Page 49 of Meet Me in the Valley (Oakwood Valley #2)

Logan lets out a hollow laugh, barely more than a breath. He mutters something so quietly, shaking his head back and forth that I almost miss it.

“What was that?” I ask him, wishing he’d look at me.

His eyes fix on the boxes surrounding us, staring at them like if he looks long enough, they might just vanish.

With a small smile and a shake of his head, he whispers, “It’s nothing.”

When he finally meets my gaze, it’s like something clicks into place—something deep and unspoken that’s been building in the silence of the last two weeks. A flicker of something sharp crosses his features. Disbelief, maybe.

Logan reaches out, brushing his fingers against my face before cupping my cheek like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go. His touch is soft, but there’s tension beneath it, like he’s holding on too tightly to something that’s already slipping.

“We’re not gonna happen … are we?” He says it like it’s a test. Like maybe, if he says it aloud, I’ll correct him. Tell him he’s wrong.

But I don’t.

That’s when I see it—the moment his heart fractures, even as his hand stays steady on my tepid skin. When I blink, a tear slips free, tracing the curve of my cheek. And before it falls, Logan catches it in his palm.

“Baby …” he says, barely more than a breath. It’s soft, familiar, and breaks gently against the silence between us.

“Please don’t do that,” I manage, my voice thick as I swallow hard, my hand brushing my throat like I can keep the ache from rising any higher.

He pulls his hand off my cheek. He’s trying to hold it together, clearly striking a nerve.

I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, in the way his eyes flicker with something he’s not ready to say.

Logan draws in a slow breath, like he’s carefully constructing the right response, but when he exhales, it falters.

His eyes harden, not out of anger, but restraint. And yet, I still brace myself for whatever is going to come out of his mouth next.

“I don’t know how you expect me not to do that.” I know deep in my bones he wants to say more, but he’s holding back. He closes his fists in tight balls, then relaxes them again. He does this a few times, straining the veins in his forearms to protrude like angry lines.

“Tia, please–”

“You don’t fit where I need you to fit,” I blurt out as my thoughts bubble up like static.

He adjusts his position on the couch, squaring his shoulders to face me. I pick at the irritated skin around my thumbnail, having basically gnawed it down to the bone over the weeks of silence between us.

Logan tips my chin up with his finger to meet his gaze. Confusion flashes in them, searching me for clarity.

“What do you mean by that?”

The sudden onslaught of frustration makes my chin tremble instantly. I throw my hands up to every box piled high in this room.

“All of t-this,” I stammer, motioning around the room. “Th-these boxes. Everything in my life fits into a box— except you! ”

God, I sound unhinged. But Logan doesn’t flinch. He just looks at me, steady and grounded, his hand settling gently on my knee. His thumb brushes back and forth—calming and present.

“Before everything,” I continue, waving my hands for emphasis, “I knew where you belonged. Logan Harper. Co-worker. Partner-in-crime. Best friend. ” My voice cracks on the last one, splintering somewhere deep in my chest.

“After everything … I don’t know where the fuck we fit anymore,” I choke out. “I don’t know where to put us.”

“Why do you have to put us anywhere? It doesn’t have to be this complicated, Tia.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Okay then.”

Without another word, Logan stands. He moves with quiet purpose, eyes scanning the room like he’s on a mission.

“What are you doing?” I ask, thrown by his sudden shift.

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he grabs an unassembled cardboard box, finds the roll of packing tape on the coffee table, and starts folding it into shape like he’s done it a hundred times—with far too much focus and a ridiculous amount of force.

“Logan,” I say, eyebrows lifting. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, yanking a piece of tape. The sound slices through the tension between us. “I’m making a fucking box.”

My eyes roll so hard I swear I see a past life.

I move to stop him, ready to pry the tape from his stubborn fingers, but he beats me to it, tossing it aside with a loud clatter. Then he storms into the kitchen, rummages through a drawer, and returns with a black Sharpie in hand like a man possessed.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter.

He ignores me.

He kneels, scribbles something across the top of the box in big, bold letters, then slides it across the floor until it lands right at my feet.

LOGAN & TIA.

All caps. Underlined.

“There,” he says, breathless. “There’s your box. Happy?” A pause. “Can we move on now?”

I stare down at the box like it might blink first. Our names, written in bold black letters, sitting there like it’s supposed to make everything make sense.

Over the last two weeks, I’ve had too much time to sit with everything—to analyze what we were, what we became. Now that he’s here, inches away with the heat of his skin radiating into mine, there’s no doubt in my mind that Logan and I built a real friendship.

Torren’s dock, the night we met for real? That was the spark. But the fire that followed? That came from something else entirely.

When fate brought us back together in Austin all those years ago, a quiet codependency took root.

I rarely made a move without him. So much of my growth—my self-discovery—happened with Logan by my side.

But somewhere along the way, we stopped pushing each other forward. We started holding each other in place.

I look back at the women, the lifestyle he lived. I never judged him—not really. But deep down, I always knew he had more to offer. And the moment I felt my heart tug toward him was one of the most terrifying discoveries of my life.

Because how could I ever be enough for a man who didn’t believe he was enough for anyone—not even himself?

And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t do our friendship justice by letting him avoid and deflect all these years. The sobering realization is that I enabled it. I made it easier for him to hide.

We didn’t break because we crossed a line. We broke because we kept running from our pain, from our pasts, and eventually, from each other.

We let lust and sex cloud the truths we didn’t want to face. Hard truths that hung over us like a guillotine, waiting to drop and cut us for dead.

We didn’t grow. We hid . And somewhere in all that hiding, we mistook survival for connection.

Then Professor Silva’s mantra rings loud in my head like a church bell, beckoning me to see the truth and admit it for the very first time.

You can force your opponent’s submission, but true peace only comes when you submit to yourself.

A tight, breathy laugh escapes me. Not because it’s funny—but because it took this stupid box for me to see Professor Silva’s teachings weren’t just empty words he’d made me recite since I was a young girl.

The opponent was never a single thing or person. Not Alzheimer’s. Not Nora. Not Logan’s mom. Not even Logan.

It’s me.

My fear. My patterns. My inability to face the quiet parts of myself without using Logan as the buffer.

He’s just as guilty, and the weight of this epiphany I know will crush him.

But it’s my last chance at protecting what’s left of us before we ruin it by trying to force something neither of us is ready for.

And I can only get there by choosing myself.

“Logan …” I whisper, shaking my head gently. “This isn’t the answer.”

I step around the box, needing space from the symbolism he’s laid at my feet.

“You’re trying to fix it. I get it. But this?” I motion to the box. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s about the fact that right now, we’re not ready.” My voice wavers, and I bite down on the emotion that’s trying to rise.

“We’re not ready? Or you’re not ready?”

I narrow my eyes. He doesn’t bother hiding the irritation in his tone. I’ve been on the receiving end of that look more times than I can count. So I do the only thing I can think of to make him understand.

I move around him and find another unassembled box on the floor. Without saying a word, I fold it into shape, tape tearing through the air as I seal it shut—quick, efficient, just like he did.

When I glance up, amusement flickers in his expression. He crosses his arms and leans back, watching me closely, waiting for whatever stunt I’m about to pull.

I grab the Sharpie, write fast, then slide the box to his feet with just enough force to make it land with a soft thud.

YOUR MOM.

Big and bold.

Barking out an incredulous laugh, he shakes his head, looking down at the box like it’s about to grow legs and run off. I can tell by his face it’s probably what he wants to happen, but I won’t let it.

“This is fucking stupid, Tia.”

“Were you not involved in that conversation that day at Nora’s? Or are we just never going to talk about that?”

“I said everything I needed to say to her in Vegas,” he snaps back.

Logan stays quiet. Stoic. The same pattern of avoidance is exactly the reason we’re not ready for something more.

But Logan and I have always been good at one thing. The thing that ultimately brought us together.

Escaping.

Docks, airplanes, each other’s bodies—we are experts at the great escape. And we can’t do that anymore. Not after everything.

“Quit avoiding her. Don’t you see how she’s affected you your entire life? Don’t you think it’s time for you to face it and find peace with it?”

“Like you and Nora have found peace? Better yet, here.” Logan swipes the marker from the coffee table, kneeling over the box I made and scratching out “MOM.” In its place, I watch him write “SISTER.” He tosses the marker aside, lifting his eyebrow at me in challenge.

I say nothing. Eyes shimmering with tears, I quickly wipe them away with my wrist as I keep my watery gaze on Logan. We’re so close, yet so disconnected from each other, both of us scrambling to find some sort of steady ground in this new version of us.

I release a long exhale, moving the boxes between us until we’re face to face.

“We can’t put any of this into boxes.” I gesture below us to the mess we’ve made.

“The shit that went down in Vegas just proved how fucked we both are. What are the odds we see your mom there, in the flesh, with my sister? Call it the coincidence of the century, but no matter how you spin it, it was fate. And you’re hurt by her?—”

“So what?” he interjects. “You heard the woman. She made her choices. She chose your sister over me and my dad. Those are the facts. What more do I have to say about it? She can fuck off for all I care. Consider it water under the bridge. I’m over it.”

“But you’re not, Logan. It’s so obvious you’re not.

” I take another step closer to him, reaching out to hold his hands in mine.

Electricity hums when our hands clasp, but it’s not charged by lust. It’s the common pain we share for things out of our control.

The pain we’re forced to face and not run away from by using each other to forget.

“You’re right. I haven’t found peace with Nora. Or with my mom’s diagnosis. I know I have to do the work to get there—just like you.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “But maybe … maybe your mom isn’t the villain you’ve made her out to be. Maybe?—”

“Are you serious?” His voice cuts sharp as he pulls his hands from mine. “You’re siding with her? After everything? After she basically convinced your sister to leave?” He stares at me like I just struck him. “She is the bad guy, T. She always will be.”

There’s so much pain in his words as they hang heavily in the air. I close the space between us, reaching back for him gently. I wrap my hands around his wrists and guide his arms around my waist, then reach up to cling to his neck.

I breathe him in—his warmth, his weight, his pulse beating steady against my cheek.

“And that’s why we’re not ready, Lo.” My voice breaks as I whisper the truth into his ear. “We have to let each other go.”

He shakes his head against me, over and over, a silent, desperate protest. “Don’t say that. Fuck. I can change. I can be better for you. I?—”

“Listen to yourself. I don’t want you to change for me. I want you to change for you! ” I cry, blinking away the moisture leaking from my eyes.

Logan stares, breathing hard and deep. It hurts me to see how tense he clenches his jaw. I’m the cause of this distress, the unshed tears swimming in his eyes. I’m about ready to break right here in front of him at the sight of it.

“Is this what you want?” Logan asks, pain lacing his tone.

No.

I can’t say it out loud.

“Let me rephrase that.” He swallows. “Is this what you need? ”

My breath hitches at the way his question hits me hard between the eyes. Something in me softens at the way he so innately understands me.

“Yes,” I whisper, full of truth, but still painful to confess. “It’s what you need, too.”

Logan doesn’t respond right away. He just stands there, shoulders rising with a slow breath—like he’s absorbing my answer, letting it settle somewhere deep.

“Don’t tell me what I need when I’m already holding it in my arms.” His jaw tenses, like there’s more he wants to say, but he swallows it down, letting the rest of the silence speak for him.

I hold back the sob catching in my throat as my tears fall silently on his shoulder. My fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt, desperate and full of pain.

“Okay, T.” He steps back. “If this is what you need, then so be it.”

In my heart of hearts, I know this is the right thing to do. Because if I let him see how much it’s killing me inside, we’ll slip right back into that same old comfort—the escape hatch we’ve always taken. And we’ll never get out. So I steel myself.

Strong feet. Steady heart.

Logan trudges toward my front door, and every step he takes is a battering ram straight through my chest.

When he opens the door, it’s a steel-toed boot to my ribs.

He leans in close, and for a second, I don’t know if he’s going to kiss me. Our faces inch closer, with breaths mingling.

And just as my heart makes an impulsive, reckless decision to take one last taste of him, just enough to survive, he stops us.

Logan grips my chin gently but firmly between his thumb and forefinger, halting the moment just before it breaks open. His head tilts, lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers low and certain, “Next time you wonder if I’m going to kiss you, you won’t have to. You’ll know.”

Then, he presses the softest kiss to the corner of my mouth—a promise and a punishment—and pulls away, leaving me breathless and barely standing.

And when I hear the rumble of his bike and watch him ride away—cast beneath a full moon—I fall apart.