piece of lettuce from one side of my plate to the other.
“What’s with the salad?”he grunted, mouth full.
“I like salads,”I said, spearing a tomato.
