Page 13 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Chapter Seven

TIA

Apple pies used to be such a happy symbol in my life. Dad says when he and Mom were dating, she had no idea how to make any sort of American dessert. He told her how he hated birthday cake, and if it were up to him, he’d have apple pie for every birthday.

Mom learned how to make apple pie in secret, botching pie crust after pie crust. Then, when she finally nailed it, she surprised him with a single candle in the middle of the pie on his first birthday they spent together as a couple.

Over thirty years later, the apple pie shows up on the table without fail.

Now, the smell of sweet apples and cinnamon makes me want to vomit. My mom is sick—and there’s no cure.

I hug my knees, wiping my tears against the fabric of my leggings as I look into the emptiness of the lake. Dark, cold, and stock-still. It hurts to take a full breath. My eyes ache from the tears I couldn’t hold back on the drive over.

Logan’s bike growls through the stillness, the sound slicing through the quiet like it’s chasing the panic from my chest. I turn just in time to see him cut off the engine and kick the stand into place. Then he takes off, sprinting down the hill.

Straight to me.

A sob rips from my throat as I stumble to my feet, barely managing a few unsteady steps along the dock before he crashes into me, arms locking around my body like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. His warmth envelops me, solid and desperate—and that’s all it takes.

The levee breaks, and the grief crashes through me in violent waves. I collapse into him, clutching, shaking, finally breaking apart in the one place I feel safe.

With him.

“I’m here. I got you. It’s okay, T.”

He holds me close as I soak his shirt with tears, letting me release the weight of devastation that now stakes a partial claim in my heart.

My knees buckle, sending me crashing to the dock at our feet. Logan guides my way down gently and lifts my head to his lap.

He strokes my hair and wipes away my tears with his fingers until my breathing evens out and my eyes run dry.

We stay like this for a while, time not really existing. It’s just the two of us with the company of this place that always draws us in. Our escape.

Logan breaks the silence, his fingers still in my hair. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m here to listen.”

I nod against his lap, my thoughts quieting as his hand drifts through my hair. When his fingers brush along my jaw, it’s not charged—just intimate in that rare, wordless way. The kind built on trust. On knowing you’re safe.

I’m safe here to let myself go and pour out my grief.

I tell Logan about my mom and the pies. I tell him how, at dinner earlier, we sang “Happy Birthday” to my dad while I held back the wave of tears as reality sank in.

I tell him about the look on my dad’s face as he ate a slice of pie with shaky hands and watery eyes, but that the smile on my mom’s face gave enough motivation for the both of us to swallow it down with a glass of milk.

“I couldn’t hold it in anymore, Lo. It was eating me from the inside. I couldn’t let my parents see me like this, so I came straight here.”

“God, I’m so sorry. But I’m glad you came here,” he whispers. “And I’m glad you called.”

I sit up to meet his gaze. His thumb swipes some wetness beneath my eye, his hand lingering on my cheek. I look at him. Truly look at him—and everything inside of me tells me nothing will ever be the same. At least that’s the truth for me.

I see him more clearly than I ever have. It was like my heart knew I needed him before I could come to realize it.

“Thank you for being here. I didn’t want anyone else,” I say, my voice low as I meet his gaze—those deep brown eyes filled with something tender and aching.

He’s hurting with me. For me. And even though part of me bristles at the thought of being pitied, that’s not what this is. This is him holding the weight with me. And for the first time today, I don’t feel alone.

“I’ll always come when you call. You’re my best friend, Tia. I’ll drop everything and anything for you.”

Best friend.

Is that all I’ll ever be for him? It’s selfish to feel bitterness at the way he reminds me. Am I na?ve to think that maybe I could be the woman who changes Logan Harper’s ways?

No. Falling for Logan is asking for a slow kind of ruin.

He doesn’t have it in him to give more. I know this.

But then he’s there—fingers in my hair, warmth in his touch, racing across town like I’m worth chasing.

And suddenly that fragile spark of hope ignites, lighting up the corners of my mind with impossible dreams.

I push down those far-fetched thoughts before I can give them any more life, smiling at him as I wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“I’m so grateful for you, Lo.”

I wish it could be more.

Logan presses a kiss into my hair, something he has done a million times. But this time it sends an army of butterflies in my belly. It lifts me up off this dock and straight into the night sky. But I don’t let him see it. I hide beneath a platonic smile as I rest my head on his shoulder.

“So, what now? What happens next?” Logan asks. He digs up a flat rock in the overgrown grass on the edge of the dock, tossing it across the lake as it skips a few times until it sinks down.

Watching Logan skip rocks pulls an old memory to the surface, one that settles in my chest with a flicker of warmth.

“My sister and I used to skip rocks on camping trips with Mom and Dad every summer,” I share, unable to stop the smile that spreads across my face.

He digs up another rock, surveying it with keen eyes, before handing it to me with a smirk. Biting my lip, I envision at least five skips across the water. The second the rock leaves my hand, it sinks. Logan chuckles, finding me another rock so I can try again.

“It’s because I’m sitting. If I stand, I can get over three skips I bet.”

“Sitting or standing, you suck at this. It’s okay. You can admit it,” Logan teases. I jab him in the rib with my elbow. He grunts, then pulls me up to stand with him.

“Tell me more about your sister. You haven’t talked about her in a really long time.”

I gnaw on my thumbnail, trying to picture Nora’s face in my mind.

“Nora was the first person I wanted to call when Dad told me about Mom’s Alzheimer’s.”

Logan hums thoughtfully at my response, searching for more rocks in the brush.

“She left that night, right? The night we met for real?”

Logan and I always called it that— the night we met for real.

We’d known each other in the way people do in a small town.

Same schools, same faces, passing familiarity.

But that night at Torren’s spot was different.

That night, we were two people running from our own messes, and somehow, we ran straight into each other.

“Yes. It was so long ago. I miss her, but at the same time I’m so angry. And now everything with Mom …” I trail off, skipping another rock into the water.

Two skips. Damn.

“I had a thought that came to me earlier.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” Logan says. His rock gets six skips. I stick my tongue out at him.

“I feel this pull. To Nora.” I take a break from tossing rocks and invite Logan to sit next to me at the end of the dock. Like old times. “I know she’s in Las Vegas.”

Logan’s eyes widen. “Really? How do you know that?”

“She sent me a postcard after I graduated from high school. No return address,” I say, pausing. “But in the letter, she said … ‘When you’re ready, come find me.’”

Nora made it clear when she left—she didn’t want to be found. Not right away. She knew it would wreck our parents, but when Nora set her mind to something, that was it. No talking her out of it. No changing her course.

I knew the night she walked out it’d be a long time before I saw her again. She was eighteen. Legally free to go. But did I think she’d vanish completely? Cut us off for over twelve years?

No. Not even close.

“You asked me earlier what’s next? Well, I’m ready now. I need to go and find her,” I sigh. “For Mom.”

“Alright. I’m in.” Logan’s voice lands with easy confidence. He claps his hands on his thighs, that familiar crooked grin lighting up his face.

And, okay, maybe my chest too.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve got a favor to cash in. It helps when your dad is the chief of police. I’ve got friends in high places, baby.”

He says the word baby in a joking, totally non-romantic way. But it still sends tingles down my spine with the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. Excitement surges through me, eager and optimistic at Logan’s confidence.

“Seriously? You’ll do that for me?”

Logan’s arm drapes around my shoulder like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course. It’s the least I can do. You know I love your mom, right?” he murmurs, tucking my hair behind my ear in simple affection. I nod, tears threatening to fall again.

“And you know I love you.”

Like a friend, Tia. He loves you like a friend.

“Let me do this for you. I’ll take care of everything.”

His words lift the weight I’ve been carrying all day, peeling back the edge of my grief just enough to breathe. My body feels spent, like the sorrow has hollowed me out, and all I can do is lean on him—literally, and in every way that matters.

A single tear slips down my cheek as I rest my head on his shoulder. He wraps me tighter and presses a knowing kiss into my hair. That simple gesture sparks something fierce and tender all at once, heat curling low in my stomach, warmth rising in my chest.

Then, as if the universe is in on it too, an airplane cuts across the sky, sudden and silent like a shooting star. Logan and I both look up, the moment stretching between us like it was written just for us.

“Logan?

“Hmm?”

“Where are they going?” I ask him, when suddenly our fingers find each other and intertwine.

“Anywhere you want them to.”

“And are they happy?”

My eyes follow the plane overhead, but when Logan doesn’t answer, I glance over, only to find his gaze already on me—intense and lingering.

The air tightens between us, buzzing with something unspoken. His eyes flick between mine and my mouth, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything. How close we are, how our fingers fit perfectly together, how our lips are only inches apart.

For a second, I think— no, I’m sure —he’s going to kiss me.

But then, that signature crooked grin breaks across his face, softening the moment, and instead of leaning in, he presses a gentle kiss to my forehead.

“Yeah, T. They’re happy.”

It’s sweet. Safe. Meant to comfort. It should be enough—the tenderness of it. But a selfish part of me aches for more.

And the way he looked at me? It felt like he might’ve wanted more, too.